Taunting the Dead (DS Allie Shenton)

by Sherratt, Mel

  ‘You could always ask Terry for help,’ said Carole.

  ‘Are you mad, woman?’ Shaun knocked back his drink and slammed the glass down onto the counter. ‘He’d be so pissed off with me for going behind his back that he’d do me over me in an instant.’

  ‘Of course he wouldn’t.’ Carole shook her head. ‘Terry’s not like that. Not with his mates.’

  ‘But I’m not really a mate. I don’t even like him that much nowadays.’

  Terry Ryder reminded Shaun of everything he hoped he’d be and everything that he wasn’t. Now, when they met up, which was fairly regular due to their wives’ friendship, it was written all over his face that he endured him. And although Terry was charming with it, he knew the feeling was mutual.

  ‘I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t,’ he added. ‘My life is over.’

  ‘No.’ Carole shook her head again. ‘There must be some way out of this mess. We’ll think of something eventually.’

  After leaving The Orange Grove, Steph arrived home and, armed with a bottle of wine, curled up on the sofa with two slices of cheese on toast.

  Although Carole was her friend she’d really got on her nerves today. Sometimes she couldn’t stand her constant complaining. She was always going on about how she had it so tough. Steph felt exasperated listening to her at times. She should try keeping up appearances. It was hard work getting tanned, having her hair perfected and her nails redone and shopping for clothes and charity event dresses—and that was without going to the gym to keep in shape.

  Secretly, Steph knew Carole only went on like that because she was jealous. They’d known each other since junior school. On leaving high school with hardly a GCSE between them, and after her mum had kicked Steph out because of her anti-social behaviour, she’d moved in with Carole and her mum. Shortly after that, they’d shared a dive of a flat on the Marshall Estate. Steph remembered them being inseparable back then and could clearly recall the night she’d bumped into Terry. They’d been to The Place nightclub in Hanley, long gone now but forever in the memories of some. Steph had been blown away first by his bad-boy reputation and second by his good looks. Back then, his dark hair had been full and cut in a shaggy style. His tall and scrawny figure had thickened a bit but, even now, he was still fit for his age.

  Carole had met Shaun a few weeks later but for all their thoughts of double dating, after a few meets it had been clear that the fellas weren’t going to get on as well as the girls. But they’d all kept in touch.

  To her dismay, Shaun had popped the question to Carole first, but because both of them were working in dead end jobs, making barely enough cash to live on, they’d had no spare money for a big wedding. They’d married at Hanley registry office and twenty-seven family members and twenty-two friends had walked across to The Albion and taken over the lounge for a wedding meal afterwards.

  Steph recalled how jealous she’d felt – and the hideous blue meringue dress she’d been made to wear as chief bridesmaid – and even on the day told Carole that she planned to celebrate in style when she and Terry married, even though he hadn’t proposed to her yet. But she could remember in much more detail when, buoyed up by the occasion and the cheap champagne, Terry had dropped to one knee and asked her to be his wife in the middle of their wedding meal. Carole had burst into tears, accusing Steph of hogging the limelight on her big day.

  Six months later, Terry had made an honest woman of her. They’d married in St Mary’s church in Bucknall and hosted an evening reception at The George and Dragon in Burslem. There was no four-night stay for her in a tacky guest house in Southport as Carole had had to make do with. Terry had whisked Steph off to Ibiza for a week of sun, sea, sand and what have you.

  It was sad to think that Carole had been her only real friend throughout her life. Of course, there were a lot of hangers-on because of Terry’s stature. Once he’d taken over after Maurice Sterling died, he he’d begun to rake in the money, buying up old terraced houses in the city and over in neighbouring Derby for a few grand at a time, and making a tidy profit on each one as he sold them on. Some of the properties were never touched and still quadrupled in price during the property boom. He’d started to do the same with land, and as for his businesses on the side? Well, Steph reckoned what the police didn’t know about was okay with her.

