Scene of Crime

by Jill McGown

  Still—it beat paperwork any day. He dialed Bob Sandwell’s home number. Bob was the acting Detective Inspector now that Judy had been transferred, and this would be his first real test. He was okay. Tom liked him. But Bob didn’t have Judy Hill’s flair. If you asked him, they’d have been better off sending Bob Sandwell to HQ to head up this LINKS project, and leaving Judy here.

  “Hi, Kathy. Is Bob there?”

  “Oh, Tom—I was going to call tomorrow morning. I’m afraid he’s in bed with a temperature. He’s got the flu.”

  Oh. “Right,” Tom said. “Look—tell him to get well soon, and … we’ll soldier on without him. ’Bye.”

  For the first time in his life, Tom wished that he was an inspector and could take charge of this himself. Maybe he would take the exam again. Judy Hill was always telling him to do it. And maybe he’d pass it now that he didn’t look like an angel. But it would need someone more senior than he to deal with this, and Tom felt certain that DCI Lloyd would rather be called before someone he didn’t know was drafted from another division, so he’d have to try to get hold of him.

  Lloyd’s cell phone was switched off, and he wasn’t at home, or at Judy Hill’s place. Tom left messages on all three phones, and went to assess the situation for himself.

  Denis Leeward was sitting in his car in a rest area, one hidden from the road by trees, trying to get his head around everything that had happened. He’d driven toward home instinctively, but then had realized he couldn’t go home, and pulled up here just before the exit to the village. Meg wasn’t expecting him back for another hour and would expect some sort of explanation if he went home now. His ribs ached and he was still shaking; he couldn’t go home in this state.

  But he couldn’t stay here. The pub, he thought, relieved that something approaching an idea had managed to penetrate the fog of fear and worry. He’d go to the pub.

  He drove off, turned down the road into the bypassed village and parked, half on the pavement, half off, opposite The Horse and Halfpenny. No one knew how it had come by that name, and people assumed it was one of the new wave of pubs with silly names, but The Horse and Halfpenny, once a coaching inn, had been given its name a hundred years ago. Denis couldn’t believe that of all the things he might be thinking about now, when he needed to think clearly, all he could do was wonder how The Horse and Halfpenny got its name.

  He moved the rearview mirror and looked at himself, running his fingers through his longish gray hair to neaten it up a bit, straightening his tie. His face looked pale, but that might just be the streetlights. He got out of the car, sucking in his breath as his bruised ribs complained. He’d have to be careful not to do that. He didn’t want anyone asking him what was wrong; he had to take a deep breath, calm down, and act halfway normal. He’d had to do what he did, he told himself, justifying his actions to himself, fervently hoping he would never have to justify them to anyone else.

  He locked the car, and waited for a motorbike to shoot past him before crossing over the village road to the pub. It was his local spot, but it was far enough away from home for him to be fairly certain that Meg wouldn’t see the car. He couldn’t think straight. He was going to go and get a stiff drink. He could walk home, leave the car there. And when Meg demanded answers, he might have some ready, or be too drunk to care. He had done something that he would never have believed he’d ever do, and already it seemed like a distant memory, like a dream fragment. A moment of indecision, that was all he’d had, before he quite definitely decided, and committed himself to a course of action from which there was no return.

  He ducked under the low beam that had been the painful introduction to the Horse of many a visitor despite its notice warning those over five feet six inches. The pub regulars were playing their weekly quiz game, and above their laughter at the question master’s inability to pronounce any word of more than one syllable correctly, Denis ordered a whiskey.

  “On the hard stuff tonight, Doc?” the innkeeper asked.

  He smiled. A weak, unconvincing smile, but he smiled. “Long day.”

  “Well, there you are,” said the innkeeper. “Get that down you. You look as though you might be coming down with this flu—a bit green about the gills.”

  “How do you pronounce the name of this pub?” Denis asked, when he had downed the tiny pub measure in one gulp and ordered a beer chaser, and just as the pub erupted into laughter once more. The quiz master took it all in good part.

