by Jill McGown
‘And what’s Mrs Beale done for us? I’m not denying what you’ve done. What’s she done?’
Jonathan didn’t speak.
‘I’ll tell you,’ said Gordon. ‘ Nothing. But she’s going to, isn’t she? She’s going to be prepared to cook whatever books she has to to make it look as though you’re complying with the obligation to give up your interest if you get into parliament. Right?’
Jonathan looked horrified.
Gordon shook his head. ‘You’re getting rid of me because I’m too honest for you,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that what it’s all about?’
Jonathan sighed. ‘You have to think of Pauline,’ he said. ‘And the baby. If you won’t sign, then you’ll be in trouble. Unless you’ve more savings than I think you have.’
‘My savings are my business,’ said Gordon.
‘I know, I know. But this way you’ve got a salary. And you’ll get dividends too, as soon as we can pay them out again. In the long term, you can afford to stand on your dignity. But in the short term, you simply can’t. Unless you think that you can get a job somewhere else, and at the kind of salary you’d need …’
‘So I’m to be employed by my own firm,’ said Gordon, heavily.
‘We’re all employed by it. It’s a limited company now.’
‘Don’t split straws! You’ll go public, won’t you? That’ll be the next thing.’
‘Maybe – that’ll make your shares worth even more.’
‘Oh, sure. But I won’t have any say in the running of my own company. As soon as I sign that, you’ll be laying more people off, you’ll be—’
‘It has to be done. We have to be competitive.’
‘You’re going to force a strike. Aren’t you? Aren’t you? We want to cut back on production, so when better? Force a strike, get rid of the union … I know you and your lady friend – you’re hatching something.’
Jonathan sighed. ‘It’snothing like that,’ he said. ‘I just …’
‘Why didn’t she do her own dirty work anyway? Why you?’
‘It was thought best that I should talk to you because you’re a friend of the family, that’s all.’
Gordon frowned. ‘What family?’ he demanded.
‘Leonora’s family. Me.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Gordon. ‘It’s her I’ve got to thank for this.’
Jonathan closed his eyes. ‘Please, Gordon, don’t blame my wife for anything you think I may have done to you.’
‘Your wife got me into this. ‘‘Let Jonathan have a look at your problems, Jonathan understands about business, Jonathan would be an asset to you, Gordon.’’ I can hear her now. You wanted into my company, and she made sure you got in.’
‘I could see that you had a business that could take off, or go down the drain,’ said Jonathan. ‘That’s all.’
‘Oh, she worked hard for you, Austin. I hope you do appreciate her. She always knew how to get round me. She used me – she always did.’ He made a sharp noise, a cross between a sob and a laugh. ‘ I met Pauline because she was using me. I’d come and make up the numbers – she could always count on me doing what she wanted. She just had to flutter her eyelashes. She did a lot of eyelash fluttering for you, Austin.’
‘Gordon – Leonora had nothing whatever to do with any of this. I’d rather you left her out of it.’
‘I only let you in because she wanted me to.’
‘She wanted to help you out!’
‘Yes, well – she’s helped me out all right. Right out of the bloody door!’ He got to his feet.
‘Gordon – you’re wrong. Leonora has done nothing to you – your friendship is important to her. To both of us. I hope we’re not going to lose it just because—’
But Gordon walked away from the words, from the talk, from Jonathan’s smooth demolition of his life.
‘I’ll see myself out, friend,’ he shouted.
In the hallway, he almost stumbled over the joke present he had brought. He picked it up, and went out, slamming the door as hard as he knew how.
The slammed door, plainly audible through the glass of the entrance door, made Mickey look up, and he watched with interest as the man strode to the car parked directly outside, slamming its door too. It was the heavily built man with thinning tight brown hair whom he’d seen arrive two hours earlier. He didn’t drive off; he just sat there, rather like Mickey himself.
