‘Well, you don’t often turn up here in the dead of night. And when you do, it’s because you’ve had a skinful and can’t drive home.’
‘Once! I did that once! Bear a grudge, why don’t you.’
‘Is there a point to this, then? Because I’m knackered and I’d like to get to bed.’
‘Yes. The point is—’ Suddenly she couldn’t say it, her tongue too big in her mouth. She opened and closed her gob a couple of times like a fish gasping its last.
‘What?’ Alison scowled.
‘Dad’s dead,’ Rachel said.
Alison looked bemused, as if it was a joke and she was waiting for a punch line. ‘You what?’ she said.
‘He’s dead. I found out at work.’
‘Murdered!’ Alison clutched at her throat.
‘No, you daft thing, he hasn’t been murdered.’ She poured scorn on the idea. ‘Natural causes – it’s his liver. He was found in his room.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Alison moved backwards, one hand searching for the sofa’s edge, and sat down, her eyes never leaving Rachel’s face. Rachel didn’t want to tell her about how long it had taken to find him. It was like a bloody great flag with neglect painted on it. Maybe that was poetic justice. After all, his parenting had been indifferent neglect much of the time. The lure of the bottle and a flutter a far more pressing attraction than the need to put a decent meal on the table or clean clothes on their backs. As for her, wife and mother, well her flag would read abandoned. Rachel wondered if she was still alive.
Rachel took a breath. ‘Nobody had seen him for a couple of weeks,’ she said, letting Alison join the dots.
‘Oh God.’ Alison pressed her fingers to her lips, sudden tears gleaming in her eyes. ‘Oh, Rache,’ she said sadly, ‘I should have—’
‘What?’ Rachel was suddenly cross. ‘Done what? What could you do? He was hopeless.’
‘God, Rachel.’ Alison had gone white, her face looking years older. She ran her hands through her hair, gripping fistfuls of it.
Rachel shrugged. What was there to say?
‘I haven’t seen him since January,’ Alison went on. ‘I was going to go, I meant to go—’
‘You’ve got three kids and a job,’ Rachel butted in. No point in her beating herself up about it.
‘Yes,’ Alison said flatly, staring right at Rachel now. And you haven’t, have you? The unspoken message, how come you were never there?
Alison cried for a minute and Rachel felt awkward, standing like a lemon, so she went and sat in the armchair.
‘Cremation,’ Alison said suddenly. ‘Would he want cremating?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rachel said. ‘Cheaper, isn’t it?’
‘Did he leave a will?’
‘A will!’ Rachel almost choked. ‘Are we talking about the same feller here? He’ll have left us a load of debts if he’s left anything. Tabs at the bookies and the pub.’
‘He was banned from the bookies.’
‘When?’
‘I told you.’ Expecting Rachel to remember every sordid little step in his slide into vagrancy.
‘Whatever.’ Rachel was eager to go now.
‘They’ll let Dom out, won’t they, to go to the funeral?’ Alison’s expression quickened. ‘We’ll have to wait till he can get a pass.’
Rachel said nothing. Couldn’t think of a worse prospect than graveside with her dad in a box, Alison blubbing and Dom putting on a brave face.
‘That is so awful. God, Rachel, I feel so awful.’
‘You weren’t to know.’
‘At the end of the day, he’s our father. We should have known.’
‘You know what he was like,’ Rachel said.
‘I hate to think of it, think of him, on his own and—’
Don’t then! ‘Look, his liver packed up and he’ll have gone quick. The rest he’d not know about, would he. You did your best.’ Knowing that she herself hadn’t, couldn’t. Too angry with him, wanting to get as far away as she could from the mess of his life.
‘You need to register the death,’ Rachel said. ‘Take this to the register office.’ She pulled out the death certificate. ‘Give them this—’
‘Can’t you? I’ve a really busy week.’
‘I’m working a triple homicide,’ Rachel said. ‘Take compassionate leave. They’re meant to be big on that, your lot.’ Social workers.
‘What, and you can’t take it?’ Alison said.
I’m not feeling very compassionate, Rachel thought.
‘We could meet up to go together, at lunch,’ Alison said.
