‘None of your neighbours saw or heard anything, despite it being daytime. The only fingerprints we found were from you. Then we’ve been looking into your accounts this morning and we know your business lost a key client at the start of the year. That insurance money could turn out to be a blessing . . .’
‘If you’re accusing me of something then I hope you have proof – I’ve got lawyers who’d love a battle with an “institutionally corrupt” police force.’
Jessica didn’t flinch. ‘How many guns have you ever had pointed at you, Mr Shearer?’
He rocked back slightly in his seat. ‘Just that one.’
‘I was in a nightclub a couple of years ago where a man pulled a shotgun from under the counter and pointed it towards me and my colleague. I still remember it. Every now and then, I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and I’ll be looking down the barrel, seeing his finger on the trigger, wondering if he’s going to flinch. It doesn’t matter what type of training you’ve had, it’s terrifying. If you want to know where your story went wrong, it wasn’t in keeping your watch or bracelet, it wasn’t in calling the media, it wasn’t even in dropping your children off with their grandparents at such short notice – it was in not mentioning the gun first.’
Edward stared at Jessica open-mouthed but didn’t interrupt.
‘If someone breaks into your home and you’re asked about it, you don’t say, “they were all in black”, “they had balaclavas”, “there were five of them” – you say, “one of them pointed a gun in my face – in my wife’s face”. It’s horrifying. When I talked to you, it was almost an afterthought. When I asked about why you’d gone along with them, it wasn’t “because they had a gun”, it was: “because there were five of them”. You can rehearse the details of your stories over and over – but if you’ve ever had a gun pointed at you, then you don’t speak so mechanically about it.’
Frances was gaping sideways at her husband in as clear an ‘I-told-you-so’ look as Jessica had ever seen.
Edward stumbled over a reply. ‘I-I-I-don’t know what you mean.’
‘The muddy boots by the back door didn’t help either. You’ve got a spotless house and yet you left something completely filthy by the back door and they weren’t knocked over by any of the five robbers on the way out. We can do this as easily as you want: you can either tell us where you buried the rest of your jewellery in your back garden, or we’ll dig the entire thing up. You’re already facing charges of insurance fraud and wasting police time. If you want to add something else to that by not cooperating then be my guest.’
Jessica had actually guessed the final part of her theory but she could see the defeat in Edward’s eyes. ‘Am I allowed to call my lawyer?’ he asked.
‘I’ll even lend you my mobile.’
28
Back at the station and Jessica wasn’t exactly being treated like the conquering hero as she might have expected. Pat was halfway through an eclair as she entered through the main door and he simply pointed upstairs.
DCI Topper was on the phone as he waved Jessica into his office, not stopping as she took a seat: ‘. . . well, I’ll keep an eye on things . . . I understand what you’re saying but things are awkward here too.’ His eyes flickered towards Jessica, making her feel self-conscious as if he was talking about her. He finished with a terse ‘goodbye’ and then hung up, addressing her without looking up. ‘What’s happening with Shearer?’
‘He and his wife are talking to solicitors. I think they’ll cooperate. He knows we’ve got them.’
‘What about the actual burglaries?’
That was it – no ‘well done’, not a hint of ‘excellent work, you’ve saved us a lot of hassle from assuming there were four burglaries, not three’. Nothing.
Jessica wanted to say something but didn’t need reminding she was still on thin ice from the run-in with professional standards. ‘We’re doing all we can.’
‘But Pavel Adamek is still missing?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the expensive, time-consuming surveillance of some prostitute’s flat is still ongoing with no results?’
Jessica felt stung to hear Ana referred to in such a way, even though it wasn’t untrue. ‘We don’t know if and when he could return, Sir . . .’
‘What about his wife?’
‘We’ve got a new lead on a nickname she might be known by, but it’s not easy.’
‘C&A?’
The exasperation finally crept out through Jessica’s tone: ‘We’re trying!’
‘Whatever it is is supposed to happen in two days’ time. You’ve got to try harder.’ Topper turned and pointed at his board. ‘What about this woman who’s skipped bail on assault charges?’
‘I have someone on it.’
‘That hit and run from last week?’
‘Bradford Park are clearing up CCTV footage so we can ID the number plate.’
‘Half-a-dozen street muggings just off Oxford Road?’
‘We’ve got posters going up around the universities. We think it’s a student.’
Jessica had answers for everything he threw at her but he still wasn’t happy, quoting statistics and ‘pressure from above’ as she sat silently wondering why it was worth it.
‘. . . are you listening?’ he added.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Good, then let’s get this sorted and hope to God nothing else happens this week – there’s not been a murder in a month, so we’re overdue.’
Jessica stood and left, biting her tongue and not sighing. How the job had come down to counting the number of days since they’d had a murder, she really didn’t know.
Archie unscrewed the bottle of wine and poured a small amount into the bottom of a pint glass. He looked up at Jessica. ‘It’s pink.’
‘What colour did you think rosé wine was?’
‘I don’t know – I’ve never had it.’
‘But you’ve been in pubs and restaurants. You don’t live in isolation from the rest of the world.’
He took a sip and smacked his lips together. ‘It’s sort of fruity.’
