A Few Little Lies

by Sue Welfare

  Dora grabbed hold of his hand. ‘Wait a minute, let me come with you. I might change my mind if you leave me here on my own.’

  He lifted an eyebrow questioningly, and Dora continued smiling. ‘What I mean is, chicken out, run away, take another bus somewhere. Oh, I don’t know. Just give me a minute to put some shoes on and grab my coat.’

  In Jon’s car, removed from the electric atmosphere of the flat, he turned and grinned at her. ‘I got home from work and couldn’t wait to get over here. I’d been driving round Fairbeach since just after six.’

  Dora stretched back in the car seat. ‘Well at least the desserts should be defrosted. I’ve been like a cat on hot bricks since I saw you this morning. This all seems really silly.’

  … But not as silly as sitting in Jon’s car, outside the late-night chemist on Buxton Crescent, after discovering the one on Park Street was closed. Dora had wondered whether to offer to go in with him, but the image of a middle-aged couple huddled self-consciously over the Durex display was more than her imagination could cope with. Instead, she sat in the car peering out into the rapidly darkening night, and picking at the leather fascia on the glove compartment. Jon seemed to be taking a very long time, and alone, dark fears and uncertainties came bubbling up unbidden and unwelcome. Part of it was the sense of shyness. She dropped the sun visor and looked at her shadowy reflection in the little mirror.

  ‘I’m a grown-up,’ she said firmly, ‘I am.’

  The reflection said nothing, just betrayed the wild little glint in her eyes. She looked back into the street as Jon reappeared with a carrier bag tucked under his arm. Dora laughed aloud, leaning over to open the door for him.

  ‘What did you get? Toothpaste? Insoles? A hot water bottle?’

  Jon slid into his seat and pulled a face. ‘How did you guess? Actually, nothing but what we needed. God, it was tough going in there. I felt like a schoolkid. And then when I’d puckered up and paid, the assistant behind the counter decided that a carrier bag would be more discreet.’

  Dora guffawed. ‘More discreet than what?’

  Jon turned the key in the ignition. ‘God alone knows, it was her suggestion, not mine.’ He turned towards her, just before the car pulled off. ‘I don’t know whether I ought to say this, but I think, Dora Hall, that I could very easily fall in love with you.’

  Dora stopped, swallowing back her laughter. ‘I know,’ she said softly. ‘Good, isn’t it?’

  When they got back to the flat, the good humour closed down to a quiet expectant pulse. Jon looked across at Dora as she fought with the front-door lock. ‘How many years has it taken us to get this far?’

  Dora sighed. ‘Don’t let’s think about it.’ She held up her thumb and finger with a fraction of an inch between them. ‘I’m still this far from being too scared.’

  Jon leant against the wall, looking puzzled. ‘Do I frighten you?’

  Dora shook her head, feeling the lock Anally give under her frantic turning.

  ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘I frighten myself. Let’s go in and eat, shall we?’

  Upstairs, the lights were still on. Dora headed straight for the kitchen and began to cook the rice. Jon moved around her; both pointedly ignored the neatly folded carrier bag on the kitchen unit.

  The tension ebbed and flowed over dinner. The curry was delicious. Jon ate like a condemned man, thought Dora ruefully, as she slid the partially defrosted pavlova onto a plate.

  Gibson and Oscar, seeming to sense the atmosphere, had vanished under the sideboard, and peered out nervously as if they were expecting something dangerous and disturbing to happen – maybe they were right.

  Jon got up when dessert was finished. ‘I’ll make the coffee, if you like.’

  Dora, replete and lulled by good wine, pushed back her chair and smiled. ‘Everything is all ready on the tray.’

  Jon nodded. When he returned with the coffee, Dora was curled up on the settee, and Sade purred her soft musical invitation over the speakers of the stereo.

  Jon sat down beside her, arm slipping easily around her shoulders. ‘Music to seduce policemen by?’

  Dora laughed softly, resting her head against his. ‘I do hope so,’ she murmured. ‘That was the plan.’

  He moved closer and pressed his lips to hers. After a second he pulled away, eyes reduced to hypnotic pin pricks. ‘I’m not sure I can live up to the performance of the guys in your books.’