Rachel could see Alison was already beginning to try to haul her back into the bosom of the family. ‘Don’t be daft. I’ve no idea when I’ll get a meal break. It’ll take twice as long to do it if we’re both arguing about it all.’
Alison had her head in her hands. Rachel heard her make a squeak and realized she was crying.
Rachel sighed. ‘If you want me to sort it out then I will, but you’ll have to just let me get on with it. You find out when Dom can get a pass and I’ll take it from there.’
Alison hesitated. Rachel knew she didn’t like handing over control but eventually she nodded her head. ‘Okay. Look, the money, it’ll take us a bit of time—’
‘That’s fine.’ Rachel thought she had enough to cover it. Never had much chance to spend her salary; on a decent whack for a single person. ‘Won’t be gold fittings or anything, mind.’
‘What about after? Buffet?’
‘Pie and pint more his style,’ Rachel said.
Alison tutted at her.
‘Come on, who’ll be there? You and Dom, maybe a clutch of his drinking buddies if they’re not too wasted to make it on time.’
‘God, you’re hard sometimes,’ Alison said.
‘Just being practical.’ If she was hard it was because she had to be. You got nowhere being a doormat, a pushover. ‘Sandwiches and crisps and sausage rolls,’ Rachel said. ‘That place opposite the crem does food, I think. Looks nice enough.’
‘The one with the hanging baskets?’ Alison said.
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you think one of us should say something?’
Christ, no! ‘Like what exactly? You can if you like. Look, I best get off. Okay. I’ll give you a ring, let you know what’s sorted.’
‘And I’ll call you when I’ve talked to the prison.’
Alison got to her feet and trailed Rachel to the door. ‘Do you remember that time he—’ she began, warmth and humour in her voice.
‘I need to go.’ Rachel cut her off, her throat swelling and something like anger tight inside. Alison moved to give her a hug. Rachel bore it, thankful when it was done. And she’d managed not to cry.
Ade was in the lounge watching telly. The girls upstairs. Taisie would be texting her mates, or her boyfriend, rather than actually sleeping, as she should be at this time. Twelve seemed awfully young to be interested in boys. Ade had been Janet’s first, at sixteen. When Janet had asked Taisie about it all, she got the idea that ‘boyfriend’ was an exaggeration. ‘We hang together at break,’ Taisie had said.
‘And that makes him your boyfriend?’ Janet said.
‘Duh!’ Taisie rolled her eyes and waggled her head and that’s all Janet got. Janet would check on her soon. First Ade to tackle, then Elise.
‘My mum rang,’ she said to him, ‘not that it’ll make any difference. Except she’s upset which could have been avoided if you hadn’t run to her like a big kid trying to get her on your team.’
He gave a nasty laugh. ‘After everything she’s done—’
Janet felt rage, raw and dangerous, flash through her. ‘Don’t!’ she said. ‘Don’t you dare. I know exactly what she’s done for me, for us. And what you’ve done too,’ giving him his due. ‘But this is separate, this is work. This is me and my job. You don’t get to interfere in that.’
She walked out before he could come back at her, taking a few moments to try to rein in her temper before she
went to speak to Elise. Her hands were shaking. When did I get to be so angry, she thought? Normally she managed to balance things, to find equilibrium, but these days it felt as if there was a ball of fury in the pit of her stomach just waiting to explode, for a spark to set it off. Was it since the attack? Or longer? Was it simply the effect of being surrounded by two adolescent girls and their raging hormones? Perhaps her body was joining in and she was coming out in sympathy, the way women who live together end up with their menstrual cycles in sync. Or was it to do with Andy, with wanting him and feeling guilty about it?
She didn’t like the anger; it threatened to bring her too close to losing control. To letting fly, allowing all her darkest thoughts to escape, and who knew whether she’d be able to push them back in the bottle. And life was so precious, too precious. She did not want to waste any of her time with negative emotions.
Janet knocked and went into Elise’s room without waiting for an answer. Elise was at her desk with her laptop open, an essay by the looks of it. Janet could tell she was still in the doghouse as soon as she saw Elise’s face, pinched and set, her shoulders rigid, too. Janet said, ‘I’m very sorry I shouted at you, Elise, it wasn’t fair. I was really cross about something else and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.’
