by Linda Coles
“Please, one at a time.” He pointed to a local female journalist who had a TV cameraman with her. Her bright red lips had caught his attention, though he wasn’t sure which channel she was from. He rarely saw anything other than the 10 o’clock news. The lens swung towards the woman as she asked her question.
“Who leaked DI Dupin’s name to the family? Did it come from inside? Wasn’t he a popular man, Chief Inspector?” The camera swung back towards Japp now, almost hitting another young reporter in the side of his head. Jack winced as he watched and sucked on his caramel.
“We are unsure at this time. Again, it’s part of the investigation. DI Dupin is a popular man.” Japp nodded to another reporter, avoiding eye contact with the red-lipped woman and moving swiftly on. “Last question. Yes?”
“DI Dupin is in custody currently. Surely, you’ll be sending Internal Affairs in, won’t you?”
Japp tugged uneasily on his collar. He needed to end this, to get back into the safety of the building behind him. Sweat was beading on his brow, not just from the sun but from the questions he’d rather not answer.
“That’s all I can say for now. We will, of course, update you when we have more information…”
The crowd shouted last-minute questions over his words as he turned to go back inside. Realising the DCI wasn’t going to answer any more, however, they began to stow their notebooks and microphones away with a chorus of unsatisfied rumblings. They looked like disappointed concert-goers, Jack thought. They’d driven all the way to see their band and they hadn’t played the hit song they’d wanted so desperately to hear. Jack swallowed down the last of his caramel and smiled to himself, folding in through the front doors a few steps behind Japp. Just enough to keep out of earshot and out of his sight.
Watching the whole affair was another man, an ever-present cigarette burning between his cracked lips. He looked like an older version of the nervous young journalist; he was almost 50, not far in years from Jack. Had Jack lingered long enough after the journalistic vultures had packed up and left, he might have noticed him. He was skin and bones now; his face was older but largely unchanged, aside from the hideous bulbous nose. His hair was still mousy and now sported salty streaks courtesy of Mother Nature. He smiled to himself now; he’d fancied a spot of afternoon entertainment, and he hadn’t been disappointed. DCI Japp had looked hot and uncomfortable, particularly when questioned about Dupin being arrested.
He sipped from his ever-present hip flask and then slipped quietly away.
Chapter Twenty-One
The early evening sun was still warm as DS Amanda Lacey headed home, windows down, enjoying the rush of air on her face. Traffic was moving for a change, and the light breeze had worked wonders in clearing off the lingering exhaust fumes. Public transport was a godsend, and environmentally friendly, of course, but the black plumes of diesel exhaust from the buses made her gag.
However, it was a necessary component of London life.
Take away the Tubes and buses, and Greater London would grind to a standstill. It was home to nearly 9 million people, Croydon housing 400,000 of them all on its own. Unless scooters were made legal and then weatherproofed with neat little plastic covers like mobility scooters, what was the alternative for getting from A to B? Amanda coughed as a bus pulled out in front of her, as if to prove a point. She wound her window up and turned the air con on, something she detested doing. The temperature was either freezing or stifling hot, without a great deal of satisfaction in between.
“Thanks, Mr Bus,” she said sarcastically, wafting her hand in front of her face. The air cooled dramatically within a couple of minutes, and she went back to readjusting the fan speed and temperature to find the sweet spot. By the time she’d arrive home, it would be about right.
Her car filled with Ruth’s allocated ringtone now, the familiar bing-bong opening bars of Ed Sheeran’s “Shape of You.” She smiled as she always did; the song was perfect for Ruth. She had one for Jack too, ELO’s “Mr Blue Sky”—his thinking song, he called it. She also had ones for Dupin and Japp, though she knew she’d be in trouble if either one was in her space when the other rang. Disney’s “Dopey” was the obvious choice for Dupin, while “Drunken Sailor” was what she used for Japp.
“Hey,” Ruth’s voice cooed over the speakers. “Are you on your way back or still fighting criminals with your bare hands?”