  Dora reddened. ‘You’ve read my books?’

  Jon shook his head. ‘No.’

  Dora laughed. ‘I’m glad about that.’ She snuggled closer. ‘Do we have to keep talking?’

  It was just after five when Dora awoke. She sat bolt upright, caught on the edge of a dark compelling dream. She had dreamt Jon Melrose was in her bed and that she had reached out and … She snapped on the bedside lamp. Jon’s dark hair pooled around his handsome face beside her on the pillow. The lamp light disturbed him, he blinked and frowned, face screwed up in discomfort, sleepy eyes complaining at the brightness. She snapped the light back off almost as quickly as she’d put it on and snuggled into the warm crook of his arm.

  ‘Morning,’ he said in a tender sleepy voice.

  Dora said nothing, letting her hands slide across the broad expanse of his chest. Tight-curled hairs sprung past her fingertips. It wasn’t quite morning yet and there was still plenty of time to carry on dreaming.

  Dora whistled while she cleaned out the cat litter tray, throwing open the windows in the flat, feeling as if something had changed irrevocably in her life. The spring sunlight kissed everything golden and the two cats, totally befuddled, sat in awe of the great burst of activity that threatened to engulf them. Jon had finally left just before eight to go to the police station, but had promised to ring later, and she knew, if he rang, he would be back.

  She glanced in the sitting-room mirror – she even looked different. The intercom bell broke her reverie. Dora waltzed into the office and pressed the button. ‘Hello?’

  Sheila’s unmistakable voice crackled through the speaker. ‘Hello, you sound very cheerful today.’

  Dora grinned. ‘Come up, it’s open.’ Even from one flight down she could hear Sheila sniffing. Nothing could spoil her mood, though. She had a strange bubbling feeling in her stomach and couldn’t stop smiling.

  Sheila peered suspiciously around the door as if she expected to be waylaid. Dora laughed, she could feel charitable towards even Sheila today.

  Sheila stood her shopping bag down amongst the remains of last night’s supper. Dora had cleared most of it away; only the bottles were left.

  Sheila picked up one and peered at the label. ‘So, how did it go last night?’ she said slowly.

  ‘Fine, dinner was wonderful.’

  Sheila sniffed, and then eased herself carefully onto a kitchen chair. ‘Nice.’

  Dora had already got the kettle plugged in. Sheila had two methods of attack – either she took a long time to work around to what she really wanted to say, or alternatively came straight out with it, like the thrust of a well-placed blade. Today she was working up to it slowly and Dora was not in the mood. She leant against the sink.

  ‘Come on. Sheila, you might as well tell me. What’s bugging you?’

  Sheila bit her lips and then sucked her teeth. ‘I just wondered how much you knew about that chap, Jon, you’re seeing, that’s all.’

  Dora felt the bubble settle in her stomach. Sheila, like Job’s comforters, was seldom the bearer of good news.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. Sheila. He’s a policeman, he …’

  Sheila lifted a hand and a sharp-focused pair of eyes. ‘He used to live in Wrights’ Avenue, didn’t he? Down behind the high school. Married that girl Thompson?’

  Dora blustered. ‘I really don’t know,’ she began, feeling the level of euphoria drop a degree.

  Sheila stood the empty bottle back on the table. ‘I saw him yesterday in Sainsbury’s, with his wife. They were all over each other. I couldn’t re
ally hear what they said because I was in the aisle across the way, near the biscuits …’

  There was more, Dora could feel it. Sheila leant forward. ‘They were all over each other,’ she repeated.

  The bubble landed and popped with a dark sickening hiss in Dora’s stomach.

  ‘They’re divorced,’ she said evenly. ‘Jon told me they were divorced. She lives with someone else now.’

  Sheila coughed. ‘They all say that. They’ll tell you anything – he didn’t look divorced yesterday, I can tell you.’

  Dora wanted to find something concrete to say to Sheila that would shut her up, something that would strike like a body blow. Most of all, she wanted to defend what she felt. She glanced out of the kitchen window into the recreation ground beyond the alleyway at the back of. the flat, focusing her thoughts.

  ‘I don’t really care whether they’re divorced or not,’ she said flatly, without emotion.

