by Jill McGown
“Get up, you lazy cow,” Lennie muttered, the words accompanied by a gentle push in the small of her back.
“Who are you calling lazy?” she demanded, standing up and smiling down at her husband’s pleasing face as he lay sprawled on the bed, already taking up her half too. Lennie was thirty-twelve years older than she was, but when he was sleepy he looked about five years old. “You never get up first.”
He grinned back at her, his soft brown hair falling over his forehead. “I don’t start work as early as you,” he said. “Bring us up a cup of tea, doll.” He was asleep again practically before he had finished the sentence.
She went into the bathroom for a quick shower, pulling a shower cap over her dark shoulder-length hair, tucking it in. She would have a proper bath and wash her hair later. She smiled as she thought that, as she always did; she didn’t believe she would ever get used to the luxury of being able to have a bath any time she liked. Lennie had made that possible. She went back into the bedroom and pulled on the flimsy negligee and fluffy slippers that he had given her last Christmas and smiled at him again.
Downstairs, she made tea, and poured a big mug for Lennie, taking it up to him as requested. He was a devil for tea, was Lennie. She put it down beside the bed, and shook him. “Tea,” she said. “Lazy sod. What did your last slave die of?”
He opened blue eyes and pulled himself up on to his elbow, pushing his thick straight hair back, stretching. “Great,” he said, and rubbed his eyes as he reached for an open packet of cigarettes, removing with his lips the one that stuck out of it, and picking up his lighter.
“Aw, Lennie—don’t smoke in here,” she said.
He lit it, giving her a V-sign with his other hand, then blew the smoke at her with a smile. She gave up, and went downstairs again to make breakfast.
Lennie came down, dressed, his hair wet and brushed back, as she was dishing up.
“Great,” he said, planting a kiss on her neck, squeezing her bottom through the thin material.
“Bugger off.” She elbowed him out of her way as she opened the cupboard to get the teabags for a fresh pot of tea. A fitted kitchen. A built-in hob. The house had come like that. Lennie had got her a real house to live in, and she still couldn’t get over it. She’d made it really nice for him, though. He deserved that. She made a pot of tea and took it to the table. She had a slice of toast and some flakes for breakfast, but she liked cooking for him. She liked watching him eat.
Lennie pushed away his empty plate, and drank: down his tea as Ginny got up and cleared away. She heard the diesel engine arriving outside as she finished washing up, heard it cut and shudder to silence. “Rob,” she said, over her shoulder.
Lennie got up from the table, arriving at the door as the doorbell rang, and opened it to Rob, who looked, if anything, even less happy than usual. Rob nodded silently to Lennie, and didn’t look at Ginny at all as he went upstairs. Downstairs was open-plan—she liked that, too. It was nice, opening the door and coming straight in to the kitchen.
She dried her hands, and threw Lennie the tea towel as he went back to the table. “You can dry,” she said. “And shave, Lennie.”
“Stop nagging, you bitch,” he said, and flicked her on the bottom with the tea towel as she passed him, hard enough to make her yelp.
She laughed.
Nine o’clock, and Lloyd and Judy walked into the CID room as it began filling up with keen-eyed, razor-sharp detectives yawning and complaining about the nip in the air. She hadn’t mentioned Drummond at all, and was accepting their various birthday greetings with a good grace. They had taken her old car into the dealer’s; the man had said he would see what he could get for it. He seemed to think they’d be lucky if he got anything.
“What headway are we making on the burglaries?” Lloyd asked Detective Sergeant Sandwell.
“There’s been another one,” he said. “They got back this morning, found the place had been done. Exactly the same MO. The uniforms took all the details. And still the only factor in common is that the householders were all on holiday when they were burgled. And before you ask, sir, no—they didn’t all use the same travel agent, or the same airline or coach company, nor were they all going to the same destination, nor did they all have the same tour company, or tour guide. Not all of them had burglar alarms, and those who had, or who had ever made inquiries about one, did not go to the same place. They don’t get their papers or their milk from the same source, they don’t all have animals in the same kennels, and they don’t all have the same postman.”