  The innkeeper leaned over the bar, cocking his ear toward Denis. “Say again?”

  “How do you pronounce the name of the pub? I’ve always just called it the Horse—is the rest of it pronounced Halfpenny or Ha’penny?”

  The innkeeper looked puzzled at this sudden and rather belated interest in his pub’s name. “I say Ha’penny. But the youngsters say Halfpenny. They only know the new money, of course. Don’t talk about ha’pence anymore, do we?” He paused. “Come to that, we don’t even have the new halfpennies anymore. They soon won’t be able to pronounce it at all.”

  “What does it mean, anyway?” asked Denis. He didn’t care what it meant. He had never cared. But he couldn’t stop himself fixating on it. He was in denial, he supposed. No, he didn’t suppose it. He was in denial. Even worrying about the trouble he might be in was part of that denial; he couldn’t, wouldn’t, think about the rest of it. He found himself wondering then if you could be in denial if you knew you were in denial.

  “Don’t ask me. The brewery might know, I suppose.” The innkeeper frowned. “Are you doing some sort of research?”

  “Not really.”

  “Or are you one of those people who collect pub names?”

  “No. Nothing like that. Just wondered.”

  Denis sipped his beer and looked around at the little room, at the people crowded around small tables, their heads together, or sitting back smugly, having written down their answers to the last question in the ongoing quiz. The ones closest to him were earnestly discussing whether the screen rabbit referred to in the question was Bugs Bunny or Roger Rabbit.

  Denis knew they were both wrong; unlike the team, he was old enough to know the answer. He bent down and whispered to the group, “It’s Harvey.”

  “Who?”

  “Harvey. He was a six-foot invisible rabbit.”

  “You don’t want to join us, do you? We need all the help we can get.”

  So do I, thought Denis, straightening up. Oh, God, so do I. He smiled. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

  “Can we have a sandwich break now?”

  Judy had played all of Carl’s sound effects while Lloyd made good his promise to make the tea, and the chimes, the horses’ hooves, and all the rest had passed muster. Now Marianne was sorting out the songs with the pianist, and Judy felt more than a little apprehensive in case she was talked into singing. She had spent two hours learning how to breathe and an hour reading Cinderella’s lines and playing the sound effects; she felt as though she had done her bit for the day without a crash course on singing. She was glad someone else had gotten hungry; she wouldn’t mind a sandwich.

  Marianne reluctantly agreed to a twenty minute break, and Lloyd was at Judy’s elbow. “Is there a green room?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Why?”

  “Do you want to show me it?”

  “If you like.” She got up with some difficulty, and wished that February had come and gone and that this baby was existing under its own steam instead of making her feel clumsy and awkward and a number of other things she didn’t even want to think about. “It’s this way,” she said, walking through the wings and out into the corridors.

  “It’s good fun,” said Lloyd. “Isn’t it?”

  “Mm.” She couldn’t really agree; she preferred a much more backstage role than the one she’d had tonight, but she had known Lloyd would be enjoying himself. “Why have you never joined an amateur dramatic society?” she asked. It had never occurred to her before, but Lloyd, natural actor that he w
as, had never shown any interest, not even when she told him she did some work for the amateur dramatic society.

  He smiled. “Because I’m a professional,” he said.

  She opened the door and switched on the light. “There you are,” she said. “Chairs, a sofa, a table, and some magazines that are probably older than the building.” She turned to him as he closed the door. “Why did you want to see it?”

  He put his arms around her with some difficulty, and kissed her. “So I could give you a cuddle,” he said.

  She frowned. “Did I look as though I needed a cuddle?” she asked. “To be perfectly honest, I really need a sandwich a bit more than a cuddle.”

  “You should eat lunch. Especially now that you’re eating for two.” He smiled. “I thought you needed reassurance. I want you to know that I will be present at the birth. And I will take Junioress to pantomimes. And I will carry on with the relaxation classes.” He kissed her again. “Things really are different,” he said. “The world’s different. And I’m different. And … well, you’re different from Barbara. She never expected very much of me, and so she never got very much of me.”

