“Who you waiting for?”
“Taxi.”
Eddie got up and walked towards Charles. “I have to say, Dad, that I’m impressed with how you’ve turned things around.”
Charles looked at him sideways.
“No, really. I mean it.”
He puffed out his chest. “Thank you, son. It means a lot.”
“Are you… er, are you… packing?”
“Packing? Eddie, we hardly know each other. I ain’t moving in with her.”
“No, no, you missed my point. I mean are you – packing?” Eddie nodded, winked, and slapped his arm. And Charles stared at him blankly. Eddie sighed. “I’m too old to have a new younger brother.”
The penny dropped. “You’re disgusting! This is a purely tectonic relationship.”
Eddie bit the smile to death. “Well, I hope the earth moves for you.” He gave Charles a look that a father would give his son on his first date: Be careful, but have fun. It said, I’m worried for you, but you’re growing up now; but mostly it said, don’t be a prick, and leave while you’re still sober. “How did you meet?” He took a mouthful of coffee.
“Facebook.”
Eddie spat coffee across the floor, and coughed until he doubled up. “Facebook!” he screeched. “How old are you? I was joking, the other week, about it being the modern way to find true love. And you believed me?”
“Just because you’re a cynical dinosaur doesn’t mean I am too. Look at you, stuck in here night after night wishing you had a woman.”
“No chance. Been there, got the carpet burns.”
Charles patted Eddie on the arm, “I can see the jealousy in your eyes, son.”
“That’s not jealousy, it’s fucking amazement! And I’ll tell you something else too, Patrick Swayze, she’s going to be mighty pissed off when she finds out that you accidentally posted a picture of Brad Pitt on your profile.”
Charles shook his head. “You can say what you like, you little toerag, but I know when the green-eyed monster’s come out to play.”
Eddie returned to his seat and used the napkin to wipe coffee from his chin like a normal person. “It’s your one-eyed monster that worries me! Christ, Dad, I thought you’d have grown out of puberty by now.” He watched Charles standing in the doorway, nervously – or excitedly – checking his watch, and he supposed there was an element of jealousy there. Maybe it wasn’t natural to spend every night in here, looking at the same four walls and listening to his dad farting the national anthem before bed.
He thought back to Nicki, and how she’d made a not-so-subtle move on him. There was an age gap of about ten years, an intellectual gap too – one that put her at a significant advantage – but such a match wasn’t unheard of. She probably just wanted to get inside his boxers to advance her career, though. It was obvious, and he’d seen it when she was in the van with him: how she draped her top open like that, using her femininity and assuming he’d fall for it. As though all he ever thought about was a pair of tits; as though Eddie Collins was really that shallow. It was puzzling, wonderful, and frightening. But it was the frightening part that had finally made him blink and walk away.
He found himself frowning. “What the hell’s got into you?” he whispered. “Cut it out.”
“Taxi’s here,” Charles shouted. “I’m off. Enjoy your pork and your solitude.”
Eddie grinned. “Damned right I will.”
And then his father was gone.
“Don’t be late home!” Eddie called. “I ain’t waiting up for you!”
He looked at the meal. His appetite had gone. He wondered if anyone actually found him attractive – besides those who wanted to further their career, of course. He lit a cigarette, folded his arms and found a wall to look at.
“Fucking Facebook.”
DAY 2
Chapter Eleven
“My, you’ve grown.” Jessica looked away from the mirror, embarrassed, as she rehearsed the first words she would speak to her son in twelve years. “‘My, how you’ve grown’. Is that the best you can come up with?”
She sat on the toilet, pulled off a yard of paper and wiped the tears away. She was trembling. She knew she’d be nervous, had expected it, but this was beyond nerves; this was well on the way to terror.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be the happiest day in the last decade; it was a reunion with someone she loved. “Love. With someone I love. With the only person I love, actually.”
She stood again, gripped the damp toilet paper in her clammy hands and stared with new determination into the mirror. She looked hard, and she smiled, she made herself smile even though she hadn’t done it for so long that it felt unnatural. The muscles soon ached. “Hi, Michael—”
Someone banged on the front door and Jessica almost had a heart attack. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” She ditched the toilet paper and flushed, plumped up her hair again, pulled her blouse straight and darted out of the bathroom, out of the flat, and along the hall where a figure presented itself through the frosted glass just like Sidmouth had done. It caused her to pause for a moment, but it wasn’t him; this figure was much shorter, much rounder.
This was her.
She opened the door, pre-ordered smile already in place, and a large rain-drenched woman beamed up at her.
“Jess? Hello, dear. I’m Marilyn from Social Care.” She stuck out a wet hand and Jessica noticed the chewed nails. Jessica shook hands, and then stood aside. Marilyn-from-Social-Care stumbled up the final step and into the hall. As she walked by, Jessica noticed the smell; like the dampness you might find in a cellar. Fusty, mouldy.
Back in the bedsit, Jessica grew more nervous. All the officials who came to see her knew where she lived – obviously – and they knew how she lived, just a rung or two up from the alkies next door, living in squalor. But it was the way things had to be for now; it was her version of a halfway house. They wanted her to get a job and return to society’s all-embracing arms as soon as possible. They wanted her to be normal again, and to let the past live in the past.