Lloyd laughed. “You should have saved that for the new Chief Super,” he said. “It’s going to be the first thing he asks about.”
All serious crime in South Bartonshire was now being dealt with by Stansfield, and as a result, Lloyd’s second brief tenure as head of Stansfield CID had been brought to an end, a higher rank being thought necessary. The new DCS wasn’t going to get too favorable an impression if they couldn’t clear up burglaries on their own doorstep. Their burglar—just one, they were sure—did a beautiful job, and left the house looking untouched, so the householders only found out when they got back. He’d been at it all summer, and they were no further forward than they had been in June. Good God, they were actually being asked to detect, something detectives very rarely did.
“What else do you do when you go on holiday?” DC Marshall asked, his slow Scottish delivery making the question sound like an earnest plea.
Lloyd thought. “Get travelers’ cheques?” he suggested. “Perhaps they all went to the same bank.”
“They didn’t all go abroad,” said Sandwell.
Marshall sighed, and made a note. “It’s worth a try, Sarge,” he said. “They might all use the same bank, or post office or something. The clerk gets them talking maybe, and …” He didn’t exactly look overconfident, and looked at Lloyd. “It seems unlikely, sir,” he said. “They aren’t anywhere near one another. Just all in Stansfield, so far. But no particular area.”
Judy’s phone was ringing; Lloyd followed her into her office as she picked it up. The room had been decorated with balloons and cartoons, and a wrapped present sat on the desk; Lloyd wondered if she had even noticed.
“Judy Hill,” she said crisply, then said nothing else until she hung up, and looked at him. “That was to remind me that I’m number six,” she said. “And to indicate that he knows where! am. Now do you believe he’s watching me?”
Lloyd had never thought otherwise. He had hoped he might make her think otherwise, or at least think of something else for five minutes. “That does it,” he said. “As soon as the new Chief Super arrives, we’re going to see him.”
“Sorry,” she said, getting up, throwing her bag over her shoulder, and picking up the present. “I’m in court in Barton at ten. I have to go.”
“Oh, right. Don’t drive too—”
She was gone, throwing her thanks for her present over her shoulder as she walked through CID. He picked up her phone and rang the front desk to see when Detective Chief Superintendent Case was expected, to be told that he had come in at eight. New brooms. They gave Lloyd the creeps.
His knock was answered by a peremptory “Come,” and at ten past nine Lloyd went in, introducing himself to the large, gray-haired, bluff man behind the desk, a man roughly his own age, but, as ever, a good three inches taller than him when he stood up.
“Len Case,” he said, shaking hands, and sitting down again, “Take a pew.”
At first, Lloyd was relieved to discover that DCS Case was not twelve, and that he had hung his jacket over the back of the chair and was working in shirtsleeves. He filled him in on the happenings of the morning, and suggested that they ask for uniforms to be made available to keep an eye on Judy’s flat.
“You’re joking,” said Case.
Lloyd frowned. “No,” he said, his voice light, something that Case would come to recognize as a danger sign.
“You’d better bloody be, if you think I’m pandering to
some woman’s fantasy,” he said. “She’s a police officer, whether she likes it or not.”
Lloyd had learned, mostly from Judy, that giving vent to his anger at the moment it swept over him was not the best policy; with Judy herself, it meant saying things he didn’t mean and couldn’t call back. It meant losing more of what little time he had with her, and feeling guilty until he had apologized, and sometimes even after that. With Chief Superintendents, it could mean losing his job for gross insubordination at a time when hanging on to it for dear life was required, if redundancy was in the offing. He ran a hand over what he still thought of as his hair, and held his tongue.
“We should never have had bloody women in the job, never mind making them bloody detective inspectors,” Case went on. “Christ—protection? How long for? The rest of her life? I’m not about to ask for men to be taken off normal duties to protect an hysterical female who can’t stand the heat, and neither are you.”