  When they’d moved into the house on Royal Avenue, Steph had been thrilled with the envious look on Carole’s face as she’d shown her around. Five bedrooms, four bathrooms, three garages, two living rooms and one ornamental pond became their strapline. It spoke volumes. She knew right there and then that she’d made it, especially moving off that scratty estate. Who cared that she wasn’t doing anything to make any money? If Terry wanted a good-looking bird on his arm, then that would be her full-time job. But that was when it had all started to go wrong.

  Her eyes felt heavy as she tried to concentrate on the television. What was that man going on about on the screen? She grabbed the remote and switched over to another channel. But minutes later, the wine bottle empty at her side, the room began to spin and she closed her eyes for a second.

  Waking up with a jolt as she heard a door slam shut and voices in the distance, Steph opened her eyes and tried to focus. What time was it? Shit. She saw Terry throw his keys across the kitchen worktop, saw a pair of black ballet-style pumps. Then a face appeared in front of her.

  ‘Fuck!’ she yelled, jumping up quickly. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack, you stupid cow.’

  ‘Yuck.’ Kirstie moved her face away as she grimaced. ‘You’re pissed again.’ She picked up the near empty wine bottle. ‘Have you drunk all of this in one session?’

  Steph snatched the bottle back and immediately wished she hadn’t as the room began to spin. She sat still to gain her wits. Glancing over towards the kitchen, she saw that Kirstie was now helping Terry to put a few bags of shopping away. Thank God. Kirstie must have been to Tesco. She’d forgotten to place an order online in her rush this morning.

  ‘I fell asleep,’ Steph said by way of explanation when she’d dragged herself over to join them. She pulled herself onto a stool and rested her head in her hands.

  ‘I gathered that much by the state of you.’ Terry’s tone was accusatory, to say the least.

  Steph sighed. Shit, she’d forgotten she’d had her hair done. She didn’t dare look at the state it would be in now. Hopefully she’d be able to salvage it later.

  They stared at each other for a moment before he turned away.

  ‘Kirstie, get me a glass of water, girl.’

  Kirstie ran the cold water, thrust the glass under the tap and then pushed it over to her. Terry opened a drawer and slid a small box of headache tablets along the work surface.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re drunk again,’ he muttered. ‘You show me up tonight and there will be trouble.’

  ‘I am not drunk,’ Steph corrected him. ‘I’ve slept it off.’

  ‘You’re drunk,’ he repeated.

  ‘Whatever you say.’ She tried to salute him but in doing so lost her footing. Kirstie caught her before she slid off the stool completely.

  ‘Jeez, Mum, you’re such an embarrassment. It’s barely teatime.’

  Steph held on to her head as she tried to support herself on the stool again. ‘I must be coming down with something,’ she replied. ‘I haven’t been feeling too good lately. As well as being sick, I’m having headaches. I’ve been to see Doctor Turner. He reckons they might be hormonal.’

  ‘More likely you were suffering from a hang-over each time,’ Terry retorted.

  ‘Don’t start on me the minute you come through the front door.’

  Terry laughed, and not a happy-go-lucky laugh – more an evil-sick-to-the-back-teeth-of-you snort. As Kirstie left the kitchen area to sit in the family room, Terry grabbed Steph’s chin and squeezed it hard.

  ‘Everything I do is for us. I made you but I can break you too.’ He snapped his fingers loudly next to her ear, causing her t
o jump. ‘You’d do well to remember that.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Tel.’ Steph tried to pull away but he squeezed her chin harder. ‘Gerroff me!’

  ‘You stink of alcohol. You’d better gargle a gallon of mouthwash before this evening.’ He jabbed a finger so close to her eye she thought he’d have it out.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she managed to whisper. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’ For a second, she thought he was going to hit out at her. Then his grip loosened and he dropped his hand. In a flash, his trademark smile was back.

  ‘No,’ he shook his head slightly, ‘you’ll always be a selfish bitch. There’s no way back for you, my darling.’

  The chill in his voice matched the foreboding she felt as he turned and walked away.