Ten o’clock. There was a great deal more happening in Flat 2 than there was in the one he was supposed to be watching. First Frank Beale, and now this. He had noted the number of the Rolls when it arrived to drop its passenger off, though he had a feeling it was probably the only brand-new Roller in the county, never mind in Stansfield. Frankie Beale was always interesting.
She had left the flat too, later on – also, he fancied, less than happy with life. He had watched as she had walked quickly through the brightening evening, taking the shortcut to the main road through the alleyway. The husband was still in the flat.
A movement in his wing mirror caught his eye, and Mickey swivelled round in time to see a jacket disappear round the corner, out of the garage area in which he was parked, into the alleyway through the old houses. But for someone to be reflected in his mirror, they had to have passed the corner, he reasoned. So someone had changed his mind about where he was going.
He frowned. He had been spotted. That wasn’t someone just changing his mind, or realising he was going in the wrong direction. He had a sixth sense about these things. He had been spotted. Who knew him? He hadn’t been back in Stansfield long, and he had been in uniform the last time he’d been here. Who knew to duck out of sight just from his back view in a car? Perhaps he ought to think about that. His previous stint in Stansfield was a little hazy; other things had seemed much more important than being a police officer.
And perhaps they were, he thought. Perhaps they were.
Steve Tasker pushed open the door of the pub, his dark, handsome face wincing as fifties rock bounced off the walls at him. The fifties was his era, but the music was never meant to be amplified on state-of-the-art equipment. He made his way to the bar, and indicated what he wanted by pointing to the pump and holding his hands a pint distance apart. He took his drink, his mind still on the ominous police presence that he had just discovered, and turned from the bar, his free hand catching, and knocking over, someone’s drink.
‘Oh, sorry, love,’ he said, stooping to pick up the empty glass as it rolled to his feet. He straightened up, and smiled broadly. ‘Lennie!’ he said. ‘ Fancy meeting you here.’
‘Are you following me around?’
Not quite, he thought, signalling to the barman for a replacement. This was a happy accident, unlike the other times.
‘Don’t try chatting me up,’ she said, as they sat down, and the music stopped.
He grinned. ‘Listen, sweetheart, if I see a good-looking blonde, I chat her up. If I see a good-looking blonde I used to be very friendly with, who’s on her own in a pub’ – he looked pointedly at her left hand – ‘minus her wedding ring – I reckon it’s my lucky night.’
‘Well, it’s not.’
Conversation became impossible that close to the speakers; he watched as she tapped her glass in time to the music which was drowning them again, and bent his head close to hers. He knew Lennie. ‘I reckon if the music’s this loud, all you can do is dance to it,’ he shouted.
‘No thank you.’
‘Come on, Len! I’ll bet that stuffed shirt doesn’t take you dancing, does he?’
She shook her head.
‘Come on, then. You need cheering up.’ He put down his glass and stood up, holding out his hand.
She gave a little sigh, then took his hand, and went with him to the dance-floor.
The music of his youth pounded in his ears; she hadn’t even been born. But they had discovered something primeval when they had discovered rock; something that made your blood beat faster through your veins, something that produced a need to move to the r
hythms, something sexual; it was timeless, ageless. And it had always worked like a charm on Lennie, which was its chief appeal.
Out of breath, they made their way back to the table. Steve let his knee press against hers as they sat down. ‘ Forget it, Steve,’ she said.
Steve picked up their glasses, handing hers to her. ‘Drink up,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you another.’ Gin had always had a pretty good effect too.
He worked hard for the next few minutes; he even managed to get his arm round her shoulders without her objecting. Or noticing might be nearer the mark, he conceded. She seemed to have other things on her mind. Whichever, it was good. His hand strayed to her breast; she reacted, but she didn’t stop him.
‘It’s getting late,’ whispered the DJ, his lips too close to the mike. ‘So let’s get romantic.’
He led her on to the floor again, and took her in his arms as the slow ballad began. The DJ, with a shattering lack of empathy, uttered again. ‘Not much you can do to this last batch but smooch, he said. ‘That’s the word, isn’t it?’