Elise turned to look at her, a sulky expression on her face. ‘Why are you so horrible to Dad?’
Christ! Janet’s stomach dropped. She felt her cheeks burning. ‘I know we argue,’ she chose her words with care, ‘but some marriages, some relationships, are just like that. People say it clears the air.’
‘It doesn’t. That’s stupid,’ Elise said. She had a point. After one of their rows there’d often be a period of moody withdrawal before the atmosphere improved.
‘I’m sorry,’ Janet said, unable to think up a better response. ‘Your dad and I, we’ve been together a long time.’ Too long? Was that why she was tempted to stray?
‘I hate it when you shout at each other.’
‘Yes.’ Janet thought of her own parents. Beyond a bit of low level bickering they’d got on great. Never raised their voices. Not to each other and not to Janet. ‘But we’re all right, you know,’ Janet lied, desperate to reassure Elise. ‘We love each other, we love you and your sister.’
Elise gave half a shrug.
‘Don’t work too late.’ Janet nodded at the screen.
‘Says you,’ Elise sneered.
Janet smiled. ‘Walked right into that one.’ She put her hand on Elise’s shoulder, relieved when she didn’t draw away, and kissed her head. ‘Night.’
In bed later, Janet couldn’t get to sleep, either too hot or too cold. She craved oblivion but the tension in her arms and legs and back wouldn’t release her. Tired and drained, she wondered whether to ring in sick in the morning. She had hardly ever taken sick leave, until the knife attack. Not for years. Was this how she would always feel? Would she have to retire on grounds of ill health? She couldn’t face the idea of leaving work. She would go bananas if she hadn’t work to get her out of bed in the morning, to fill her days. She loved her work. If what Geoff Hastings did cost her her job she’d be another of his victims. She must not let him destroy her like that. She wouldn’t let him take that from her. She had come too far, fought too hard – coming back from the dead, recuperating, putting her life back together – to let it all collapse now.
Half an hour after leaving the office, Gill drew into her driveway. Light was peeping out from the house, set on the timer to make it look occupied. Telly on timer too: she could hear advert jingles as she unlocked the door and turned off the alarm.
Once she’d switched the TV off she sat for a moment in the armchair, her mind crammed with fragments of the working day and snippets from her conversation with Sammy. She closed her eyes. It was so quiet out here, even quieter now she was on her own.
Over and over again like a line from a song stuck in her head, Sammy’s words: Leave me the fuck alone. Well, she wasn’t going to sit back and do nothing. If he thought that just because he had moved out she would wash her hands of him and sit back sulking or some other passive-aggressive crap then he had better think again. This – decisions about uni – would affect the rest of his life. Did Dave even know about the open days? About which places Sammy was considering?
The UCAS application had to be in by January, sooner if possible, because then the admissions tutors would have more time to actually read the personal statements and consider the candidates. Come the end of the year they would be swamped, barely glancing at each submission. She’d go round there, much as it sickened her, go round there early before work and talk to Dave and Sammy. So they all knew what the timetable was and what support Sammy needed. Gill was happy to adopt a hands off approach as long as somebody else was paddling the bloody canoe in the right direction.
And she would not refer to Sammy’s horrible little comments. She would rise above all that. It would only muddy the water. But now she should eat, eat and relax, get some kip like she told the troops.
She texted Chris: Long day. Just home. You somewhere exotic? Wish I was there x. Of course if he’d got a night flight somewhere he wouldn’t be able to reply yet. But then her phone bleeped. She read the message, Not exotic exactly but looking forward to a hot meal and a bottle of vino. Wish you were here too x.
He hadn’t said where. Perhaps he had only been able to get some cheesy destination, Marbella or Faliraki, full of stag parties and drunken Brits and English ‘pubs’ serving all day breakfast.
Gill put the radio on, opened the fridge and considered her choices. Fancy soup, smoked salmon, bacon and eggs. None of which appealed. In the freezer she had a few ready meals . . .
The doorbell went. Her first thought was Sammy, Sammy forgetting his key. But why would Sammy turn up at this time?