  Steph rested her head on the worktop again, this time too stunned to move. That was the side of Terry that she didn’t like. Most of the time she had the put-up-with-Steph-no-matter-what-she-did Terry. Sometimes, like today, Terry showed a glimpse of the man behind the reputation.

  But fuelled by the drink, complacency took over. Fuck him, she thought. He was always spouting off that he’d had enough of her, that he was going to do something about it if she didn’t buck her ideas up. Didn’t he realise that by now she knew they were empty threats?

  He’d come around. He always did.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Allie fastened the strap on her shoe, stood upright and gave herself a final once-over in the full length mirror. Realising her sexual allure, she pouted before grinning, loving how the new dress made her feel. She went downstairs, putting out of her mind the thought that she was making so much more of an effort than she would normally do for such an occasion as this.

  ‘Wow, you look hot!’ Mark whistled his appreciation when he saw her. He took her hand and kissed it lightly, and then placed it on the bulge forming in his crotch. ‘You look that hot!’

  Mark was wearing the black suit that she loved, thin lapels and trouser legs reminding her of the fashions when they’d first met. Along with it, he wore the lilac shirt she’d bought for him that morning, black tie fastened in a perfect knot.

  ‘You don’t look so bad yourself. The suit, I mean.’ Smiling, Allie pulled her hand away before walking off. But Mark pulled her into his arms.

  ‘You don’t expect me to waste it, do you?’ he complained.

  ‘You can keep it in your pants for now, Mister.’ Allie gave him a quick kiss. ‘I am not making a mess of my make-up purely to satisfy your needs.’

  He slipped a hand up her skirt. ‘Dick tease.’

  She slapped it away playfully. A horn beeped.

  ‘Saved by the hoot.’ She bit his bottom lip playfully. ‘But hold that thought for later. Come on.’

  Following Mark out into the dark, she caught a whiff of his aftershave and, as he held open the car door, she recalled the night that they’d met. They’d been dancing around each other in Valentino’s nightclub, she with a group of her friends, he with a bunch of his. After a few up-tempo beats, the music had changed and a somewhat-worse-for-wear Mark had grabbed her around the waist and pulled her into his arms. A few dances had turned into a few dates. A few dates had turned into a few more and their relationship had grown from strength to strength. Recently returned from university and not at all liking the fact that she was back at home with her parents, Allie had jumped at the chance to move in with Mark. He’d had a small terraced house in Green Street, not far from where she worked at the social services office. Life had been perfect for twenty-one-year-old Allie and not even what had happened to Karen had marred their relationship. If anything it had made it stronger, more reassuring and, well, right.

  The Moathouse hotel was situated on the site of the former National Garden Festival Park, now a retail area for the city. Allie loved pulling up outside its grand entrance: it made her feel stupidly regal. And this time of year, both inside and out looked particularly special. A huge Christmas tree sparkled in the reception area, decorations blowing slightly as the doors opened to the outside every few moments.

  The chatter of people out for a good time could be heard as Allie and Mark made their way through and into the reception venue. Christmas carols played in the background. Helium balloons bounced around like marionette puppets in the centre of every table, catching the eyes of some of the younger guests. A net attached to the ceiling was full of many more. Red table cloths draped to the floor over twelve round tables; white serviettes popped out of glasses, denoting the colours of the charity logo as well as their premier football team. At the back of the room, Signal 1, a local radio station, had set up their equipment on the raised area, ready to take over once the ABBA tribute band had performed.

  Allie glanced around, then spotted a hand waving to get their attention.

  ‘There’s Nick,’ she said to Mark. ‘I’ll head over.’

  ‘Suppose I’d better find my team first.’ Mark worked for a major UK bank, one of several sponsors for tonight’s event. He’d been there for twenty-two years – since he’d left university – and for the last five years had been regional commercial manager. He gave her hand a quick squeeze. ‘I’ll catch you in ten.’