“It’s good to finally meet you,” Marilyn said, looking around, beige folder held tightly to her chest.
Jessica noticed that her wedding ring was almost totally encased by the skin on her finger, hidden away inside sore-looking folds. “And you. I can’t begin to tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to today.”
“Nervous?”
Jessica nodded. “I haven’t seen him since he was two. He won’t know me, I know that, but I hope—”
“Small steps, Jess. Hope is good” —she reached out that chubby hand and placed it on Jessica’s own— “but don’t keep it round your neck like a weight. Don’t expect too much from today. I hate to say it, but you’re a stranger to him.”
I know I’m a stranger. You think I don’t fucking know that? You could drag any woman in off the street and present her to him – it wouldn’t matter, he doesn’t know me any more.
“He probably doesn’t even care,” she whispered.
“Oh, I’m sure he does, dear.” Marilyn’s friendly smile plumped up her cheeks. “Shall we go?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Don’t you need me to fill out any forms first? There must be a lot of paperwork—”
“Hey. Try not to be too nervous. It’ll be fine, you’ll see.”
* * *
From beneath a pink umbrella, Marilyn knocked, Jess behind her, eyes closed, rain soaking into her hair, hands laced before her as though she were in prayer.
The door opened, and a woman with copper-coloured hair exchanged whispered pleasantries with Marilyn, who then stepped aside. Jessica looked up at the woman who’d brought her son up.
“Hello, Jess. I’m Valentine.” She held out a hand adorned with jazzy acrylic nails. “Don’t be afraid. He’s turned into a wonderful young man. You’ll be so proud.”
Jessica smiled, but even after all the pep talks she’d given herself on the way here, she found herself in tears again. This V
alentine woman had ruined it already. A fine young man. You’ll be so proud. These were things she wanted to discover for herself, not have some stranger hand her a resumé. On trembling legs, she stepped inside, aware that Marilyn was right behind her. Valentine gestured through into the living room. “Go on,” she whispered.
Jess almost threw up, but she pushed the door open.
Chapter Twelve
It was raining heavily as Benson stood in reception at the Major Crime Unit, staring into his reflection in the silvered glass windows by the door. To his right, Maggie Darlington mumbled into the phone, and he saw her sneak a quick glance at her watch. Benson did the same. Four o’clock, and counting. He’d been in since seven this morning, but had no desire to leave work and head home to his lovely, adoring wife.
Because he didn’t have a lovely, adoring wife.
Look up the word battleaxe in the encyclopaedia, and there’s a good chance her photo would be alongside it. “Cow,” he said, trying to peer into the carpark. The clouds had brought a premature darkness to the day, causing the automatic lamps out there to blink on and cast their unforgiving white LED light, and its sharp black shadows.
The wind hurled rain at the door, and Benson considered how wet he would be before he made it to the car – wherever it might be. He held in his hands the keys to a Corsa – one of sixty or seventy out there. He could cope with a moderate drenching, but wasn’t prepared to go further than that. He dug around his pocket on a Mars bar hunt, but all his hand pulled out were half a dozen chocolate-smeared wrappers. “Bastard,” he whispered.
And then he wondered if this enquiry would keep until morning.
He was on his way to a building site – just the place to visit when it was pissing it down like this. “Be up to my arse in fucking mud.”
“Sorry?”
He turned. Maggie was off the phone and was now smiling at him.
“Nothing. Just plucking up the courage to head out.” He indicated the rain.
“You need a brolly—” And then she was gone, eyes downcast as she took another call in her headset.
Benson’s polite smile drifted away and he looked back out into the rain.
Maybe I should delegate. Send out one of the cocky young bastards. No point being a DI and doing all the donkey work myself.
But he couldn’t.
His shoulders slumped. That was the old-fashioned way of policing: get the sprogs to do all the shitty work, while you and your gaffers went down the pub. It didn’t work like that any more; these days everything was much fairer, much more above board. Transparent, they called it.
And anyway, it had never really been Benson’s style. He’d always preferred to be out there doing the legwork and pulling in the answers, rather than sitting at some desk, getting eye strain and headaches. Computers could only tell you so much. If you relied on the young ones to get your answers for you, you could guarantee you were getting their mistakes too, getting their omissions. Wasn’t worth it; better get soaked and get what he needed.
He pulled up his collar, hit the big green button on the wall, and punched his way out into the deluge. By the time he’d found the car, he was wet through. As he climbed in, he could see them all standing up there in the main office, looking out through the windows – and he could see a good portion of the bastards looking down here and laughing at him. No matter – he was out of there now. Cold, shivering, but away from them.
It was at times like this that he could really understand where Eddie Collins was coming from. There was nothing quite like being alone to really focus the mind. Give it something to think about and keep it away from the pollution of others, and it’s amazing how much better you felt coming out the other side. People say physical exercise makes you feel good – something to do with endorphins being released. Surely it was the same when you had a spell alone?
