by John Harvey
He’d dropped one or two hints about her chucking up her flat, moving in full time, but so far she hadn’t bitten. What he ought to do, Gary reckoned, get her more involved in his plans for the house, that way she’d come to see it more as something they shared. And besides, a girl like Vanessa, she’d have ideas about style, color. All manner of things. Adding a conservatory, maybe. Patio doors.
The tea was stewed, but he squeezed out another cup anyway. Someone like Vanessa moving in, that would really say something about him, add a definite tone. A dog, too, Gary thought, he might get one of those. A pair of them. Alsatians. Rottweilers. Living where he was, St. Ann’s, you couldn’t be too careful.
Gary thought he’d go back up and see if Vanessa was anything like awake, but when he stripped down to his boxer shorts and slid back under the covers she was stretched out at an angle across the bed, mouth slightly open, snoring gently. He wriggled himself close against her and, not thinking he would actually go back to sleep, closed his eyes. When the noise woke him, almost an hour later, his first thought was that it was burglars, but not his second.
Bastards! He knew if he didn’t get down there double quick they’d have the front door off with a pair of sledgehammers.
“Gary Prince?”
“What about it?”
“CID.”
There were three of them; two fast in his face the second he opened up, sports gear, trainers, so pumped up he could smell the adrenaline. The third one, older, a little mustache, sports jacket and slacks as if he were taking a morning stroll. Standing there in his boxers, Gary was feeling decidedly underdressed.
“How about the thieving bastard formerly known as Prince?” Ben Fowles said. “More your fancy?”
“Fuck off!”
“Not bloody likely.”
They went past him, the first two, like they’d just heard the pistol at the start of the hundred meters.
“You’ve got a warrant?” Gary asked.
Millington grinned a particularly malicious grin. “More warrants than you could fit up your arse between now and Sunday.”
“You’ll not find anything, you know.”
“Oh, well, least it gives the lads a chance to chuck things about for a spell. All good practice.”
A muffled shriek from above told him all the racket had hauled Vanessa out of bed.
Gary was on his way when Millington detained him with a hand tight on his upper arm. “Gary, Gary, no sense going off at half cock.”
“If they lay a hand …”
“Don’t worry. House-trained the pair of them.”
A succession of sharp thumps seemed to give the lie to that, drawers being pulled free, their contents tumbled to the floor.
“Gary,” Vanessa called, “whatever’s going on?”
“Pack her off into the kitchen,” Millington advised, “tell her to make us all a nice cup of tea. Unless yours is one of them liberated relationships, of course. Non-gender specific in the domestic-task area-I think that’s what the wife calls it. In which case, Gary, mine’s Yorkshire if you’ve got it, common or garden PG Tips if you’ve not. Oh, and one sugar, easy on the milk.”
“Bollocks,” Gary said, halfway up the stairs.
“Ah, it’ll be the little woman then, after all.”
The little woman, all five feet nine of her, was standing at the entrance to the master bedroom, wearing a pair of high-sided lace briefs and the residue of last night’s Obsession. Ben Fowles, in the hallway directly in front of her, was doing his level best not to stare.
“If you’d like to get dressed,” he said, “put something on, like, we need to get into the bedroom.”
“What for?”
“We have reason to believe a considerable amount of stolen property is on the premises,” Fowles said, eyes flickering nervously in the face of the most perfect set of breasts it had been his good fortune to encounter in the flesh.
“Gary,” Vanessa said, as he arrived at Fowles’s shoulder. “What’s all this about?”
“Nothing, nothing. It’s all a mistake.”
“Gary…”
“Look,” Gary said, backing her toward the bedroom, “maybe you should get yourself covered up, yeh? And then … well, you don’t suppose you could slip the kettle on …”
“Fuck off, Gary,” she said and slammed the door in his face.