  Allie slalomed through the tables to where Detective Inspector Nick Carter and his wife, Sharon, were seated. Wearing a navy blue suit with a pale grey stripe, Nick stood up to his full height of six foot three as she got to them. In his late forties, he was of medium build with the beginnings of middle-aged spread, with blonde hair thinning slightly at the hairline. He wore a genuine smile that reached his hazel eyes as he leaned towards her slightly.

  ‘I made sure we were put on Ryder’s table,’ he whispered. ‘You never know: one of these days, he might please us and slip up.’

  ‘Yeah, right, and all our Christmases will come at once,’ said Allie wryly. She turned to his wife. ‘You look gorgeous, Sharon. Good holiday?’

  While Sharon enlightened Allie about the delights of Hawaii, more and more people came into the room and soon the sound of chatter was heard above the music. Mark joined them minutes later.

  ‘I see we’ve been put on the naughty table.’ He shook hands with Nick before pulling out a chair. ‘To what do we owe this displeasure?’

  Before anyone had a chance to say anything, a ripple of applause started and guests began to stand as it reached them. Allie got to her feet but she didn’t clap. Mark did. Hypocrite, she mouthed at him.

  Terry and Steph Ryder stepped into the ballroom as if the toastmaster had announced the arrival of a bride and groom. A frisson of heat passed through Allie as she caught a glimpse of Terry in his black dinner suit, the cut giving away its expensive price. The white scarf hung strategically around his neck finished off the look of cool. For many of the people present, she was sure he lit up the room far more than his wife.

  Steph Ryder, gripping onto her husband’s arm, wore a red floor-length dress, the provocatively high side split revealing tanned and toned legs – Allie spied the black strappy shoes and made a note to compliment Mary Francis if they had been her choice. Over the strapless, sequinned bodice Steph wore a white fur shrug, matching gloves completing the perfect Christmas outfit.

  ‘Good evening, everyone,’ Terry greeted as he glided over with his wife. As introductions were made, a couple rushing in behind them scurried to their seats, the woman stopping to give Steph a quick kiss before checking place settings and plonking herself down.

  ‘Sorry we’re late.’ She held a hand to her chest as she caught her breath. ‘Haven’t missed anything, have we?’

  ‘Only our grand entrance,’ Steph replied stonily before sitting down across the table from Allie.

  Allie frowned slightly at Steph’s tone. She couldn’t believe it when Terry introduced the late couple as close friends. She watched as the woman, Carole Morrison, lowered her eyes and fussed in her handbag. She was plump with brown hair, deep red lipstick looking bold but striking teamed with the short, black dress she was wearing. Her husband, Shaun, looking uncomf
ortable in his suit, sat with a thump. His fair hair was still wet at the collar and he wore a scowl. Allie caught his eye and he gave her a nearly-there smile. Great, she thought, someone who doesn’t want to be here. That’ll make for a lively atmosphere.

  The small talk associated with that kind of occasion started.

  ‘I asked to sit next to you, Detective Sergeant,’ Terry addressed the table once the starters had been served.

  Allie nearly choked on her goat’s cheese and cranberry parcel starter. She glanced over at Nick, who raised his eyebrows discreetly.

  ‘Yes, I was curious to meet the member of Nick’s team who caught the nasty bastard who beat and stabbed his wife to death in one of my properties.’

  ‘It was a team effort, Mr Ryder,’ Allie assured him. She took a granary roll from the wicker basket in front of them and broke it in two.

  ‘It was nothing of the sort.’ Terry turned his head towards her and smiled, his eyes seeming to drink in her beauty for far longer than was appropriate. ‘A team is only as good as its leader. And, please,’ he ran a finger along her forearm, ‘call me Terry. “Mister Ryder” is far too formal.’

  ‘But Nick is my superior,’ Allie replied. ‘And this is a formal occasion.’

  Terry’s laughter rang around the room. One or two people looked over in their direction. ‘But you’re off duty now, surely?’ He picked up her glass and refilled it with wine. ‘Unless you’re one of those officers who are never off duty? Anyone else need a refill?’