“I think,” said Lloyd, slowly and Welshly, “that you should reserve judgment on Inspector Hill until you’ve met her.”
“I don’t need to meet her! I know the type. His next victim, my ass! This kid’s twenty-one years old, and she thinks he’s after her? She should be so lucky.”
Lloyd knew then and there that this was going to be just the first of many unpleasant interviews. Redundancy couldn’t come fast enough.
Carole Jarvis glanced at the clock; Rob would be home in about an hour, she supposed. If he wasn’t home just after nine, it was usually an hour later.
His earnings had gone way down when he had started working nights; that had been the impetus she had needed to look for another job, but he had wanted her there in the morning to make him something to eat before he went to bed. They had compromised, and she had got an afternoon job. Things were a lot easier; he wasn’t doing so badly now that he had someone driving the cab during the day.
She had had to give up her real job, of course. They had kept it open for months, but she couldn’t have expected them to do that indefinitely, and with her being unable to drive the car she hadn’t been able to go back, even when she had recovered. Somehow she blamed the car, blamed the garage. Rob would take her car for runs, keep it in good working order, against the day when she could face it. She had told him to sell it, when they were so hard up that they were counting every penny, but he hadn’t wanted to. He thought it was important that she drive it again, not some other ear. She couldn’t bear even to look at it.
The last time she had got out of that car, the garage door had slammed shut, someone had grabbed her, and she had been plunged into a nightmare of pain and terror. She sighed. Would there ever come a day when she didn’t think about it?
But life was a bit easier now than it had been back then, without so many money troubles to add to the tension that had existed between them for over two years. She had offered to leave, offered to let him go, and start again with someone else, but he didn’t want that.
She had some hotpot that she could heat up in the microwave; he preferred an evening meal after his night’s work.
Lennie dried the dishes and the pots and pans, putting them away neatly, all except his mug. He put his hands around the teapot to test the temperature; hot enough, he decided, pouring himself another, spooning in sugar, splashing in milk, stirring it soundly, remembering to put the spoon on the little dish that Ginny used for the purpose, and not on the worktop. She was a good girl, Ginny. She looked after him and the house like they would wither away and die if she didn’t tend them daily.
He lit his second cigarette of the day, picked up his mug, and turned the paper to the back page, contentedly drinking his tea and reading the football reports as the bedsprings creaked rhythmically and unmistakably above his head.
CHAPTER TWO
“SHE’S OVERREACTING, LIKE ALL BLOODY WOMEN,” said Case. “I’ll tell you who his next bloody victim’s going to be. It’s going to be us. Do you know how much he’s suing us for?”
Lloyd didn’t know, and didn’t care.
“Drummond’s lawyers have lodged an official complaint,” said Case. “The Police Complaints Authority are going to order a second inquiry into the circumstances of his arrest. They don’t think the internal inquiry after his trial was conducted vigorously enough.”
“Neither do I,” said Lloyd.
“Quite. Some very slimy stones are going to get turned over, believe me. Why do you think the CID function was headed up here as soon as Drummond’s appeal was allowed? Because your lads are the Baron von Richthofens of criminal investigation?”
Lloyd opened his mouth, but he didn’t get the chance to speak, not a situation in which he often found himself.
“No,” continued Case. “It was because the last thing the top brass needed was Malworth investigating anything worth a damn when it all hits the headlines.”
Lloyd knew exactly why Crime Detection had come to Stansfield, why both Malworth’s Superintendent and DCI had decided on early retirement, why its small CID complement and several uniformed officers had been transferred, scattered throughout the county. He had had his doubts about how Malworth was being run long before the first lukewarm inquiry into the circumstances of Drummond’s arrest.
“I take it you will see DI Hill when she comes back from court?” he said. “Before deciding on your course of action with regard to protection?”
“I’ll see her, all right,” said Case. “Put her wise about a few things. If she wants to play boys’ games, she can’t come running for help when she gets out of her depth.”