Ben Fowles snorted with laughter and went off to help Naylor going through the treasures of the spare room. Whistling while he worked, Millington sallied off in search of the kitchen; if they were going to be there a while, he might as well mash the tea himself.
At Gary Prince’s lock-up, Carl Vincent and Sharon Garnett stared into a twenty-four by seventeen meter space liberally filled with boxes, while two uniformed officers made a detailed inventory of sundry cordless telephones, compact disc players, carefully bubble-wrapped and probably imitation Rolex Tudor Chronograph watches, and what looked like several hundred copies of the new Madonna CD. What they had not found, any of them, was a lethal barreled weapon of any description from which any shot, bullet, or other missile might be discharged, nor, Robin Hood territory or not, a single item relevant under the Crossbows Act of 1987.
“You reckon he’s got receipts for this lot?” Sharon asked. Standing a little way off, she took a pack of Marlboro Lights from her bag and offered one to Carl before lighting up herself.
“Bound to,” Vincent said with a wry smile. “VAT invoices, the lot.”
Sharon shook her head. “You imagine the work involved, checking this lot against stolen property?”
Vincent shrugged. “At least we’re not coming away empty-handed.”
“You think that’ll sweeten the boss’s temper?”
“I doubt it.”
Sharon drew on her cigarette, released the smoke slowly and smiled. “You want to give him a call, or shall I?”
Resnick’s stomach was noisily reminding him that, two cups of coffee aside, he’d skipped breakfast. Millington, who’d feasted on two Shredded Wheat with an added sprinkling of wheatgerm and bran, didn’t look any happier.
“We got nothing,” Resnick said. It wasn’t a question.
Millington’s jacket smelled faintly of dry-cleaning, his trousers, pale-gray, had a definite crease down the front. Casual but smart. Resnick was reminded of the men he saw in the Viccy Centre on Saturday mornings, waiting patiently outside Jessops or Boots for their wives. “I wouldn’t say altogether nothing.” For once, he wasn’t looking Resnick squarely in the eye.
“Nothing that links Prince with the gun, any gun.”
A quick shake of the head. “No.”
“So your pal, Forbes …”
“Arthur Forbes is going to be meeting his maker a lot sooner’n he wants when I’ve got shot of him.”
“And we’re no closer to Valentine.”
“No.”
Silent, they were conscious of the constant thrum of traffic on the Derby Road, the shrill sigh of brakes as lorries slowed for the long left turn around Canning Circus.
“There is all that stuff in his lock-up.” Millington said. “Even a good briefs not going to talk him out of that. You never know, pile up the questioning, he might let something slip.”
“Yes,” Resnick said. “Happen he will.”
Neither of them believed it.
Outside, in the CID room, telephones rang and were answered, rang and were not.
Twenty-four
Sometimes, Maureen thought what her sister-in-law needed was a good seeing-to. Someone to get a firm hold of her and shake all that mardiness out of her, once and for all. A quick slap around the face, even, if that was what it took. She smiled at herself in the bathroom mirror. She couldn’t exactly see her beloved brother being the one to do it, not Derek: to Maureen’s way of thinking, her brother, now and from an early age, was a wimp. Lorraine has a headache, isn’t feeling too grand, getting her period, whatever-don’t worry, love, you rest, lie down, go back to bed, I’ll take care of the kids
, do the shopping, run the car to the garage, mow the lawn.
What was that game they used to play as kids? O’Grady Says? Well, their marriage, Lorraine’s and Derek’s, that’s what it was like. O’Grady says clap your hands, all clap your hands. O’Grady says sleep downstairs on the sofa, Derek sleeps downstairs on the sofa.
Maureen stretched her lips back from her teeth to make sure there were no telltale bits of last night’s spinach lasagna, this morning’s wholewheat toast. The last thing one of her customers wanted to see was a résumé of what she’d been eating the last twelve hours.