‘It’s made from grapes!’
‘I don’t see what’s wrong with drinking what’s already here.’
Jessica leant back onto his sofa. ‘Because you’ve got a shite taste in booze and an even worse taste in decor.’
Archie passed her the bottle and reached for a bottle of ale that had a picture of a rabbit on the front, popping the top off and taking a large mouthful. Jessica poured more of the wine into her pint glass – he’d still not bought new ones – and sniffed it before having a large gulp.
‘So, Topper’s a twat then,’ Archie said.
He’s even got a stupid first name.
Jessica drank more of the wine. It was cold and smooth: a little sharp but not too over the top – perfect. Archie joined her on the sofa, bottle in hand. His living room was exactly the same as it was the last time Jessica had been there, messy and adolescent.
She pointed to the poster of the woman bending over the car. ‘Is that your type then? Big boobs, round arse.’
Archie failed to suppress his smile. ‘There’s a woman on that poster? I’d put it up for the car.’
‘What about the one next to it?’
‘If you look behind the woman, there’s some foliage and a fountain. I’m a big fan of greenery – that’s why that one’s there.’
‘Yeah, sure it is.’
Jessica drank again, enjoying how cool it was, then poured herself another glass.
Archie was drinking much more slowly than she was, sipping from his bottle. ‘So what’s your type then?’
Jessica hid behind her glass. She replied quietly. ‘Don’t spoil it.’
‘Sorry . . .’
‘This place reminds me of being a student,’ Jessica said. ‘I lived with my mate, Caroline. She’d pick up after me and keep everything tidy but I’d always be leaving things around.’
‘You still friends?’
‘Why?’
Another drink – a little over a third of the bottle gone already. Good job she bought two and Archie’s fridge worked. ‘Her boyfriend, Hugo, is a magician. He’s really popular in Europe.’
‘I think I’ve seen him – he does this thing with puppets. Do you know him?’
‘Too well. He was at university with Dave. One of them ended up touring Europe, the other spends his time running errands for Wanky Frankie. He came to a wedding with me once.’
‘Whose?’
Jessica giggled as she remembered. ‘Caroline’s . . . the girl he’s now going out with. Sorry, it’s complicated.’ More wine. Yum yum. ‘She wants to settle down and have babies but Hugo’s Hugo. I don’t think that’s really his thing. He has a publicist-agent woman that travels with him – Caroline hates her but if it wasn’t for her getting him places, Hugo would probably be sat on a bench in Heaton Park doing magic tricks for the kids.’
They sat in silence for a few moments before Archie flicked on the television. There was a dating show with a bunch of fake-tanned, big-haired, push-up-bra-enabled women cackling manically at some dancing prick in a shirt way too tight who told jokes and generally acted unlike anyone Jessica would want to spend time with. In the unlikely event of her becoming Prime Minister, anyone ever associated with this show would be the first to be exiled to somewhere where they had to watch the show on an endless loop until the end of time. Even that didn’t seem a fitting punishment.
Then she realised Archie was laughing at it.
He was exactly the type of bloke who’d squeeze himself into a pair of too-tight jeans, puff his chest up and strut onto a TV dating show trying to impress someone whose name he wouldn’t remember five minutes later.
As an advert break came on, Archie started humming along to the theme tune and it was then that Jessica realised that, work aside, she really didn’t like him. Izzy and Dave acted the same out of the station as they did in it – and unfortunately so did Archie. He was a Jack-the-lad Manc who’d try it on if he thought he could get away with it – and she’d let him get away with it.
Jessica drank the rest of her wine quickly and then picked up the remote control from the table and switched the television off. Archie spun quickly: ‘What—’ but Jessica shut him up by grabbing his hand and leading him towards the bedroom. The last thing she wanted to do was actually talk to him.
The green blocks of square lights on the alarm clock beamed through the darkness of Archie’s bedroom: 02.41. Jessica had been asleep for less than three hours. She’d got through both bottles of wine and one of Archie’s Hair of the Rabbit ales, or whatever it was called. She expected to feel sick, or dizzy at the absolute least, but instead felt nothing other than a slight pain in her stomach which she didn’t think was down to the booze.
Her eyes focused on the clock digits and then zoned out again, peering through the darkness towards the ceiling above. Next to her, Archie was lying on his front, his body rising and falling every few seconds in the grip of a deep sleep. She’d never known anyone who slept on their front before but here he was, face buried in the pillow, slightly curly hair catching the scraps of moonlight seeping through a gap in the curtains as his body rose. One of his legs was underneath the covers but the rest of his naked body was on top.
Realising that he had no clothes on, Jessica suddenly felt conscious that neither did she. She scrambled on the floor for the work shirt she’d had on all day, knowing she couldn’t wear the same clothes the next day – not again. She should be at home making sure that everything was all right with Bex and Sam, not here doing whatever it was she was doing. They were teenagers for whom she was ultimately responsible, yet here she was acting far more like an irresponsible child than either of them.
Delicately, she slid out of the covers, picking up her underwear, trousers and shoes, and opening the door as quietly as she could . . .
‘Jess . . .’