Gill went to the door, peeped through the spy hole and saw Chris. Chris! She opened the door. ‘Not today, ta,’ she said, keeping a straight face.
‘I come bearing dinner.’ He hoisted a large plastic cooler box in one hand and a sturdy shopping bag in the other. ‘You haven’t eaten?’
‘No.’ She was smiling. ‘Come in. How come you’re not in Italy or Croatia or somewhere?’
‘Prefer this.’ He grinned. Put the box and bag down and held up his hands. ‘I know you’re in the middle of a huge inquiry and you’ll need your sleep so you can turf me out whenever you like. I’ve reserved a room at the hotel on the ring road, in case.’
‘Oh, no.’ She moved closer to him. ‘You’re going nowhere, mister.’ Reached up to kiss him. He put his arms round her, kissing her slowly, softly, until she was dizzy. Gill was half tempted to skip the food and take him straight to bed but he had gone to so much trouble. And besides, if she ate she’d have even more energy for what would come after.
He began getting things out on to the counter: a hot chicken, croquette potatoes, a mixed leaf salad. Cheesecake, a bottle of white.
Gill’s mouth was watering. She opened the wine, found glasses. ‘Cheers. Here.’ She fetched a candelabra and lit it. Swapped the radio for the CD player and found paper napkins.
He raised his glass again as she sat down, clinked hers. ‘Happy holiday.’ Merriment dancing in his eyes.
‘Happy holiday,’ she echoed. And started to eat.
Day Three
13
‘Keep your coat on,’ Gill snapped as Rachel arrived at work. ‘We’ve a report just in of a stolen car, red Hyundai Accent, registered keeper Mr Howard Wesley at Rose Cottage, Lundfell.’ She tapped the map on the monitor screen.
Rachel saw the significance immediately. ‘Just down the road from Gallows Wood, where he dumped the Mondeo.’
‘Literally. Dogs and CSIs on their way. We’ve now a mobile incident unit in place at the lay-by near the wood. The search is continuing. Base yourselves there and follow up on the car theft. Any whisper of a breakthrough and I want to know before you draw breath. Yes?’
There was a stiff, brittle way
to her this morning. Obviously got the hump. Maybe the toy boy was mucking her about? Maybe it was the investigation. A second night shortening the odds on the chance of a happy ending. Happy being a very relative term, right? Anyway, Rachel read the signs and said the minimum. Yes ma’am, no ma’am. Avoided eye contact. Bit like dealing with a wild dog: no direct challenge. Her Maj could be a right cow when she’d got a mood on and Rachel knew she was still in the shit for nipping off yesterday and blagging about the reason.
‘Where the hell is Janet?’
‘Don’t know, boss,’ like she was Janet’s keeper. Not like Janet to be late.
‘Christ! If it’s not one of you, it’s the other. If she’s not in in the next five minutes you pair up with Pete and talk to this Mr Wesley.’
‘Yes, boss.’ Please, no! Pete was okay, a steady copper, but not at all the same as working in harness with Janet.
Janet pitched up within the given time and Rachel said she’d meet her downstairs. She took the chance to make some calls. The pub opposite the crem was straightforward: they could do sandwiches, sausage rolls, tea and cake for five pounds a head. ‘Ten of us tops,’ Rachel said. Fifty quid the lot. She’d get back to them with a date.
The funeral parlour was more of a shock. ‘No, nothing fancy, just the basic package,’ Rachel said after she’d told the man it was her father and they wanted cremation. The man started wittering on about options until she interrupted him. ‘I don’t care if it’s chipboard with plastic handles. Just give me a price. Bottom line.’
How long before someone spotted a gap in the market for a budget service? Funerals 2 Go, Deaths R Us?’ She had heard of cardboard coffins but reckoned Alison wouldn’t like that notion. She was funny like that, wanted to be seen to be doing the right thing all the time as if the rest of Middleton were standing on the sidelines giving the Bailey family marks out of ten for style and execution. You could decorate the cardboard coffins, too. His could have been covered in bar mats, or painted like a giant Special Brew can or plastered with pages from the Racing Times.
Bleed Like Me Page 13