Lorraine’s brother, though, Maureen was thinking, Michael, that was a whole different ball game. Him and Derek, chalk and cheese. She couldn’t see Michael running around at some woman’s beck and call, any woman, wife or no wife, it didn’t matter how upset she was. And it wasn’t as though she didn’t understand what Lorraine had been going through, her mother dying like that, all the memories it must have brought flooding back. But Michael, he was different. Well, he’d proved it, hadn’t he? She couldn’t see Michael being any other way than what he was: hard.
Stepping back, she cupped both hands beneath her breasts and looked at their reflection admiringly. Okay, so they might not pass the pencil test, but at forty, well, what could you expect? At least, for the time being, they were all hers: nothing beyond the occasional dab of hormone cream, no silicone, no nips and tucks. Three mornings down at the gym and a couple of spells in the pool, that was what it was. Facials. The occasional sauna. Sensible diet-all right, more sensible than some. Elizabeth Arden Eight-Hour Cream and multivitamins. It was the only body she was going to get, so she might as well look after it.
Back in the bedroom, she pulled open several drawers, lifting things out and either discarding them immediately, or holding them up in front of herself before the full-length mirror. Saturday. Work day. So much to convey: good sense, practicality, style. Finally, she opted for a blue silk-chiffon strapless body and a black, calf-length pencil skirt. How many women her age could wear that and get away with it? She slipped a long cotton jacket, also black, from its hanger.
The watch on her wrist told her she should have left five minutes ago. On Saturdays she employed two girls to help in the shop and she always liked to be there well before them; promptness, the right attitude, so important. She hadn’t got where she was by loafing around half the day, missing appointments, being late. From the plastic container inside the wardrobe door, she took a pair of ankle-strap shoes with a two-inch heel. The Nikes she used when she drove were on the back seat of the car.
Bridlesmith Gate and the narrow streets leading off it were the Fashion District of the city. Birdcage, Limey’s, Ted Baker, the first ever Paul Smith. Maureen’s shop was midway along King John’s Arcade, between Bottle Lane and Token House Yard. By Design. The arcade had been revamped in recent years, a tiled floor and covered roof leading past the café where Maureen frequently went for morning coffee, along to the decorated steps leading up to King John’s Chambers and the Fletcher Gate car park where she normally left her car.
Maureen had gained experience in just about every clothing store of note in the region, spending eighteen months as manager of the local branch of Warehouse before setting up on her own. She’d picked up the shop lease cheaply enough when a shoe store went into liquidation. A year to prove herself, convince the city’s shoppers of the virtues of second-hand designer clothes, two at most. Now, with the shop’s third birthday celebrations almost at the planning stage, she was beginning to relax. Just a little. If business carried on like this, she might even talk to the bank about expansion. Derby. Leicester. Even as far south as Milton Keynes.
The bulk of By Design’s stock comprised Suits from Hobbs and Jigsaw, outfits for her more mature ladies from Alexon or Jaeger, spangly little dresses from Karen Millen. Shoppers who ventured as far afield as Manchester or London sold her their last season specialties from Armani or Agnes b, Anna Sui.
Today she was particularly excited because one of her regulars had promised her a silver size 8 dress from Miu Miu and another, a woman closer to Maureen’s own size, was bringing in a pinstripe halterneck jumpsuit from DKNY. Maureen thought she might have to try that on herself.
Keys in hand, she tapped on the window of the café and waved as she went past. It was still only a quarter to nine and neither Kelly nor Samantha would put in an appearance until half past at the earliest. The shop itself didn’t open till ten.
Inside, she switched on the lights and looked around. The interior was quite long and narrow. Coats and suits hung in the dark wood unit she had had built along the rear wall, finishing at the door to her small office. Two changing cubicles took up the right-hand wall, boxed shelves of shoes and accessories filled the left. Dresses and skirts were on free-standing rails; knitwear, arranged by color, on a mahogany table. Catching a glimpse of herself in one of the mirrors, Maureen smiled. Everything was perfect.
