David Webb 13 - One Is One and All Alone

by Anthea Fraser

  She was also grateful that, for the moment at least, she had the room to herself. Dumping her satchel, she made herself a cup of tea and carried it back to the table, where she took out a pile of exercise books and spread them in front of her. It was, as she acknowledged to herself, mere window-dressing in case someone came in; she’d no intention of correcting them.

  She sighed, sipping despondently at her tea. This vague depression had been with her all day, and until she could get to the root of it, further work would be unproductive.

  So — what was the problem? It obviously stemmed from the previous evening, but she’d thought herself inured by now to stressful visits to her family, so different from the happy times when Carol was alive. Nevertheless, she’d have declined last night’s invitation had it not been Malcolm’s birthday, but she’d always shared in the celebrations, and felt obscurely that she owed it to Carol to continue doing so.

  Not that there’d been much sense of celebration last night. To start with, Malcolm himself had looked tired, the lines round eyes and mouth carved more deeply then usual. But to her anxious query, he’d simply smiled and replied, ‘I’m overworked, underpaid and the wrong side of fifty. What could possibly be wrong?’

  And, smiling back, she had taken the glass he held out and allowed her concern to be overruled. But matters did not improve, Una’s continuing absence causing a level of tension which her eventual appearance failed to ease. She had pleaded pressure of work, but Barbara suspected that the dinner had temporarily slipped her mind, and felt less than welcome in consequence.

  But it was not Una’s deficiencies that were causing her disquiet. What, then? Something that had been said? Neil had been unpleasant, as usual, but again, he’d no power to upset her. The girls, then? Malcolm himself?

  Malcolm; yes, he was the nub of the problem. Her first quick concern had been justified; without acknowledging it at the time, she’d known instinctively that he was unhappy.

  Barbara frowned, stirring her cooling tea and wondering what had led to that conviction. Despite the resentments his marriage had caused, he’d always seemed content enough. That had been her one grain of comfort.

  Deliberately, assessingly, she conjured him up in her mind — not the familiar figure she’d known so long, but Malcolm as he was last night. And with hindsight it was possible to recall the defeated look in his eyes, the weariness behind his determined jollity. Here, without doubt, was the cause of her low spirits.

  He’d been through so much, she thought now; the onset of Carol’s multiple sclerosis, her slow deterioration, the pain of her death and resulting loneliness. It was time he had some happiness.

  The fact that she’d once hoped he would find it with her, Barbara had long since put behind her. She knew the family had expected them to marry — in fact, Jane, with her total lack of guile, had told her so — but only as the sensible course for two lonely people. The possibility of love had never occurred to them.

  Then everything had been overturned by Una’s arrival: Una, with her stiff smile and unreadable eyes whom, unaccountably, Malcolm wanted to marry. And who had instantly known what neither Malcolm, bless him, nor any of his family, had ever suspected: that Barbara loved him herself. The knowledge hung between them, unspoken but not to be denied, increasing their mutual hostility.

  Was Una at the centre of his misery? She seemed so cold and self-contained — the last person, surely, one could turn to for comfort or companionship — an impression strengthened by last night’s comments about their separate lives.

  On the other hand, Malcolm’s despair might have nothing to do with his wife; perhaps there was a problem at work — what had he said, overworked and underpaid? — even financial worries.

  Alone in the quiet room, Barbara sat lost in anxiety and indecision. And eventually, out in the corridor, the bell rang for the end of afternoon classes. Listlessly she gathered together the scattered exercise books, replaced them in her satchel, and went home.

  *

  Sally was feeding her son, lost in a warm, milky daze from which the sound of the front door jolted her. The baby, sensing her shift of attention, raised his head. He’d had enough for the moment, anyway. She rebuttoned her blouse and lifted him to her shoulder, rubbing his small, woollen-clad back and looking expectantly at the door.

  When it remained closed, she called, ‘Neil?’ and after a minute he came into the room, a glass in his hand. She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Before you even say hello?’

