by J P Lomas
It was only when he got her to reflect on her desires that Jane even got half of what Sobers was telling her. When the memory of her own near miss with DS Carl Roberts was awakened by the gin hitting home, she could see a little more hazily into the family/desire conflict her former boss was going through. And she didn’t have to add God into the mix. Well she did, but she figured that the shame of having to live with cheating on Tim would have made her feel worse than any lapsed Anglican scruples about adultery and its likely bearing on her immortal soul. But then again, maybe that was what all this religious stuff was about anyway; guilt. If only you could live without the guilt!
She emptied her glass and insisted on making her way to the bar to buy their next round.
Chapter 25
J is for Journalism
Well at last they’ve made out the picture I was painting for them! The tabloids are now calling them the ‘Rub-a-dub’ killings. I had to drive all the way out to Topsham to buy the red tops, well there’s no point in becoming careless, is there? It’s always some little detail like that which catches out the over confident ones.
Photos of all three of them were splashed side by side on the cover of The Daily Sleaze with ‘The Butcher, The Baker and The Candlestick-maker’ plastered underneath in a banner headline. ‘Today’ even had colour photographs; which to my eye made the whole thing more fantastic. Death needs to be reported in monochrome.
The coverage was at least more accurate than some of the left wing drivel on the BBC. One of their so-called journalists (no more than a poster boy for Kinnock in my opinion) had even tried to link the killings to Mrs Thatcher’s economic policies! They’d wasted even more taxpayers’ money in getting some expert or other to analyse how the three victims symbolised the decline of traditional industries in the UK...
What rubbish!
The killings are simple – they’re about personal freedom. The philosophy of the free market applied to relationships. They’ll allow me to sleep with whoever I want, whenever I want and give me the money to do it with for as long as I want. If that’s Thatcherism, then I’m a Thatcherite. She swept away the old ways of doing things and I’m just following her example.
Look what a joke this country had become before she took over. We won the last war and yet we had to beg the French and Germans to let us into the Common Market and then they started getting us to pay for everything! Just so a few wops could have free healthcare! Well, thank God for Maggie! At least she told them where they could stick their demands and got us some of our cash back. No one else would have stood up to Europe like she did.
And thanks to her we’re beginning to root out the shirkers, dole scroungers and benefit cheats over here who take advantage of everyone else’s hard work, as she rewards those who reward themselves. If you work hard, you get what you want. Sometimes people might get in the way, but they represent the past and cannot be allowed to hold back the future. You have to cut back the dead wood every spring; it’s the only way for new growth. That’s Nature and that’s also Thatcherism.
My journal is a testament to the new world we’re now living in. It may take time before people begin to appreciate it, but even Christianity took a few centuries to catch on. In our new secular society, the money changers have moved back into the temple and the tablets of stone are being re-written. Thatcherism helps those who help themselves is the new commandment.
****
It took Jane a while to realise where she was. The familiar feeling of a gin hangover seeping through her brain made navigating her surroundings more difficult. She was clearly in bed, though clearly not the one she shared with Tim. For a moment she wondered if she was on a waterbed, yet the only thing making this room sway was the dregs of last night’s drinking session. Last night. She moved her head on the plush pillow and her eyes fell on the serene features of a sleeping Sobers.
Shit.
She carried out an inventory of her clothing. An unfamiliar man sized T-Shirt reproducing the classic paperback cover of ‘Hangover Square’ was where her blouse had been last night. The corner of her eye caught her bra and panties draped over a smart wooden chair.
Double shit.
She felt Sobers moving next to her. His modesty was barely concealed by a pair of boxers. Her hand brushed against a very large erection. At least some stereotypes lived up to expectation she thought guiltily as it hardened further under her caress.
‘Naughty.’
His large, brown eyes were smiling at her as he gently removed her hand. Well, if she had crossed the Rubicon, she had certainly crossed it with a beautiful, intelligent and sensitive lover she thought as she gazed at his fit, athletic upper body. Whether this would make up for the guilt welling up on the other side of her brain was another matter? At the moment she had her hangover to protect her, yet when that went she knew months of self-loathing lay ahead.
And the worse of it was she couldn’t even remember it!
Derek, surely she had to stop thinking of him as Sobers, was kissing her, although not passionately on the mouth as she both craved and feared, but more chastely on her cheek.
‘Don’t worry. I’m still a repressed homosexual and you’re still the good little wifey!’
So they hadn’t done it. Why was her huge sigh of relief tinged by a pang of regret, perhaps it was the sight of Derek’s tight bum as he got out of bed to go to the kitchen, which made her still drunkenly regret her unrequited lust.