“They’re all tied up with rope and sitting in a cell back at the station. The streets are clear for the next few hours. What do you need?”
“Pi-zza!” Ruth said in a loud singsong voice.
Ruth was definitely the more youthful of the two, although not by much. A talented businesswoman running her own tech company, she enjoyed her down time just as much as her working day. Pizza or crispy pork balls from Wong’s were her favourite foods, either to celebrate a successful day or provide comfort when major sustenance or a cheer-up were required. She never worried about what she ate, knowing she’d run it off again the following morning.
Since Ruth had squealed the word “pizza” like a ten-year-old just now, Amanda knew it had to be the successful day option.
“Good day?”
“You bet! I might even open a bottle of wine.”
“Eh? On a school night?”
“Why not? Big contracts should be celebrated, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
“Pepperoni to go with it, then?”
“With extra cheese.”
“Must have been a good deal.” Amanda smiled. Ruth had been worrying about getting this contract and hadn’t been her normal chirpy self while the details were pored over and agreed. Thankfully, it sounded like normal service had resumed. “Well, I’m glad it’s all worked out for you. Extra cheese it is. I’ll stop and get it. Where are you?”
“Home. Just walked in and thought ‘I fancy pizza.’”
“Great—then I shall provide. See you shortly. Ciao.” Amanda rang off and altered her course to the nearby pizza place. She looked forward to relaxing with Ruth tonight; she knew Ruth had been preoccupied lately, not only with the deal but with her father’s move to a new flat closer to London. After Madeline had gone, it had made sense for him to downsize a bit, but they both knew it was going to take some getting used to. Now, though, his commute would be halved, the maintenance on his home would be negligible, and his social life might just get a boost. He’d joined a tennis club, and he’d been out for a drink with a woman other than his Maddie. Amanda knew he’d felt a bit weird about it, of course, but a widower had to start somewhere. And drinks didn’t have to mean sex, something else Ruth had had a chat with him about. She’d mused about it with Amanda later—“It’s usually the dad telling the offspring about the birds and the bees, not the other way around!” To the best of their knowledge, Ruth’s dad was still a one-woman man, certainly within the last thirty-odd years. Before that, though, Gordon Simpson had been like any other regular hot-blooded single male, and Ruth had been the result, conceived up a Croydon nightclub toilet wall. Ruth quipped that it made her feel special—at least she hadn’t been washed down the loo.
Amanda pulled up outside Peri Pizza. The aroma drifted her way as she stepped out of the car, a good deal more pleasant than the black bus fumes. Hot garlic butter hung in the air, and the side street smelled more like Florence than Croydon. A queue had formed out on to the pavement; it seemed others had the same idea on a nice evening. Amanda wondered if they were celebrating too. She joined the rear of the line and waited her turn, surfing through her phone to occupy her mind and idle away the time.
She didn’t hear her name being called at first, but something or someone caught her attention and she finally looked up and refocused, her eyes adjusting after the silvery glare of the tiny screen. An older woman stood before her and was smiling straight at her. She had a pleasant face, though the wrinkles and laugh-lines around her eyes could have held a pencil in place. Her expertly streaked greying hair in a neat bob style told Amanda she was well i
nto her 50s, and she looked vaguely familiar. Whoever the woman was, she knew Amanda. When she spoke, her voice was like whiskey-coated ice cubes—smooth and cool, but with an edge.
“DS Lacey, isn’t it?” She held her hand out. Amanda took it politely and the two women shook briefly. The woman had a powerful grip, and she hung onto Amanda’s hand for a moment longer than she was accustomed to.
“Yes. Hello.”
“I’m a friend of Jack’s,” the woman said. “Vivian. I met you once when you worked on a case. You were investigating the death of my friend James Peterson, the book club fellow who died a couple of years ago.” She waited for Amanda to remember the case and when it registered in her eyes, she carried on. “How is Jack? I’ve not seen him for a long time.” The woman was still smiling; Amanda found it infectious and smiled along with her at the mention of their mutual friend.