  ‘I’m in need of it.’ He came over, kissed her upturned face and absent-mindedly caressed his son’s fluffy head.

  Sally stifled a sigh; it looked like being another difficult evening. Neil had been increasingly morose lately and her own temper was beginning to fray. Over the last three years, she’d found that the handsome, ambitious young man she’d married could be childishly petulant when things weren’t going his way. It had come as a shock to realize that she was the stronger character, and she resented being continually called on to coax him out of his moods, when he never offered her any support.

  ‘Had a bad day?’ she asked dutifully, knowing he’d no interest in her own difficulties — the breakdown of the washing-machine, the baby’s refusal to sleep.

  ‘A hell of one,’ he confirmed, flinging himself into an armchair.

  ‘Well, it’s over now. If you could —’

  ‘Actually, it isn’t.’

  She looked up. ‘What do you mean?’

  He tipped back his head and emptied the glass. ‘I’ve something to tell you; I’ve been to see your father.’

  ‘Dad? Why on earth?’

  Neil stared moodily into the fire. ‘I thought he might help me out of a tight corner, but I should have known better.’

  ‘Well, can you blame him? I asked you not to stir things last night, but you had to get your little dig in, didn’t you? If you wanted his help, you should have been more careful.’ Neil’s attitude to her family — and theirs to him — was a frequent bone of contention between them.

  ‘Last night,’ Neil said heavily, ‘I thought I had time in hand. This morning, I found I hadn’t.’

  ‘Time for what?’

  ‘To find the money I need to put me in the clear.’

  Sally stared at him, suddenly aware that the matter was more serious than she’d supposed. ‘What’s happened? For God’s sake, Neil, what have you done?’

  He tilted his glass, rolling the remaining drops round and round the rim. ‘It seemed a safe bet at the time, a quick way to make a packet. Damn it, the money was there! It only meant sliding it sideways for a few days.’

  Her mouth was dry. Against her shoulder the baby burped gently and turned his head, his warm, wet mouth nuzzling her cheek. She said slowly, ‘You gambled with clients’ money?’

  ‘Hardly gambled,’ he retorted. ‘Damn it, there shouldn’t have been any risk at all. If it hadn’t been for that unexpected drop in the market—’

  ‘And you lost it?’

  After a minute he nodded sullenly, not meeting her eyes. ‘How much?’

  ‘Not a vast amount; nothing I couldn’t—’

  ‘How much, Neil?’

  ‘Around five thousand.’

  There was a long pause, then she said tonelessly, ‘And you asked Dad for it?’

  Another nod.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Wanted to know why I hadn’t gone to Father.’

  ‘And why hadn’t you?’ But she thought she knew the answer. This, she felt instinctively, was not the first time; thinking back, there’d been occasions over the last year or two when their fortunes had seemed to fluctuate, Neil being anxious and withdrawn for a few days, then relieved and confident again. A blip in the market, he’d told her, and she’d probed no further. Now it appeared that Jack Crawford had bailed them out. And refused to do so again, no doubt because the debts were still outstanding.

  She said flatly, ‘You’ve borrowed from him before, haven’t you?�
� and took his silence as assent. ‘What else did Dad say?’

  ‘Told me to sell the Merc and my clubs. Bloody nerve!’

  ‘Sounds good advice to me. We never needed such a flash car, and you know things have been tight ever since you joined the golf club.’

  He said indignantly, ‘You seem to forget it was all for your benefit, yours and Jamie’s. That’s where contacts are made, and if I don’t want to miss out, I need to be there.’

  ‘Only if we can afford it, which we obviously can’t. So what’ll happen? If you can’t pay it back in time?’

  He stood up abruptly. ‘Oh, I’ll pay it back, one way or another, but we’ll have to remortgage the house and I suppose the Merc will have to go. What it is to have supportive families!’ And he went in search of another drink.

  *

  The rehearsal had not gone well; one of the soloists had flu, which meant drawing a substitute from the choir, but even allowing for that, the singing was uneven and decidedly below standard. And the concert was only ten days away.