  Behind her. Sheila made a dark choking noise. ‘How on earth can you say that?’ she spluttered. ‘That’s disgusting.’

  Dora threw two tea bags into the pot and slammed it down hard on the table next to Sheila, holding her sister’s astonished gaze.

  ‘Because it’s true,’ she snapped, and as Dora said it, she realised to her horror it was.

  Dora wasn’t certain whether she should ring Jon, or whether she really wanted to. She opened the phone book and stared at the number for Keelside police station for a long time before tapping it into the phone. It was answered on the second ring by an efficient-sounding woman. In the background Dora could hear a crackle of other voices.

  ‘I wonder whether I can speak to Chief Inspector Jon Melrose, please?’

  The woman hesitated and then said pleasantly, ‘If you’d like to hold, I’ll try and get him for you. Who shall I say is calling?’

  Dora bit her lip. ‘Er, a friend, Dora Hall.’

  ‘Just a moment, please.’

  Dora heard the woman ask someone else about Jon, and then heard the reply with equal clarity, before the woman amended it for her benefit.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not available at the moment, would you like to leave him a message?’

  Dora declined politely, and dropped the receiver gently back in its cradle.

  The unseen person close to the telephonist had told Dora everything she needed to know. ‘No, he’s already gone home to his wife, just say he’s not available.’

  When the phone rang a few seconds later she ignored it. Everything seemed very still, except for the insistent voice of the telephone ringing on and on. Without looking back, she hurried into the kitchen.

  Gibson and Oscar were sitting on the windowsill, posing in the sunshine. Dora swept Gibson up in her arms, and before he had time to double guess her, she tumbled him into the cat basket.

  ‘Time to go home,’ she said, in a low unhappy voice, and snapped the lock shut.

  14

  As Sheila left, Milo and Spar were having a conference in Milo’s Mini Metro. The car was parked unobtrusively by the boarded-up chemist’s shop. The venue for their conference had been decided by the fact that Spar’s ageing car had finally run out of juice and needed a new battery. Milo had already Changed it. Job done, they compared notes after the meetings with their respective employers.

  Spar lit up a cigarette. ‘So what do we do now?’

  With the new battery in place he had reviewed Dora Hall’s most recent calls on the tape recorder. The tape confirmed what they already knew – Lillian Bliss had moved back to Anchor Quay.

  Milo sighed. ‘Lotta time spent doing nothing with this job. We need to tango, shake a few trees, get the players up and running.’

  Spar nodded; what the hell was Milo talking about?

  ‘Somewhere,’ Milo continued, ‘is the information we both need, maybe in the same place, maybe separate places.’ He jabbed a finger towards the windscreen. ‘The truth is out there.’

  Spar stared at him. ‘I thought the main thing was just to get a photo of Calvin Roberts shagging Lillian Bliss. Anything else was gravy on the taters.’

  Milo let out a long soulful breath.

  ‘Things are not always what they appear, matey. Yes, I’ve got to get that, and no, that ain’t all I need. I’ve been talking to a contact of mine, owns the linen shop opposite side of the river to Anchor Quay. I reckon we should set up a surveillance post there.’

  Spar nodded. There had to be more.

  ‘Got any more of those telephone bugs on you?’ asked Milo.

  ‘Yes,’ said Spar guardedly. ‘I bought a job lot. Mail order.’

  Milo grinned. ‘Good. Have you got one on Lillian’s phone over at Anchor Quay?’

  Spar didn’t like to say that he had, but that he hadn’t managed to make it work, so he shook his head.

  ‘Not enough time when I was trashing the place. I thought I’d been rumbled.’

  Milo pulled back his lips in what might or might not have been a smile. ‘We’ll get one in there, stake out the flat from the shop opposite, get this thing wrapped up and done with. Blanket surveillance. I’ve got a low boredom threshold, me. It’s time for short sharp shock tactics.’

  Spar winced. His only exposure to a short sharp shock, courtesy of Her Majesty, had involved a very nasty incident with a big butch skinhead that he would prefer to forget.

  In the driver’s seat, Milo was still talking. ‘… Rally the rest of your team. How many men can you muster?’