“Oh, he’s still the same Jack. Loves his bacon sandwiches and his ELO. Not much changes there. I’ll tell him we bumped into each other; he’ll be pleased, I’m sure.”
“Yes, please do. Tell him it would be nice to see him again, too; he knows where to find me.” Vivian flashed expensive dentistry and moved off slightly. “Nice to see you again!” she called lightly as she carried on past, on her way home most likely. Amanda waved back cheerfully.
So, Jack had a woman after him? She smiled as the queue moved forward.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ruth and Amanda had been together for a couple of years but still retained a house each. They had thought long and hard about whether to combine their resources, sell both properties and buy somewhere new, somewhere between them, somewhere they could both enjoy from scratch and maybe even raise a family in the future. But it hadn’t materialised yet. While neither of them had any conscious intention of living in separate homes, they naturally referred to Ruth’s place as home and the house that they rented out as Amanda's place. Anybody listening to them would think they weren't married at all, that they were two separate girlfriends living in separate houses.
So, when Ruth’s father's place had come on the market, Ruth had been keen to buy it. Amanda, not so much. It was just a bit too far out of town, for one thing, and if they were going to spend over £500,000 on a property, she wanted to choose from what was on offer in a more suitable area and not just move into something that had an emotional attachment. Since Ruth had only ever lived in the house as a torturous teenager for a handful of years, she wasn't sure quite where the ‘attachment’ bit came from, apart from maybe some latter memories of her stepmother, Madeline, when she’d been alive. They had just been getting used to one another, and Ruth had found herself actually quite liking the woman, when Madeline had been killed.
The bottle of red was almost polished off and the pizza box was empty. Amanda and Ruth sat in garden chairs watching birds grab at the remaining pizza crust that Ruth had tossed across the tiled patio. As one starling managed to pick a piece up, another one muscled in. They squabbled for a bit until they eventually managed to break it into a couple of pieces, one for each. More starlings and couple of sparrows had gathered on the sidelines now, perched upon the wooden fence that separated the property from the neighbours’ garden next door, each waiting for its turn but not daring to dive in.
Ruth drained the last of the red wine from her glass and slithered down in her chair with her face directed up at the setting sun, which was all but disappearing over the fence at the bottom of the garden. She loved the warmth of summer; who didn't? Amanda picked up the bottle and examined the contents; there were a couple of inches left in the bottom, so she topped Ruth's glass up. She’d had enough herself and didn't want a banging headache in the morning. Since Ruth was celebrating, it belonged to her. Picking up the pizza box and trying to fold it in half, she left Ruth soaking up the last of the day’s rays.
“What time have we got to be at your dad’s tomorrow?” Amanda asked as she moved away towards the house.
“Straight from work, so any time after six,” Ruth called. “Will you be able to make it?”
“I'm hoping so. We’re not flat tack at the moment, though with Dupin out of the picture we’re a man down, but it shouldn't be a problem. I'm guessing I’ll meet you straight there?” she called from the kitchen, only just in earshot.
“Yes, there's no point me coming all the way back here to go back into town again. We can come home together.”
Amanda returned and grabbed the empty bottle and her glass and went back into the kitchen to load the dishwasher and turn the kettle on. If Ruth was going to avoid a headache in the morning, she needed to dilute the alcohol.
“I can't believe he’s been there a month already,” Ruth said when Amanda returned to the garden. “He seems happy enough, so I guess it was the right move for him in the end.”
Amanda sat back down at the table and looked across at her. “You know, just because we didn't buy your dad's old place doesn't mean that we can't still find a place between us. I also know that our setup is not quite the norm for most people, but it works for us, and it just kind of makes sense. We’ve got an income coming in with my old place rented out, and your place here is that bit bigger with a nicer garden. But we can still move. You just need to tell me—just say the word.”
“No, it doesn't matter now, and as you say, what we've got here makes sense to us. That's all that’s important. I guess I was being a bit sentimental with Dad’s old place.” She sighed. “I was just getting to like Madeline when she … when she died.” She was quiet for a moment. “Anyhow, it’s in the past now. Somebody else lives in their old house, and we’re here.”
