by Linda Regan
Banham kept himself under control with an effort. She looked at him as if waiting for a reaction; when none came she spoke again.
‘Trevor’s a queer too, you know.’ The mouth twisted again. ‘I threw water over his lighter earlier, so he’d have to come in for a light in his dance break. That gave me another alibi.’
‘But Michael worked it out, didn’t he, Barbara?’ Banham said. ‘And decided to take his own revenge.’
The smile left Barbara’s face and her forehead crinkled. ‘He should never have left me,’ she said starting to cry. ‘We were a great team – my talent and his brain. If I’d been his business partner, we’d be millionaires by now, not on the breadline.’ She shook her head resignedly. ‘I had to stop her. She would have ruined him.’ She sighed again. ‘They all used him, bled him dry to get a foot up the ladder, then moved on. But I loved him and I proved it too.’ She leaned forward towards Banham, her voice was almost a plea. ‘I did it out of love.’
‘But he would have killed you for it,’ Crowther said coldly.
She put her hand to the wound in her shoulder and suddenly looked thoughtful. ‘Will he be locked up too? It’s worked out, then. We’ll be together at last.’
‘That’s up to a judge,’ Banham told her abruptly.
‘I think it’s unlikely that you’ll be out in time to enjoy any more precious moments with him,’ Crowther added. ‘You’re hardly a spring chicken now.’
There was a knock on the interview room door and Isabelle Walsh put her head round the door. ‘Guv,’ she said, ‘can I have a word?’
Out in the corridor Isabelle told him, ‘The hospital’s just rung. Alison’s discharged herself. But they won’t let her go home alone – one of us needs to pick her up.’
Banham headed for the stairs. ‘I’m on my way,’ he said.
Chapter Eighteen
Alison felt as if she had been run over by a burning bus. She had eight stitches in the top of her chest and was having trouble catching her breath, but had to spend too much time in hospitals in the line of duty, and couldn’t bear the thought of being admitted to one. She just wanted to go home. The doctor told her she could only leave if someone drove her home and stayed there with her. She assured him that she had arranged it.
A nurse tried to help her to put her street clothes back on; in her usual independent way Alison insisted that she could manage. The nurse suspected that she might not wait to be picked up, so while Alison went to the loo, she phoned the police station and let the CID department know that Detective Sergeant Grainger had discharged herself.
Alison took out her phone to call a taxi, but the receptionist explained that the use of mobiles was banned inside the building and asked her to make the call outside. Alison closed her phone, and slowly and shakily she made her way through the rotating exit doors.
‘Car for Ms Grainger,’ a familiar voice called out as she walked into the cold. She looked round. Banham was leaning against the wall, his hand wrapped in a large bandage and jingling his car keys.
There was a teasing note in his voice. ‘I thought you might like a lift.’
She did, but not from him. He was the last person she wanted to see at this moment. She was suddenly afraid she might start crying.
But he was here, and she would have to deal with it. She took a deep breath and walked towards him, concentrating on every step to make sure she didn’t wobble.
‘Honestly, guv, there was no need. I don’t know what the fuss is about. It’s only a few stitches. I’ll be back at work in a couple of days.’
‘Yes, I know,’ he said. The muscle in his cheekbone tensed, and she knew he felt responsible for her injuries. ‘But that’s in a couple of days. Meanwhile …’ He pointed the key at his car. ‘I reckoned, seeing that it’s down to you we got the right result, that the least I could do was to drive you home, heat up some soup and tuck you up in bed.’
‘You’re not in such good shape yourself,’ she said, looking at his bandaged hand.
‘I’m taking the rest of the day off too.’
‘You could play Captain Hook next pantomime season,’ she joked weakly.
All she could think of during the drive home was the state of her flat. She had made a feeble attempt at Christmas decorations: a paper Father Christmas over the fireplace, and a tree the size of a small pot plant on top of the TV stand. All her festive spirit had evaporated when the relationship she thought she was starting with Banham ground to a sharp halt before Christmas had properly begun. She had spent the holiday waiting for the phone to ring, and when that didn’t happen, neither did the decorations.
Banham pulled up at a red light and glanced across at her. ‘Are you all right, Alison? You’re very pale.’
The tenderness in his voice nearly made her weep. But she fought down the hope it raised; she had moved on, and wasn’t going to lay herself on the line again. The week before Christmas, all she could think of was getting him inside her flat and into her bed. Now it was the last thing she wanted.
‘If it’s all the same to you, guv, I’d rather you just dropped me off at me front door. I’d like to go in and get some sleep.’
‘I’m going to make sure you’re OK first,’ he said firmly.
‘I am OK,’ she argued feebly. ‘And I really appreciate the lift. But I’d rather you didn’t come in.’
The lights turned to green and he pulled away, keeping his eyes on the road. He turned off the main high street into the long road that led to her village, and said nothing for the rest of the journey.
When they arrived at the large house her flat was part of, he made no attempt to get out of the car. They sat in silence staring through the windscreen. Eventually he cleared his throat and spoke. ‘This is difficult for me, and I apologise if it comes out all wrong, I’m no good at apologies …’
That made her smile. ‘You’ve just apologised,’ she said.
Suddenly exhaustion overwhelmed her. The day felt as if it had gone on for ever. The painkillers were only just starting to kick in, and the pain that had been with her for the last three hours had worn her down. The last thing she wanted at the moment was a contretemps about what happened the previous week.