His hand moved from her back to her waist as he drew her closer to him. ‘ What do you say, Len?’ he whispered, clasping his hands behind her; her arms were round his neck as they moved together.
His lips brushed her face.
‘Please, Stevie,’ she said.
He grinned. Stevie was good. ‘Please Stevie what?’ he murmured, and nibbled her ear.
‘Please stop.’
His hands slid lower, applying gentle pressure; she caught her breath as his mouth found hers, and their shuffling footsteps slowed to a halt, only their bodies moving to the slow, slow music, until the final chord died away.
She drew her lips away from his, and smiled at him.
‘Can I walk you home?’ he asked.
She looked at him for a long time, then gave a little sigh. ‘No,’ she said.
Another soulful ballad; Steve smiled. ‘Let’s get some air,’ he said, and they left the dance-floor, picking up their things – en route to the door.
In the shadows of the pub car park, he kissed her again.
‘Stevie,’ she said, pushing him off.
He lifted up her left hand. ‘Where’s your ring?’ he asked.
She drew in her breath, then let it out again: ‘I threw it away,’ she said.
‘When?’
‘Tonight,’ She looked up at him. ‘I was angry,’ she said, as though he had demanded an explanation.
There was nowhere as silent as Stansfield at night, Steve thought. He was a London boy, and had never got used to it; there was traffic somewhere, rumbling along the dual carriageway; there was a slow, muffled heartbeat from inside the pub, but that only heightened the silence round them.
‘Are you throwing him away too?’ he asked.
‘No.’ She leant back on the wall. ‘I wasn’t angry with him,’ she said.
‘Who then?’
‘Me. Who else?’
If he had somewhere to take her, she would come with him, he was sure. But he lived in digs, and his landlady would not take kindly to his bringing a woman home with him. He pushed her gently against the wall, his lips at her ear. ‘Let’s go somewhere,’ he whispered.
‘Stevie, please,’ she said, closing her eyes as his lips touched her face. He was winning.
‘Stevie, please what?’ He pressed hard against her as a car came out of the main road, its headlights sweeping them, slowing almost to a stop as it passed them.
She pushed him away, and watched it go. ‘Just leave me here,’ she said nervously. ‘Someone will see us.’
‘Oh, forget him,’ he said, smiling, taking her in his arms. ‘Don’t let that put you off.’
‘Stevie, please,’ she said.
‘Stevie, please what?’
‘Just please,’ she said, kissing him.
Chapter Two
Gordon Pearce pulled the car into the kerb, almost unable to see because of the tears in his eyes.
He had caught them in his headlights. Just a courting couple, he had thought, until he had really seen what he was looking at, and he had stared transfixed. Lennie. It had been Lennie. He had told himself that he had been mistaken, that it couldn’t have been. She wouldn’t behave like that – she wasn’t … He sniffed, and searched for a handkerchief. He had a good mind to go straight back and tell Jonathan what she was up to when his back was turned. That would wipe the smug look off his face.
Not that Jonathan was behaving much better, but at least it wasn’t in public. She had been wrapped round that … that – he blew his nose noisily as his brain failed to come up with an adequate description of her companion.
He knew him. He knew his face, from way back. From before Lennie had married Jonathan. Was he the one she had been trying to avoid, when she had used him, as she had always used him? ‘Oh, Gordon, save my life, there’s a love. If you’re with me, he’ll just go away.’ And he had done as she had asked, as he had always done.
He had been so pleased to be of assistance, so eager to prove himself worthy to her. And she had smiled, and kissed him, and said she didn’t know what she would do without him. He had believed her, when she had presumably just been playing hard to get, and using him to do it. She wasn’t playing hard to get now.
He had been there, if she had needed someone. But of course, there was Pauline. Even if he had known that Lennie was … well, available, there was still Pauline.