  It was therefore later than usual when Una arrived home, and as she turned into the drive she saw that the bedroom light was on. No doubt Malcolm had tired of waiting up for her.

  Wearily she let herself into the house and went to the kitchen to make a hot drink. It had been cold in the church hall, and the hours of singing had dried her throat.

  As she waited for the kettle to boil, she saw a note propped against the coffee canister on which was scrawled in an uneducated hand: We need more floor polish. It was signed R. Jones.

  The new cleaner, who had started this morning. How long ago it seemed. Una spooned chocolate powder into a mug and was pouring on the boiling water when a sound behind her made her turn. Malcolm stood in the doorway in his dressing-gown.

  ‘So you remembered you’ve a home to go to! Do you know what time it is?’

  ‘To the last second,’ she replied, stirring the hot chocolate. ‘It was a disastrous rehearsal. Would you like a drink? There’s enough water in the kettle.’

  He shook his head. ‘All I want is to go to sleep.’

  ‘Well, I’m not stopping you.’

  ‘You were, though. You know I can’t settle till you’re home.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Malcolm, I’m not sixteen! I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. Suppose I couldn’t settle when you’re out on a case? You’re often much later than I am.’

  ‘That’s different,’ he said.

  ‘Why? Because when you’re late it’s due to work, and when I am, I’m merely enjoying myself?’

  ‘If you want to put it that way,’ he said stolidly.

  ‘I don’t, but that’s how you seem to see it.’

  ‘You’re certainly not much company these days.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, but if what you want is a docile little wife who stays home all day and has your slippers waiting for you, you’ve picked the wrong one.’

  ‘Is that a cheap jibe at Carol?’ he demanded angrily. ‘All right, so she didn’t run her own business, or sing in a choir, or any of the other things you’re so damn proud of, but she was loyal and loving, and she made a happy home for the kids and me, which is something—’

  ‘—I’m incapable of?’ Una broke in, her temper rising to match his. ‘And what about my feelings in all this? How do you think I like having to welcome your po-faced family when they come round to sneer at me, knowing I’m continually being compared with the sainted Carol? I—’

  She broke off as a sound came from the hallway. Malcolm turned swiftly, putting out his arm as though to hold someone back; but he was too late, and behind him Una saw Jane’s pale, startled face.

  There was a brittle silence, then Malcolm said flatly, ‘I didn’t have time to tell you; Jane’s spending a few days with us while she sorts out some problems.’

  ‘Oh, good!’ Una exclaimed, and was instantly ashamed when the girl burst into tears and ran back upstairs.

  ‘Well done,’ Malcolm commented.

  ‘What’s the matter with her?’

  ‘Had a row with her boyfriend. That’s why he wasn’t here last night, but she didn’t mention it because she didn’t want to spoil my birthday. She phoned when I got in this evening.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Malcolm. I shouldn’t have flown off the handle like that.’

  ‘Nor should I; I’m sorry, too.’

  ‘If I’d known Jane was here—’

  He nodded. ‘She probably wondered what all the noise was about.’

  ‘How much do you think she heard?’

  He raised his shoulders helplessly.

  ‘I wasn’t trying to criticize Carol.’

  ‘I know.’

  Una picked up her mug. ‘I’ll go and have a word with her, tell her she’s welcome to stay as long as she likes.’

  ‘Thanks, love.’ He turned off the kitchen light and wearily, side by side, they went up to bed.

  To Webb’s frustration, the rest of the week brought no further progress. There were about a dozen B-registered blue Bed-fords in the vicinity, none of which could be linked with the raids. The most likely had belonged to a second-hand car dealer in Station Road, who claimed he’d sold it six weeks previously. His paperwork was sketchy in the extreme, but he assured Partridge that the man who bought it — ‘a young lad’ — had given the name of Smith. Which, Webb thought disgustedly, was par for the course.

  However, on the following Monday things took a more serious turn. When he returned to his office after a meeting, it was to be greeted with the news that there’d been another raid in Lethbridge, and the shop assistant had been seriously injured.