Amanda leaned across and gave Ruth’s hand a squeeze.
“I’ll go and bring the tea out; it won’t be long before it's dark.” She stood to go back to the kitchen, feeling strangely ill at ease. Inside, she leaned against the counter, thinking, as she waited for the kettle to boil. Maybe she was missing something; maybe Ruth really had started to get on with Madeline and her father after all the years they’d been separated. Maybe it had all hit her harder than Amanda had realised.
She grabbed the biscuit tin and put the mugs on a tray and took it all out to the patio. The sun was almost down now; there was just a bit of twilight left. The starlings were chirping sleepily amongst themselves, looking for beds for the night in the surrounding trees and bushes. In the quietness of the little garden, she thought, they could have been in any tranquil part of England. Unless Ruth really did want to move to a bigger place, their unconventional ways would do for Amanda. The spot was ideal.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Amanda was glad she’d drunk water during the night; it was a shame Ruth hadn't. She took a mug of tea up to her and sat on the edge of the bed. Ruth rubbed her temples, wincing. Her discomfort was obvious. The wine on its own would have been okay, but the trouble was the vodkas Ruth had later admitted to shooting back at work with the team just before she’d left.
Amanda looked across the room at her now and said, “Vodka, eh? That would explain it. I hadn’t realised you’d started drinking before you got home; more fool you.” She smiled. “They say don't mix the grape and the grain. Sounds like you’re going to suffer,” she said teasingly.
Ruth looked at her and said, “ha, ha” with as much sarcasm as she could muster with a stonking headache.
“I'll go and get you some paracetamol,” Amanda offered, and went back downstairs.
It was going to be another beautiful day, and Amanda hoped the weather would last for Ruth’s father's get-together later on. One thing you could always rely on with the English weather was its unreliability. Nice now didn't mean it would stay nice later. And the weather apps weren’t much use in terms of accuracy, either, making predictions futile. She took two white pills and a glass of water back up to Ruth, who was sitting up in bed with her eyes closed. She passed them over and watched Ruth slip them into her mouth and drink; afterwards, she lay back and closed her eyes again.
“You'll fee
l better when you get up and have got something in your stomach,” she said cheerily. Ruth grimaced at the thought of food, but knew Amanda was right. She wasn't much of a drinker—they only tended to share a bottle of wine over the weekend—but the celebration had called for it. And she’d imbibed. Heartily, it appeared.
“Right, I'm headed for the shower. I’ve got things to do, and you're not normally sat here at this hour. I take it you're not going for a run this morning?”
Ruth opened one eye and gave Amanda a ‘You reckon?’ look.
Amanda laughed and headed into the shower. As the hot water ran over her, she smiled to herself about both their inabilities to get rip-roaring drunk. Slightly merry was Amanda's limit and while Ruth could drink a little more, she suffered for it the next day—as she was right now.
She rough-dried her short blonde hair, rubbed some gel through it to separate the strands, applied a light covering of make-up and went through to put her work suit on. Amanda wore pretty much the same outfit every day, though with a different shirt; it was her own self-imposed uniform. She made too many decisions daily to need to worry about what to wear each morning; since it worked for Christian Grey, with his array of grey suits and white shirts, it would work for her. She pulled on her Docs and was almost ready. Downstairs, she filled a bowl with muesli and sat down to eat it. She was almost finished when Ruth entered, looking a tad more human than she had half an hour earlier.
“Are you feeling better yet?” Amanda asked.
“My headache is starting to dwindle; I'll be fine soon.”
Amanda watched as Ruth filled a bowl with muesli and sat looking at it, willing herself to eat it. She was noticeably quieter this morning, but that was probably the headache. Amanda didn't push any conversation; they rarely ate breakfast together anyway. She stood and carried her bowl to the sink, rinsed it and placed it in the dishwasher. She pecked Ruth on the cheek and grabbed her bag. “I'll call you later, see how you're holding up.”
