Smith

by stewartgiles

  SEVENTY THREE

  MARRIED BLISS

  “Do you know what most successful marriages are based on?” Thompson said as he drove Smith back to his house.

  “I don’t know,” Smith said, “I’ve never been married remember. Enlighten me.”

  “Fear,” Thompson said. “Fear, that’s what. Show me any married man over the age of forty who isn’t terrified of his wife. That’s just the way it’s supposed to be I reckon. What were you doing at the hospital?”

  “Penny Willow woke up.”

  “She woke up?” Thompson exclaimed, “I thought she was a goner.”

  “Everybody did. The Doctor said it was a miracle. He thought she might be able to tell us something.”

  “Did she?”

  “Not really,” Smith said, “it’s clear that Martin Willow was wrongly convicted though. She kept going on about a man and a song.”

  “What song?”

  “I don’t know, she was very vague. What time is your wife fetching you?”

  “I’ve got half an hour of freedom left,” Thompson sighed. He parked the car outside Smith’s house.

  “Fancy a beer?” Smith said when they got inside.

  “I’d better not,” Thompson replied, “she’ll smell it and it’ll only give her more ammunition to fire at me.”

  Smith took a beer from the fridge.

  “I’d like to say its been fun,” he said, “but I’d be lying. Are you going to be alright?”

  “My wife’s not violent,” Thompson said, “she just has a bit of a moan every now and then. I suppose she’s not as bad as I make her out to be.”

  “Good luck Thompson,” Smith shook his hand.

  “Does this mean we’re friends?” Thompson asked.

  “No,” Smith said immediately.

  “Good. She’s here. I’ll see you at work.”

  “Peace at last boy,” Smith said to Theakston, “what do you feel like doing today?” There was nothing much of any importance waiting for him at work; a couple of break ins and a mugging in the city centre but Palmer had offered to work on those. Smith decided he needed to do a spot of bridge building. In the past few weeks in his drunken stupor he had distanced himself from everybody and he had upset quite a few people in the process. He decided to kill two birds with one stone. He took out his phone and dialled Whitton’s number. It was engaged. He tried again.

  “Sir,” Whitton answered. She sounded irate.

  “What are you up to?” Smith asked.

  “I’m getting my hair done,” she said.

  “That’s the oldest one in the book,” Smith said.

  “No really, I am getting my hair done. I’m going to a wedding tomorrow.”

  “In February?”

  “Some people get married in February,” Whitton was getting annoyed. “Besides, it’s Valentines Day. What do you want?” she said.

  “I’m sorry Whitton,” Smith said, “I want to take you out for a drink.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Come on. I need to apologise to Marge.”

  “I’ll meet you at the Hog’s Head in an hour. I’m nearly finished here anyway.”

  “Thanks Whitton.” He rang off.

  Smith decided he would get to the pub first for once. He picked up Theakston and immediately put him down.

  “You can walk to the car,” he said, “you fat little bugger.”

  Theakston was getting heavy. Smith stopped of at a florist on the way and bought two bouquets of flowers. It’s a start, he thought. He arrived at the Hog’s head half an hour early. It was fairly quiet. Marge was washing glasses behind the bar. Smith handed her the flowers.

  “I’m sorry Marge,” he said, “I lost the plot for a while there.”

  “I’m sure you had your reasons,” she said, “I’ll put these in water. I hope those are for Erica.” She pointed to the other bunch of flowers. “She has done nothing but try to care for you and you’ve been downright nasty to her.”

  “She’ll be here just now,” Smith said, “can I have a pint please?”

  Marge eyed him with suspicion.

  “I’m sticking to beer from now on Marge,” he said, “it doesn’t make me so miserable.”

  Marge poured him a pint.

  “You can get me one of those as well.” It was Whitton.

  Smith handed her the flowers.

  “Sorry for being such an arsehole,” he said, “you look different.”

  Marge sighed. “You’ve got a lot to learn,” she said to Smith, “when a lady has her hair done saying you look different is not what she wants to hear. Your hair looks beautiful dear. Special occasion?”

  “Thanks Marge,” Whitton said, “I’m going to a wedding tomorrow.”

  “In February?” Marge said.

  “That’s what I said,” Smith said, “Could I get a bowl of water for Theakston please Marge?”

  Theakston had wandered off and was now lying by the fire. Marge took the water and placed it on the floor next to him.

  “Penny Willow woke up,” Smith said to Whitton.

  “That’s fantastic news,” Whitton said.

  Her green eyes were sparkling.

  “I went to see her this morning; I think she knows who attacked her and her mother.”

  “You mean it wasn’t her father?”

  “I’m sure of it. The killer is still out there.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She kept going on about a man and a song. She remembers a man and a song that he played.”

  “Where does that leave us?”

  “I’m not sure,” Smith looked deep in thought. “There’s something that I can’t quite put my finger on but I’m sure it’ll come to me. Are we friends again?”

  “Buy me another pint and I’ll think about it.”

  “Deal,” Smith smiled.

  “How’s it going with you and Thompson?” Whitton asked.

  “He went back to his wife this morning,” Smith replied, “I think I might actually miss him; he’s not really that bad.”

  “What happened to you in Tallinn?” Whitton said out of the blue, “you turned into a different person when you came back.”

  “It’s something I never want to think about,” Smith said, “I’d prefer to forget the whole thing.”

  “I’ll get it out of you one day,” Whitton smiled, “I have to go; I have a lot to organise before this wedding. I’ll see you at work on Monday.”

  “Are we friends then?” Smith asked again.

  “Of course,” she said, “you should know me by now.”