He’d only married Pauline because Lennie had got engaged. And if she hadn’t wanted Jonathan at all, then why? Why? What sort of a marriage was that? You were meant to stay faithful to your vows – my God, look what was happening to him. He wasn’t grabbing at anything that passed just because Pauline wouldn’t …
He rubbed his eyes, and started the car. They had screwed up his life, between them, Lennie and Jonathan. Damn them. Damn them both. Damn them all. Jonathan and Lennie, Rosemary Beale, Pauline. All of them. All screwing up his life.
Damn them all.
Jonathan didn’t want to stay in the house, with Gordon’s animosity still thick in the air. It had been the hardest thing he had ever had to do; he genuinely liked Gordon. In an odd way, he would have felt better if it hadn’t been true, but the company could function without its founder. It could function just as well with him, but his usefulness had long since been overtaken by the company’s own momentum. And, left to Gordon’s devices, it was entirely true to suggest that the whole thing would have slid into bankruptcy. All true, and none of it made him feel any better.
He wasn’t looking forward to telling Leonora what they had been discussing, either. But that wouldn’t be as awful. She would be angry, and demand reasons which he couldn’t give, but he could handle that. Gordon’s bewilderment, his hurt confusion, was much more difficult.
Where was Leonora, anyway? He glanced at the clock. Ten twenty-five; it was getting late. He would have expected her to have been home by now. Perhaps she was staying at the studio for the night; she had done that on other occasions when she had been angry with him. But she had told him, those times. She was just staying out as long as she could to worry him, he told himself. That was all. Or she had got wrapped up in something that she was doing. He didn’t pretend to understand Leonora’s work, but she did seem to be very highly thought of by those who mattered in the art world, and she could forget everything when she was working.
He wished he could. More than anything, he wished he had some overriding interest in something, something in which he could lose himself and let the rest of the world go to hell. But facts and figures were his forte, and they concerned the rest of the world too much to let him forget it. Leonora’s painting was more important to her than anything; it was why she had married him, Jonathan knew that. He wished, really, that she hadn’t. He wished he had never asked her. She could have had his financial backing without marrying him; he might not understand what she did, but he understood investment in art, and Leonora was a good investment.
Where had she go
ne, anyway? She had never left without telling him where she was going. His heart suddenly sank as he realised that she might have gone to keep Pauline company. She might be hearing about it from Gordon even now. He closed his eyes. This was a nightmare. The whole thing was a nightmare.
He had opened the floodgates deliberately, but he hadn’t really been prepared for just how insecure Judy felt.
‘It’s only the first day, love,’ he said, his arm round her, patting her. ‘It’ll get better it’s bound to.’
‘It couldn’t get much worse.’ She sounded so down.
He sighed. At least she wasn’t crying. He realised with a little jolt of surprise that in all the time he’d known her, and all the trauma that their relationship had been subjected to, he had never seen her crying. She’d be fine once she had been there a couple of days, he knew that Judy hated change, hated anything which removed her from whichever rut she was in, whether she liked being in it or not. She hadn’t enjoyed being married, but it had been a long, painful haul before she had finally left Michael. She had almost cried that night, he remembered. Almost, but not quite. She had been crying, that much had been obvious; but not in front of him. He wasn’t sure he liked that, and had said so. She had told him that it was the job that had taught her how to check tears. It was one thing a six foot six burly copper shedding manly tears over a particularly sad accident; it was quite another to have some damn female blubbing all over the show.
But she hadn’t been crying tonight. And in a way, this was tougher than leaving her dead marriage, because she had loved it at Stansfield. All that was wrong with her, Lloyd knew, was that she was in a new place with new people and new routines to which she would almost immediately become accustomed, and then that would be where she felt comfortable. No point in telling her all that, of course. She never believed him when he tried, so now he just made encouraging noises. And if it occurred to him that no one would be having to perform this service for DS Drake, it was merely a passing thought on human nature, on the different personalities with which one had to deal on one’s daily round. It wasn’t a male chauvinist thought on la difference. Of course it wasn’t.