“And you have no objection to my being present?”
“Suit yourself. You can give her all the protection you like. Just don’t expect me to.”
Judy wouldn’t need protection from any male chauvinist dinosaur, Lloyd was sure. But he wanted to be there, all the same.
“If that’s all?” said Case. “I have to attend a meeting at HQ.”
At half past nine, Lloyd left the Chief Superintendent’s office, wondering if he would waken up soon, and be able to consign Case to the oblivion of other long-forgotten nightmares. But he had a nagging suspicion that he was, after all, awake, and that Chief Superintendent Len Case was real.
Rob Jarvis threw the condom in the bin and sat on the edge of the bed in his white tee shirt, feeling dirty, like he always did.
“Drummond’s back,” he said, twisting around to look at the skinny little prostitute who sat cross-legged on the bed.
“Yeah?” said Ginny.
“Doesn’t that worry you?” he asked. She had stood up to Drummond in court. If she hadn’t, he might not be here; he could never have gone looking for a whore. But he had picked her up one night, and he had remembered her from when she’d given evidence. He hadn’t had any money, but he’d had her for the price of the post-midnight fare to Malworth, and things had developed from there.
“Why should it worry me?” she asked. “I never set him up.”
“I just think you should watch yourself, that’s all,” he said.
Ginny shrugged. “Yeah, well,” she said. “I’ve got protection this time.”
Rob gave a sour laugh as he picked up his underpants. “Lennie?” he said.
“Better than Lennie.”
“Oh?” He turned to face her again.
She hesitated for just a moment before getting off the bed and crossing the room, pulling open the drawer of the dressing table.
Rob walked over, shaking his head slightly as she rummaged through the collection of handcuffs and whips and studded leather G-strings. “Do people actually use these things?” he asked.
“Some,” she said.
“So what’s this protection?”
“This,” she said, drawing out the gun, turning to face him, pointing it toward him.
His eyes widened, and he automatically turned her hand so that the gun was pointing elsewhere. She did have protection more lethal than Lennie, then. “Where the hell did you get that?” he asked.
>
“Someone gave it me.”
“People don’t just give you semiautomatic pistols.”
“Well, I’ve got it, and it’s loaded. I can protect myself now. Only—don’t tell Lennie I’ve still got it. He gave me a hiding for taking it.”
“Why?”
“He was like you,” she said. “He said no one gave something like that away. He said I was a stupid cow for taking it. He reckons it was used in a job, and they were dumping it on me. He told me to give it back.”
“He’s probably right,” said Rob. “Why didn’t you give it back?”
“I feel safe with it,” she said.
“Is that right?” he said, and he put one hand around her small neck, slowly increasing his grip. “How safe do you feel now?” he asked.
“Stop,” she said, her voice distorted by the pressure of his fingers on her throat. “I can’t breathe.”
“That’s the idea,” he said. “I’m strangling you. You’ve got a gun—use it. Because I’m not going to stop. You’re going to have to stop me.”
She really couldn’t breathe now, and she began to panic, trying to pull away, but he tightened his grip further. She held the gun up to his face, her hand shaking, her other hand pulling vainly at his wrist, as she gasped for air, her struggles growing weaker. The gun waved in his face, and he smiled at her, his hold on her throat not slackening for an instant. She was trying to scratch him, unable to summon up the strength to do any damage.
Pull the trigger, you stupid little bitch Can’t you see I’m not going to stop?
She was barely struggling now.
Pull the trigger, for Christ’s sake. Pull the bloody trigger!
Lennie jumped as a firework exploded in the street, echoing through the alleyway. Jesus, they got louder every year, these things. He smiled at himself, and lit his third cigarette. Maybe he just got older every year, he thought. He used to put them through people’s letterboxes, throw them at cats. Now they were a loud, dangerous nuisance. He looked at his watch, and sighed. He was shaved, ready to go when Jarvis was, but Jarvis was showing no sign of leaving. He was usually cruising by now.