  Judy knew that Lloyd had no desire to do any of these things. “Is this some sort of bargain? You’ll do all that providing I settle on a house and move in with you?”

  He shook his head. “You take as much time as you need,” he said. “I’m in no hurry.”

  She felt a little guilty. But then, that was how he meant her to feel. “When do we get to the bit where you tell me I’m selfish?” she asked.

  “You are selfish.” He smiled again. “But you’re frightened. I know you are. And there’s no need to be.”

  “But I thought you’d know all about babies and children, and now—” She sighed. “Have you ever changed a nappy?” she asked. “Because I haven’t.”

  “Oh, yes. I can do nappies. And feeding, once they’re past the breast stage. And rocking to sleep.” He gave her a little hug. “For the first sixteen years all you can do is keep them dry, warm, fed, loved, and safe,” he said. “And after that, it’s up to them.”

  Other couples would have had this conversation months before now, she thought. Other couples would live together, not in separate flats. And Lloyd really, really wanted to be like other couples. She knew she should try harder not to expect things all her own way, but she had never entirely understood how not to be selfish. And she was horribly aware that she had given herself away; now that he knew exactly what was bothering her, he was saying all the right things to reassure her, and she had absolutely no idea whether they were true. She was almost certain that by telling her that she needn’t do anything she didn’t want to do, and that he would do everything that she wanted him to do, Lloyd was, in his own gentle, charming way, bullying her. Almost certain. But not quite. Because she did feel reassured.

  She kissed him this time, and Carl Bignall walked in on them, carrying a plate of sandwiches.

  “Whoops, sorry,” he said. “I was looking for a Marianne-free zone in which to have a snack. Have you had a row or are you so sickeningly in love that you feel obliged to sneak off and snog in corners?”

  “Neither,” said Judy, feeling her face grow pink. “He just likes embarrassing me.”

  “You mustn’t be embarrassed on my account,” said Carl, making for the sofa. “In fact, you two have given me an idea for a play.” He was about to sit down, then straightened up again. “Oh—were you thinking of using the sofa? I can make myself scarce.”

  Lloyd laughed. “Fat chance,” he said.

  Carl beamed. “I might use that as the title. It would be perfect.”

  “Are you a playwright?”

  “Not really—I scribble a bit in my spare time. I’m a GP—my practice is just down the road at the Health Center.”

  “Where the dreaded prenatal clinic is,” said Judy, glancing at Lloyd. “Don’t forget we’ve got an appointment tomorrow.” She had been told that the father should attend checkups and scans and everything else having to do with the baby, and she’d dragged a very reluctant Lloyd with her whenever she could. It was like taking a very old, very obstinate dog to the vet, and he got out of it every time he could.

  “I’m not forgetting,” said Lloyd. “And I don’t dread it, I just …” He shrugged. “I just think you feel more at home in these places if you’re actually pregnant.”

  “You don’t,” said Judy. “Take my word for it.”

  “Tell yourself you’re a doctor,” Carl said, with a grin. “You’ll feel much less out of place. Actually, I’m in partnership with Denis Leeward—I think you might know him, Lloyd. He was the FME for Stansfield before he moved to Malworth. It would be a while ago—I think he moved here about seven or eight years ago.”

  “Oh, yes, I know him,” said Lloyd. “How’s he doing? I haven’t seen him since he left.”

  “Oh, he’s fine.”

  “Give him my regards.”

  “Have you had any plays produced, Carl?” asked Judy.

  “Marianne produced one once, but two men and a dog came to it. The men fell asleep and the dog thought it was pretentious sub-Chekovian psychobabble.”

  Lloyd smiled. “Did you ever think of going into the theater professionally?”

  Carl shrugged. “At Cambridge, yes. I even did a bit in the Footlights. But I wasn’t destined to be plucked from the obscurity of medicine like so many before me, so I write the odd nativity play for five-year-olds to perform and scripts for Marianne’s pantomimes. My biggest challenge of recent years has been working ‘Walking in the Air’ into every script. I’ll be glad when Dexter’s voice breaks.”