Fragments of last night began to rearrange themselves for Jane. Talking about the case in ‘The Abbot’ and then getting on to the personal stuff. Finding out that Derek was still not coming to terms with his sexuality and then emotionally dumping on him her near miss with Carl. They’d gone on to Soho. A gay pub called ‘The Rear Admiral’ if she remembered correctly. She had a sudden horrible recollection of trying to pick up a man for him. She must have had the best part of a bottle of gin by this point. A poster advertising a club called ‘Paradise Lust’ spiralled into her mind. She guessed they must have got a cab back to Derek’s place in Westminster.
Why hadn’t she caught the 4.50pm from Paddington as she’d intended? She’d only meant to meet Derek for lunch to chat about the case. What would Tim and her children be thinking? And why, oh why, was her underwear on the back of a bedroom chair?
He returned with coffee, water and a couple of aspirins for her. He’d make the perfect lover, if only he wasn’t gay!
‘Thanks for trying to straighten me out,’ Derek grinned.
‘Oh God, what did I do?’
‘Threw your inhibitions to the wind and tried to make a man out of me.’
Jane pulled the duvet over her head.
‘Don’t worry, you were very sweet and I was very flattered.’
He handed her the water and the tablets which she gratefully swallowed.
‘Did I? Did we?’
‘You were just beginning to try and rouse my interest when you fell asleep. I popped you in a T-Shirt and passed out beside you.’
Burying her head in the pillow Jane couldn’t work out what was worse: failing to seduce a gay man or waking up in a vicarage with no underwear on and a pounding hangover? At least she supposed it was the vicarage?
‘Don’t worry - I called Tim from the pub. Told him you were crashing here. He might have flattered my ego a bit by sounding jealous, but I think he was just pissed off you’d forgotten your evening out at the cinema.’
She groaned.
‘It happens, Jane. Temptation waits around every corner. I’ve been struggling with the sins of the flesh ever since I realised I was gay.’
‘I want to die.’
‘No you don’t. You need a cup of coffee, some breakfast and perhaps some time reflecting on what drew you and Tim together in the first place.’
‘You’ll be asking me to pray next, ‘she complained.
‘Forgiveness comes in all sorts of ways, Jane. We just have to want to be forgiven.’
‘And do you think I don’t
?’ she blazed throwing herself back on to the bed in a fair imitation of Jen’s latest tantrum.
He sighed, walked to the kitchen and returned a few moments later with a plate of toast.
‘You’ve been having a stressful time. You’re a detective, a wife and a mother. Being good at one of those would be enough for some people. Like everyone you’re allowed to make mistakes. The God I believe in is a loving one, not a vengeful one. He knows we keep getting it wrong and yet he still holds out forgiveness for us.’
Jane took the toast sulkily ‘One of your sermons?’
‘No, that’s one I’ve borrowed from a colleague. Just think how this might look for me. Getting plastered and waking up with an attractive, married woman would probably get me defrocked if my bishop found out!’
‘Now that would be ironic, having lost your last job for being gay,’ she smiled.
He grinned ruefully – ‘The Lord does work in mysterious ways.’
She put her mug down and hugged him.
‘At least we cracked the case,’ he smiled, ‘or do you need one of those recaps they give you on the telly?’
****
Osborne, Jordan and Dent stood amid the serried ranks of mourners, as Gerald Mallowan’s coffin was borne along the nave of Exeter Cathedral. The pall bearers were immaculately fitted out in dark, funereal dress and the hefty corpse inside the expensive coffin seemed no more than a light weight on their broad shoulders.
Osborne felt uncomfortable being so close to the Chief Constable. If this was purely a police occasion he could have tolerated it better; however Dent’s attempts at making small talk before the ceremony had made him feel like a schoolboy being asked by his headmaster to discuss the latest trends in Pop Music. He also felt that there was something else underneath Dent’s apparent need for light banter about sport and television, that of a certainty anxiety about the case. Some very awkwardly engineered questions about progress on the case had tangentially followed a bizarre question about whether he thought Elton John’s latest album was any good.
