Free King Rich by Joe Bennett Page A

breathing in as deep as he can in a bid still to detect the putrefaction, as if the senses resist deception, are aware that their job is to read the world for him. He dumps the tea towel and lights another cigarette.
    From the lobby bar he fetches a bottle of Johnnie Walker, pours a slug, takes a swig and feels the earthy burn of it, the old fake fire. The oil is close to boiling. He drops the chippedpotatoes in. The oil soars and bubbles, threatening to overflow the rim. Richard goes outside and smokes until the chips are done, then drains the pan over a vast commercial sieve and showers the chips with salt, and drenches them with white wine vinegar because he can’t find malt and tips them onto a platter and goes back outside. Dusk is coming. A few late swallows still wheel in silhouette against a pink and orange sky. He blows on a chip and bites cautiously into it. And he’s a boy on Brighton beach.

Chapter 10
    â€˜A more distinctive surname would have helped,’ said Jess. ‘Do you know how many Joneses there are in the South Island?’
    â€˜Sorry,’ said Annie, though she’d always rather liked the ordinariness of it. She’d been surprised to find Jess still up, sitting at the kitchen table, a cat splayed on her lap.
    â€˜Was his middle name Hugh?’
    Annie shrugged.
    â€˜Born 1952, which would make him fifty-nine or sixty. Would that be about right?’
    Annie nodded.
    â€˜No GP record but a hospital admission, June 1992, after what seems to have been a traffic accident. He was a bit of a mess. Here, see for yourself.’
    Annie scanned the notes made in Jess’s expansive handwriting, the dots over the i’s appearing as circles.
    Suspected kidney damage, a broken rib, heavy bruising in the groin area and emergency surgery had been needed tosave his left hand. Annie felt weak with sympathy, even at this distance.
    â€˜Your dad, if it is your dad, discharged himself after one week against medical advice,’ said Jess. ‘Does that sound like him?’
    Annie wondered a moment. Had that been how he was? ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I was a kid. He was my dad. I mean dads are different when you’re a kid, aren’t they?’
    And hers had been the dependable presence of loving kindness. But scarcely human. As a girl she couldn’t have imagined him being afraid, or unwise or hesitant or doubtful or worried or any of the things most people are most of the time. Or injured in any way. Did all kids see their dads like that? Even the weak ones, the distant ones, the cruel ones? She didn’t know.
    â€˜Was there anything else on file?’
    â€˜Just an address, and you didn’t get it from me,’ said Jess, handing over another scrap of paper. ‘You didn’t get anything from me. How did you go with your sleuthing?’
    â€˜I found his best mate from school, who hasn’t seen him since they left. He claims to have slept with my dad.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t worry too much about that,’ said Jess. ‘Young guys do it all the time. Hormones.’
    â€˜But he really loved my dad, I think. And he’s nostalgic for when he was young, free, happy or whatever. He’s made his pile, had his divorce and is wondering what the point of it all was. So he’s delighted I’ve brought him something to do. Nice guy.’
    â€˜Sounds like he’s got you halfway into bed already. Talking of which, I’ve got an early start in the morning.’ Jess lifted the cat off her lap, kissed it and placed it in a padded wicker basket by the log-burner. ‘Night night, Sherlock,’ she said to Annie. ‘I won’t wake you in the morning. Finish the bottle.’ Annie listened to Jess’s slippered feet trudge heavily down the floorboards of the hall. The toilet flushed. A tap ran. Then silence.
    It was midday in London and her body clock was still as much there as in Christchurch. She