  Webb glanced at his watch. It was almost five o’clock and there was nothing urgently awaiting his attention. He decided to clock off early for once and drive over to Lethbridge for an informal chat with Malcolm Bennett.

  The road from Shillingham was cross-country, along one of the valleys of the Chantock Hills which bisected the county. It was a pleasant drive on a windy spring day, with lambs in the fields and a wash of new young green along the hedge-rows. Various roads led off to nearby villages — Chedbury, Chipping Claydon, Beckworth — all of which, Webb reflected philosophically, had offered up their share of corpses over the years. And the countryside looked so peaceful!

  Steep-gabled farmhouses, woods and roadside stalls of daffodils were interspersed along the way with more prosaic petrol stations and several inviting-looking pubs, most of which Webb could personally vouch for. Eventually the houses became more numerous, the traffic heavier, and he found himself entering the outskirts of Lethbridge.

  Like most of Broadshire, the town had changed over the years he’d known it. Old parts still remained, principally around the ancient cobbled marketplace with its stone cross where, every Remembrance Sunday, the local dignitaries laid their wreaths. But several attractive old buildings in the centre had been demolished to make way for what Webb regarded as a horrendous shopping complex. The march of progress, he assumed gloomily.

  The police station was on the main road into town, opposite the classically columned Town Hall. Webb turned right on to the open forecourt, grateful that there was just room for his car. It was probably the Super’s space, he reflected, but knowing Ray Turner, he’d have gone home by now. Chancing his luck, he locked the car and went up to the steps to the swing doors.

  Lethbridge Police Station was not, like Divisional HQ at Shillingham, a modern building. Cramped and dingy, its dim foyer, lined with uninviting wooden benches, always depressed Webb. He approached the duty sergeant and asked for DCI Bennett.

  But as he spoke the name, Bennett himself emerged through the security door, his face lighting a little at the sight of Webb.

  ‘Looking for me, Dave?’

  ‘I am indeed. Have you finished for the day?’

  ‘Yes, thank God. Time for a pint?’

  ‘Exactly what I was after.’

  ‘Great; the Roebuck’s just round the corner.’

 
In companionable silence the two men emerged from the building, walked across the concrete forecourt and turned right, following the bend of the road round the corner into the High Street. And, as Bennett had said, came upon the Roebuck public house squatting grey and four-square, its door opening directly off the pavement.

  Admittedly it did not look inviting, but Webb had been there before and knew the landlord prided himself on real ale and a high standard of bar food.

  It was already filling up as people dropped in for a quick drink after work, and the hum of voices provided a comforting background without, mercifully, the intrusive jangling of piped music. Less acceptably in Webb’s view, a fug of cigarette smoke was already building up.

  The two men retired to a corner table with their brimming tankards and raised their glasses to each other.

  ‘I suppose you’ve come about the raid?’ Bennett said, wiping the foam from his mouth.

  Webb nodded. ‘I thought it would be better if you filled me in yourself.’

  He could have added, though he did not, that he was glad of the excuse to contact his friend again. Malcolm had been on his mind during the last week, and his appearance now did nothing to allay Webb’s uneasiness.

  ‘It was an off-licence,’ Bennett was saying. ‘The manager was out at lunch, leaving a young girl in charge — twenty-two, she is. From what we can gather, it started off as usual — three men barging in wearing balaclavas, and again the knife was in evidence. This time, of course, they were after booze as well as money and fags, and got away with quite a haul. But the girl was brave — or stupid — enough to refuse to open the till. One of the raiders lost his temper, struck out with the knife, and she fell to the floor bleeding heavily. That panicked them. One shouted, “Leave her, Kev!” and they fled.’

  ‘Who gave you that?’

  ‘A couple of kids who were passing. They raised the alarm.’

  ‘Was the blue Bedford in evidence?’

  ‘No such luck. A dirty white Escort, they said, with the driver sitting inside, but everything happened so quickly they didn’t get the number.’