Eddie Collins was a strange creature, though. They disliked each other, but there was a good amount of respect there too. Since Eddie came to Major Crime a few years ago, they’d worked all kinds of jobs together and got into some truly life-or-death situations. The kind of situations that can really make two people bond – whether they want to or not.
* * *
By the time Benson reached the housing estate, he had his headlamps on full, and the wipers struggled to clear his screen. He brushed a hand across the misted-up side window, and stared out at the bunting that was flapping so violently that it risked taking flight. He could see the sales office, and beyond it a blue perimeter fence with Portakabins stacked two high, forming the site offices of a new-build construction site a couple of miles from Alwoodley Golf Club. He turned off the engine and cringed at the rain hitting the roof, at the rain hitting the earth and bouncing mud up the side of the car.
He took a deep breath, opened the door, and made a mad dash for the entrance.
* * *
He stood before a three-bar electric heater with steam coming off his hands and his head like he’d just stepped out of a Turkish bath. From a stand by the door, his coat dripped water into a layer of mud that formed a trail right into the cabin. One of the guys placed a mug of tea on the desk to his side. “Should’ve left it till tomorrow,” he smiled.
The mug was cracked and looked as though it had never been washed out. “By which time, the tape would have overwritten itself again. It’s just my luck.” He reached for the tea, sipped gratefully, and curled his hands around it like it was his best friend.
Five minutes later, he was parked in a chair next to some security man who wore body armour and a dark blue knitted jersey with elbow patches. Benson wondered if he’d once been a copper and couldn’t quite shake off the habit. But he didn’t ask – you’re likely to end up in a year-long conversation if you start talking about the job with an ex-employee.
“Here he is.” The officer pulled his chair in closer to the monitor. “Over the fence, casual as you like.”
“Why are there tools left out overnight?”
The security man shrugged. “I think they’re supposed to put them in the storage containers. You know what people are like, chief.”
Benson stared at the monitor, watching the man walking straight through the floodlit area to a small trench next to a stack of breezeblocks. There, leaning against the stack, were the pickaxe, several spades, and a cement mixer with a tarp thrown over the top. The man was white, tall, maybe six-one, six-two, very well built, and bulked out further by the padded coat he wore. He turned, grabbed the pick and a small hand axe, and immediately started walking back the way he’d come. “Beard. Yellow cap. Blue coat and jeans.”
“Cat Diesel Power cap,” the officer said. “I’d recognise them anywhere.”
“What’s that mean? Cat Diesel Power?”
“Caterpillar? The earthmovers? They have diesel engines. It’s just a trademark kind of thing. ‘Cat, diesel power’.”
Benson nodded, still confused, and looked back at the screen as the intruder leapt the fence again.
“There you go, chief. Twenty-eight seconds. In. Out.”
“What time?”
“Oh-five-twenty-two.”
“Twenty-eight seconds. Wasn’t worth me getting wet for.”
“I could’ve had it dropped off for you.”
“No matter. It’s good to get out in the fresh air.”
The security man raised his eyebrows and laughed.
“Can you copy that for me?”
The man handed him a disk and smiled. “Already done, chief.”
* * *
Benson arrived back at the Major Crime Unit after all the nine-to-fives had clocked off, and the place was quieter. Ironically, it seemed to him, he also arrived back just as the rain stopped. Dead. It didn’t peter out; it just stopped as though the director had shouted ‘cut’.
The reception area was eerily quiet. If he listened closely, he could hear the water dripping onto the tiled floor from his coat. The silence didn’t last long enough before the double doors ope
ned and Collins appeared, dragging a cigarette from a packet.
Chapter Thirteen
She tried to gauge his reaction, but failed somehow.
He was tall, dark-haired, and gangly. Not an ounce of fat anywhere. His eyes looked at her, but they had no love in them; he was just waiting for this to be over so he could get back to his computer game.
What had she expected? That he’d come running and fling his arms around her?
“Michael,” she whispered, and took a step towards him.
He stared. “Hello.”
“I’ve… I’ve missed you.”
Silence.
Jess took a glance behind her, needing some reassurance, but they too just stared at her; Marilyn with concern, Valentine with raised eyebrows and folded arms. They were all looking at her, waiting for the drama to start – she was the star attraction, this murderer who’d laughingly come to reclaim her long-lost son. “I wrote to you. A thousand times.” She smiled, not wanting to aggravate him, but needing to ask, “Why didn’t you reply?”
He was cold. A stranger who preferred it to stay that way.
“Have I made a big mistake? Coming here? Should I have stayed away?”
“I was in a play at school,” he said, his voice still high-pitched, but filled with such self-assurance that she felt intimidated. “Couple of months ago. They gave me a lead part.”
“Oh, that’s fantastic. Perhaps I can come to—”
“I was a soldier. In the Second World War. And I’d been injured and sent home. It was a really good play.”
“Sounds wonder—”
“And my mum and dad came to see me in hospital. That only lasted for a scene, or maybe it was two scenes. I can’t remember now.”
She nodded with enthusiasm. He was warming to her.
“And then I was at home. Healing. And my friends visited me, and my mother would make squash for us, and we’d remember our comrades who were still fighting in the war.”
The Death of Jessica Ripley Page 5