She went back outside to unlock and remove the grille from the front window. Checked her watch. Plenty of time to nip back along the arcade for a coffee and a croissant, fetch them back to the shop.
Minutes later, she was back. As she was straightening a sweater sleeve she’d brushed on the way past, she noticed that one of the suit jackets seemed to have slipped a fraction lopsidedly from its hanger. Set it right now while you can. When she reached inside, a hand caught hold of her wrist. She screamed, but no sound came out because the other hand was tight across her mouth. She struggled and her assailant pushed her back, then flung her round, hard against the wall beside the office door. Old clothes that didn’t fit and stank with sweat, sour breath, a smile that played around the corners of his tightly drawn mouth; a warning, unmistakable, in the flecked gray of Michael Preston’s eyes.
They sat in the office, so small that from any point you could touch all four walls. Michael had pushed aside a pile of loose papers and was perching on the desk, catalogs and ring binders on the shelf close by his head. Maureen sat on the only chair. Michael had been sleeping rough, his hair was matted and his face unshaven; he could have been dossing down on the benches in the bus station or along the canal and no one would have looked twice. It was a quarter past nine. Their legs were touching. Both office and shop doors were locked.
“You’re not supposed …” Maureen stopped and began again. “It said you’d left the country, the news, it …”
“Good.”
“But why …?”
He was shaking his head. No questions other than his own. “You alone here today, or what?”
“No.” Instinctively, she glanced round toward the door. “My two girls, they’ll be here any minute.”
“When?”
“Half past nine.”
Michael nodded. “Send them home.”
“I can’t.”
“I thought you were the boss?”
“Why would I? There’s no reason. I don’t know what I’d tell them and anyway, they’d just hang around. All their friends, they work nearby, the other shops.”
“Then tell them you’re leaving ’em to it. Not feeling too great. Hangover, whatever.”
“I can’t. It’s my busiest day, I …”
He leaned in toward her, not much, just a little, the smile back at the edges of his mouth. “Is that what you think this is about? Whether you’re going to have a busy day? Sell a lot of poncey frocks?”
“No.”
His leg was pressing hard against her knees.
“Right, here’s what you do. Give me the keys to your car.”
“I …”
“Where is it? Up the top?”
Maureen nodded.
“Good. I’ll wait for you there. Go buy me some clothes, nothing fancy, nothing that’ll stand out. Shoes, size ten. You got a razor at home? A proper one, I mean?”
Again, she shook her head.
“Okay, get that sorted, too. And food. If you haven’t got much in, pick something up. I haven’t eaten a decent
meal in days.”
“There’s that croissant …”
“I said food.”
For a moment, Maureen closed her eyes. Then, because Preston had got to his feet she did the same. When she moved, she could feel the dampness of her body, the dry hollow inside her mouth. As well as Preston, she could smell herself, rancid through her perfume. It was like a room in which they had just made love, a sweated bed.
“You know better,” he said, “than to try and tell anyone about this? The police. Anyone.”
“Yes.”
He could scarcely hear the word. “What?”
“Yes. I said, yes. I …”
His hand was at her throat, the pressure from the bone at the base of his forefinger just enough to stop her breath. “If you do, I’ll kill you.”
Maureen’s legs went beneath her and to stop herself falling she pushed out both arms sideways against opposite walls.
“Why?” she asked, recovering, catching her breath. “Why me?”
Slowly, Michael ran his hand down her neck and across the thin covering of her chest until it touched her breast.
Hurrying out of Blazer with a cotton sweater and chambray shirt, Maureen nearly bumped into a young policewoman turning the corner on to the Poultry. Two of the several bags she was carrying were jolted from her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said hastily.
“No problem.”
“I just wasn’t looking …”
“You’re all right, don’t worry.”
The officer was half a head shorter than Maureen, ten, fifteen years younger; a roundish face, ends of dark hair poking out from beneath her uniform cap.