She didn’t even have the energy for hurt pride. They had both acted hastily, and nearly made a mistake: it was as simple as that. And they both now knew he wasn’t ready for a relationship. She wondered if he would ever be capable of that kind of commitment. She was his sergeant, and they were a good team: end of story. The moment for any other relationship with him had passed, and she had moved on. Right now she all she wanted was to get into bed and sleep – on her own.
‘I’m going to pull rank,’ he told her. ‘I am coming in. I am going to get you some hot soup, and I am going to put you to bed.’
Her eyes were drooping and she didn’t have the strength to argue. She let him open the car door for her, and use his good hand to help her slowly and carefully to get out. He put his arm around her shoulders and she found herself leaning against him as they walked up the path, into the house and up the stairs to her flat.
‘Where are your keys?’ he asked when they reached her front door.
‘In my pocket… Ow!’ A bolt of pain shot across her chest.
‘I’ll get them. Which pocket?’
‘I don’t know …’
Her khaki anorak had a dozen pockets, and her attempts to feel for the keys undid all the work of the painkillers. Banham took hold of the fabric and jiggled it to make the keys rattle. Alison’s arms had stiffened up, and she struggled to hold them up so that he could search each pocket in turn.
Suddenly they were both giggling like teenagers.
‘What a pair of crocks we are,’ he said, holding up his bandaged hand. ‘We only add up to one whole person between us.’
Finally they got into the flat, and she sank into an armchair while he went to investigate the kitchen.
‘There’s no soup,’ he called.
‘There isn’t much
of anything. I haven’t shopped since before Christmas.’
‘Not to worry. I’ll phone the Chinese takeaway.’
‘I need the bathroom,’ she said, suddenly remembering the line of underwear strung across the bath to dry.
Her arms were stiff and the stitches in her chest pulled, but she started to haul them down. A flicker of movement caught her eye, and she looked up to find his reflection in the mirror. She had left the door open, and he was standing in the doorway. ‘I’ll do that,’ he said. With his good hand he lifted down the patterned G-strings and small-cupped padded bras and laid them across his bandaged arm. ‘They’re dry. Where do you want them?’
Her cheeks burned. ‘In the bedroom. Thank you.’
‘Let’s have you in the bedroom too; you can eat your supper tucked up in bed. The Chinese is on its way. I ordered mushroom noodles for me and chicken broth for you.’
He walked into her bedroom, opened the top drawer and carefully placed the underwear in it, then pulled the bed cover back and held out his arms. He put his arm around her waist and slowly lowered her on to the bed, pulled the duvet around her and puffed her pillow behind her. ‘Close your eyes and have a rest,’ he said tenderly. ‘I’ll wake you when supper arrives.’
He pulled out the dresser stool and sat on it beside her bed. Much as she wanted to, she couldn’t close her eyes; she was too aware of his blue ones watching her. She smiled at him. ‘Thanks for this,’ she said in a whisper.
‘I was worried I might lose you today,’ he said. His forehead crinkled and straighten out again. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done if I’d lost that bad-tempered squirrel with those sludgy eyes.’
She turned away and closed them. She wanted it not to matter.
After a few silent moments he stood up. ‘I’m going to let you get some rest,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll bring your supper in on a tray when it arrives.’
The takeaway took ages to open. He couldn’t do it with just one hand, and she couldn’t move her arms enough to help. The giggling started again, and eventually using one hand each, they removed one silver-foiled top. Banham tried to be masterful and said he’d manage the rest, but then he dipped his bandage in the scalding noodle sauce and had to run it under the cold tap to stop it burning through to his already stinging hand.
He fed her hot soup with his good hand, resting the bandaged one on the radiator to dry out. She was skilled with chopsticks, and fed him one-handed with noodles.
After they’d eaten he disposed of the containers and washed the plates. He even managed to make tea in her best china pot, a treat after polystyrene vending machine cups and canteen mugs. He placed the tray on the dressing table stool by her bed and knelt on the floor beside it. ‘I’ll let it brew first,’ he said.
Banham wasn’t feeling the pain in his hand. For the first time since Diane had been murdered he was aware of sensation in his groin. Perhaps his problem wasn’t a permanent one after all. But he wanted to laugh at the timing.
‘Thanks for all this,’ Alison said, visibly wilting.
‘Milk?’
‘Mm, but only a touch.’
‘A touch?’
She started to laugh. ‘Oh, Paul,’ Alison said. ‘You should go home and get some rest. You need it as much as I do.’
‘Can I stay here and sleep on your sofa?’
‘If you want to. But the sofa it is.’
They looked each other in the eye.
‘I will. I’ll sleep on the sofa. And in the morning I’ll go and get you some groceries.’
She watched him walk to the door. ‘We’re a good team, Paul,’ she said softly.
He didn’t look round. ‘Goodnight, Alison.’
‘Goodnight, guv.’
The End
The DCI Banham Series
Linda Regan
For more information about Linda Regan
and other Accent Press titles
please visit
www.accentpress.co.uk
Behind You!
ISBN 9781783757343
First published in 2006 by Crème de la Crime
This edition published 2015 by Accent Press
Copyright © 2006 Linda Regan
The moral right of Linda Regan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.