  Spar coughed. ‘Er, all my other lads are just about to go on a package tour to Marbella, they booked it up months ago.’ He lifted his hands skyward. ‘You know how these things are.’ He cast a sideways glance in Milo’s direction, wondering if he’d pushed the bounds of credibility a little too far.

  Milo snorted. ‘Ain’t it always the same? You just can’t get the bloody staff these days, can yer? Where’s their sense of loyalty? They reckon the unemployed can’t find work, then you give the little bastards a job and what do they do – fuck off to Marbella when the going gets rough.’ He shook his head. ‘Well, in that case it looks like it’ll just be you and me then. My oppo’s got himself a job at the canning factory, shift work, three sixty an hour. He reckons he prefers steady hours … Eh up, look sharp, kettle’s boiling –’

  Across the street, Dora Hall, carrying a cat basket, opened the door to the flat. Her shoulders were hunched forward, her expression closed and determined. In one hand she held a set of keys.

  Milo nodded. ‘Game’s afoot. Do you reckon it’s worth giving her drum another bang? While she’s out?’

  Spar waited for the subtitles. Milo continued talking as Dora set off down the street. She was leaning to counterbalance the contents of the cat basket.

  ‘We’ll follow her. Maybe we can find out exactly how much she knows.’

  Dora was still cradling her keys.

  ‘Reckon she’s going to get her car.’ Milo turned the key in the ignition. ‘Soon see. I wonder what she’s got in that basket.’

  Spar shook his head. ‘A cat?’ he suggested.

  Milo snorted. ‘You’re new to this game, aren’t you, son?’ Slowly he drew away from the kerb, keeping Dora Hall in their sights. When she got to the lock-up garages they hung back at the junction, watching, waiting until she re-emerged in her Fiat.

  Dora was trying hard to keep her thoughts in a small tightly bound box, right up in the front of her head between her eyes. No room for Jon Melrose, no room for Sheila, she was just going to concentrate on the immediate things, present tense thoughts. Get round this roundabout, take Gibson back to Lillian.

  Ahead of her the cars crept forward. On the back seat of her car, Gibson circled miserably around the cage, yowling melodramatically.

  Dora tried to get a look at him in the rear-view mirror, wriggling it so that she could see his unhappy feline face. When they made eye contact in the mirror, he hissed malevolently.

  ‘Calm down,’ she muttered. ‘Lillian loves you. You’re going to a nice new home. You’ll
be just fine.’

  She was at the front of the queue of cars now, waiting for a break in the traffic. Flicking the mirror back into position, she caught a glimpse of the blue Metro behind her. Two men were hunched in the front seats.

  One more car, she could go after this red one – Dora nosed forward, foot on the accelerator. Just as she pulled onto the roundabout, Gibson let out a mind-numbing, banshee shriek, making her jump, swear and brake all in the same instant.

  Behind her, the blue car braked sharply and there was a nasty squeal of tyres. With her stomach neatly folded up in the back of her throat, Dora lifted a hand in apology to the men behind her and carried on, taking the next turning off towards Anchor Quay. The entrance to the residents’ car park was no more than a hundred yards away from the roundabout. She glanced into her mirror just before she indicated – the blue Metro was still right behind her and indicating as well.

  Dora pulled into a parking space overlooking the river, and gathered her thoughts back up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she practised in an undertone. ‘I didn’t mean to cause you any problem. The cat frightened me. I braked instinctively. Could happen to anyone. Sorry.’ She glanced into the mirror and then over her shoulder. The men had found a parking space right up against the back entrance to the apartments. Where, she thought ruefully, had she had any sense, she ought to have parked.

  They didn’t look like residents. Dora took a deep breath. Was she going to stay in the car all day? Behind her Gibson yowled again and rattled the door of his cage.

  She slipped the key out of the ignition, struggling to maintain her calm, climbed out of the car, opened the back door and swung Gibson’s basket onto the gravel. She painted on a smile. She’d have to bluff it out, apologise, look winsome and inept. Grovel.

  From the corner of her eye she saw the men getting out of their car and mentally measured the yardage between herself and the doors. It felt a bit like chess – as she moved, so did they, one step ahead, across the board with alarming speed towards the entrance to the flats. Maybe it might be better to get into the car and come back later after all. Maybe they were electricians, maybe it was a coincidence, maybe –