  “I trust I’m not going to have to sing it,” said Lloyd.

  Carl smiled. “I thought Welshmen jumped at the chance to give their tonsils a workout.”

  “Not this Welshman.” He grinned. “Well, not singing, anyway.” Lloyd was checking his mobile phone, which he’d had to turn off during the relaxation class, and listened to a message; he excused himself and left Judy with Carl.

  “Do you have to sing it?” asked Judy.

  “I will have to, if Dex isn’t back on form by the time we open,” he said. “It sounds a bit strange in a not-very-tuneful baritone. I think I would play it for laughs. I’d have to—I’d probably still have the Ugly Sister’s makeup on. Doubling up is no fun, believe me.”

  “You and Dex don’t seem exactly interchangeable,” said Judy. “Do you have to have Buttons’s costume in two different sizes?”

  “No. If I had to do it, I’d use a costume from a previous production where I played a footman. It doesn’t have as many buttons on it, but it would do, in a pinch. We can’t afford luxuries like doubling up on costumes.” He smiled. “We don’t usually have to use the understudies, but we’ve never been hit with the flu like we have this year. You and Lloyd might find yourselves starring in this production on opening night.” He pushed the sandwiches over to her. “Have some,” he said.

  Judy gratefully took a sandwich as Lloyd came back in, his face serious and troubled. “Dr. Bignall—” he began.

  “Oh, Carl, please.”

  “Dr. Bignall, I’m sorry, but I have some very bad news for you.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ryan gunned the car down the side street and drove to the storage garages, pulled the bag out of the backseat, unlocked one of the doors, and went inside. In the dim light he tore the Christmas wrapping off a few of the presents and stuffed them into a shopping bag, followed by a couple of other things he thought he could sell, then left, locking the door. He drove the car some distance away from the garages, turning into an office car park, where he abandoned it, running through the back alleys of Malworth toward home.

  He was putting the shopping bag into his bedroom closet when he heard the front door open and close, and the click of his mother’s heels on the floor. He knew it must be ten past nine; his mother did evening cleaning at the Riverside Family Center and always came home at exactly the same time. The hee
ls clicked again and her voice floated up.

  “Dexter? Dexter, are you in bed, love?”

  Ryan heard her footsteps on the stairs, heard her open Dexter’s bedroom door. He was locking the closet door when she came into his bedroom, and he turned to look at her.

  Not forty yet, and she looked worn-out. Washed out. Her pale bare arms were hardly any wider at the top than they were at her wrist, and her elbows always looked to him as though the bones might start poking through, there was so little flesh between them and her skin. One day, he told himself, he was going to buy her a big house with someone to do her cleaning, instead of her having to do other people’s; one day she would lose the worried frown that seemed almost permanent.

  His dad had left home when he was four years old; all Ryan remembered of his parents’ marriage had been tears and shouting just after Dex was born, and he had known it had something to do with Dex being black. He hadn’t understood why it upset his father so much; he had thought the baby was a nice color. Much better than a silly pink baby. Now, he couldn’t believe that his mother had actually waited until Dex was born before facing the music, but he supposed it was in character; she had a tendency to think that if she ignored things they would just go away. And, in that instance, his father did indeed go away.

  After a while she had married Edward Gibson, Dex’s father, and she was happy then. Ryan had liked him, too; everything was fine until Edward went to work one morning and never came home again. He had told his supervisor he didn’t feel well, and was clocking off to go home when he just dropped down dead. That had been five years ago, and his mother never really got over it.

  There had been the odd man since, but nothing serious, and these days there wasn’t anyone at all. Ryan wished there was; maybe then she would have something else to think about, and wouldn’t come sailing into his bedroom whenever she felt like it. He should have somewhere of his own. Somewhere he could take girlfriends. Somewhere he could do what he liked. One day, he thought. One day it would happen.