‘Go back to sleep, Arch.’
‘You don’t have to leave.’
‘I know.’
In the gloom, Jessica saw Archie shift into a sitting position. She heard him yawning through the dark. He sounded groggy. ‘Is it me?’ he asked.
‘Is what you?’
‘You left last time – am I doing something wrong?’
‘It’s not you.’ Jessica started to move away again but Archie called her name. ‘What?’ she hissed, too loudly.
Archie was on his feet, stretching, still naked. ‘Will you come back?’
‘Why?’
‘I’d like to talk.’
‘I’m not your girlfriend – we have nothing to talk about.’ He took a step towards her but Jessica moved backwards through the door. ‘For God’s sake, put some pants on. It looks like something left over in a butcher’s shop.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Just put some clothes on and I’ll be on your sofa.’
Using the light from her phone, Jessica got dressed in the living room, scrambling to find a sock that she’d dropped somewhere on her short route and then picking up her suit jacket from the back of the front door.
Archie soon joined her, thankfully wrapped in a dressing gown. ‘Do you want a brew?’ he asked.
‘No, I want to go.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we’re not going out. I’ve got to go home and change – I’m on shift tomorrow.’
‘If we’re not going out then why did you come over again tonight?’
‘You know why. I’m not paying you compliments if that’s what you’re fishing for.’
‘I’m not.’
‘So what do you want?’
Archie yawned, which set Jessica off. Suddenly she wished she’d accepted the tea.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied.
The lights were still off, with the only illumination coming from the moonlight into his bedroom where he must have opened the curtains. Jessica could just about see him lift his knees up to his chest. ‘I was thinking about you over the weekend – after you told me to sod off home.’
‘Shut up, Arch.’
‘I don’t know what it is. I mean I’ve been with girls before, obviously—’
‘Arch.’
‘. . . but I suppose I usually forget them straight away. On Sunday, I was wondering what you were up to and not in a work way. I was off to the football and—’
‘Arch.’
‘. . . even when we were one-nil up, I was wondering if you’ve ever been to the football. I know you say you don’t like it but it’s different live than watching on TV, so perhaps we—’
Jessica leant forward and slapped him hard across the legs, the clash of flesh on flesh echoing around the small flat.
‘Ow! What was that for?’
‘Because I was trying to shut you up but you weren’t taking the hint.’
‘Christ, it bloody stings.’
‘So stop talking about it then.’
Archie went quiet for a moment and Jessica thought he was ready to let her go. Then his voice broke her with a single question: ‘Is this because of Adam?’
There was no reason why he shouldn’t have asked but, as Archie said his name, Jessica felt the lump in the back of her throat. She tried to swallow but it was too late and a soft blub erupted. In a second, she was crying as hard as she had in those days after her car had exploded. Archie reached out to comfort her but she batted him away. He stood and left the room, returning moments later and handing her a toilet roll with a glass of water.
She took it and curled herself up into the corner of his sofa, wanting Archie to comfort her but not wanting him anywhere near her. He sat at the other end, saying nothing.
Eventually she managed to swallow the water and bite the lump back. ‘Of course it’s Adam,’ she croaked. ‘W
hat did you think? It was only four months ago.’
‘I don’t know . . . I didn’t take advantage, did I? I didn’t mean to, I—’
‘I know what I’m doing.’
She didn’t.
‘Do you want a lift home?’ he asked.
‘I’m going to go for a walk to the main road and get a taxi.’
‘Okay . . . are we all right – still mates?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I’m sorry if I—’
‘It’s me, not you. I know that’s what people say but it really is me. Just please don’t say his name.’
Archie didn’t move as Jessica let herself out. She was halfway down the hard, cold staircase when she realised she still had half a toilet roll in her hand. Jessica slipped back up the stairs, placed it by Archie’s front door and then bolted back down, through the heavy main door and into the cool night air.
Somewhere, she’d lost her hair tie but if that was all then she’d done well. The days might have started to take a turn towards spring but the nights were still firmly rooted in winter as a sharp breeze fizzed across her. Jessica pulled her suit jacket tighter, knowing exactly where her coat was: on the back of her chair at the station with her car keys in the pocket. She was pretty sure no one had seen Archie pick her up around the corner from the station but it was more worrying that this was what her life had come to – sneaking around hoping not to be seen by her colleagues and then creeping out in the early hours like a hungover student making the barefoot Sunday morning walk of shame. Except this was worse because it was the early hours of Tuesday and she had to be at work soon.
Jessica hurried back down the stairs, only pausing when she thought she saw a shadow hovering close to the front door of the flat below. She stood still for a moment, wondering if there was someone there or if it was a trick of the light, before deciding that she didn’t care.
After leaving in the early morning the previous time, Jessica knew roughly where she was heading. She passed a garage, crossed the road, kept going for a few hundred metres and then moved into the centre of the deserted road, walking across a roundabout towards a pub with its lights off. In former days, the inn would have been impressive, heavy beams jutting down from the roof and wide thick-rimmed windows that could easily be painted stylishly. Instead, everything had a peeling brown feeling to it: abandoned and unloved.
For Richer, For Poorer Page 18