Fortunately, Hawkins had warned him in advance that Dent was beginning to feel under pressure from certain questions now arising from the press about the management of the investigation into the Baker case and the evidence they’d brought against his widow. Given the interest in the case, as evinced by the scrum of journalists outside the Cathedral (now supplemented by both national and international TV crews), Osborne supposed it had been inevitable that questions would be asked. One of the Sundays had gained access to Spilsbury’s widow, who had not only ably defended her husband’s memory, but had also made several assertions about how he’d been put under unbearable pressure to gain a conviction. The tone of the published article had clearly conveyed Felicity Spilsbury’s inevitable bitterness towards the service. This was underscored by a suggestion that her early widowhood had been hastened by the ways in which her husband had been manoeuvred into charging Connie Baker.
According to Jordan, Dent wasn’t far from having to take a premature retirement himself. Better that he had suggested than an internal investigation. This seemed to be why Dent was paying such close attention into getting a result in the most high profile case to hit Devon since Sir Walter Raleigh had been arraigned as a traitor!
As the last verse of ‘Abide with me’ faded away, Osborne sat down amidst the sumptuous Gothic splendour of the cathedral. A suitably grand setting he reflected for a suitably grand man. The great and the supposedly good were in attendance, the massive columns supporting the roof of the nave weren’t the only pillars of the community present. From what Dent had told him, in rather envious tones, most of the City’s councillors were in attendance, along with the local grandees and most of the hunting fraternity. Osborne wasn’t sure if they were there merely to pay their respects to this former yacht broker turned highly successful property developer, or hoping that some of the attendant media interest might fall on them.
He glanced across and saw the slender figure of Maggie Mallowan in the front pew. This case seemed to leave beautiful widows trailing in its wake – he recalled Hawkins telling him how all the eyes at Baker’s funeral had been drawn to the alluring and elegant Connie. He found himself distractedly wondering if George Kellow had had a beautiful lover who was an in-the-closet Rock ‘n’ Roll star? He hoped he hadn’t smirked at the idea, but there was something about funerals which made him want to behave inappropriately. It was even worse with people he knew, it wasn’t that he didn’t care, it was just he found it hard to be as solemn as everyone else.
At least, unlike Dent, he wasn’t turning around and trying to catch the eyes of the local big wigs. He hoped at least Hawkins was feeling better, he would have much preferred to be sitting next to her on an occasion like this.
Chapter 26
Jane watched her daughter sleeping peacefully. Jenny’s bobbed hair lay gracefully against her pillow and she looked like the little girl Jane had always seen her as. A poster of an American GI with the words ‘Meat is Murder’ was blue tacked to one peach coloured wall, whilst a more restful image of a dolphin cub was positioned above her desk. Mr Snuggles, the little teddy she’d had from birth was still perched above her books and a Paddington Bear kept it ursine company.
Her choice of reading was now no longer Enid Blyton or Judy Blume. Nowadays they were well thumbed A’ level texts. ‘Othello’ and ‘The Miller’s Tale’ were two she remembered studying herself. Soon Jen would be going to Warwick to read Drama, leaving just Leo and Max at home. They grew up too quickly she sighed – it seemed much less than seventeen years since she was breastfeeding Jen, whilst Tim was still working in sales. She sometimes felt guilty that she had allowed him to give up his career to look after them and that she had gone back to full time work; although Tim had been keener to give up it was true and the career prospects for her had once been better.
She brushed some dust off Jen’s pink ghetto blaster with her hand and wondered whether to get angry with her daughter about the condoms she had found in her bag. They’d had a blazing row about the smoking last year and Tim had supported her on that one, and yet she was fairly sure Jen had ignored her advice. There was no longer any evidence of it in her room – unless of course the joss sticks were covering it up?
Perhaps she needed to take a sabbatical and spend more time with the family? The long morning she’d spent in bed with Tim had made her remember why she loved him so much and gave her no residual guilt about pulling a sickie. She tucked the duvet up and envied Tim his parenting skills. He’d been the one to allow Jen to go the concert at the Cornwall Coliseum last year and that had worked out ok. At least she if was having sex then thankfully she was having safe sex, would most likely be Tim’s view of her discovery. He was becoming such a pinko-liberal nowadays she wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t make up the spare room for her boyfriend!
Did Jen even have a boyfriend? She’d recently moved on from talking about a boy called Rob, who she had been obsessing about last year. Hadn’t she said something about someone called Jake, or was it Jack that she’d met at her Sixth Form College? Tim would know she thought a little jealousy.
And anyway finding evidence of a condom packet was only that. It just meant Jen had access to condoms it didn’t mean she was having sex. And if Jen was having sex, then she was sensibly taking care not to get pregnant, or pick up some STD. Perhaps Jen had wanted her to find it? It certainly had been more carelessly hidden than the cannabis they’d argued over…
She thought back to her first time. It had been at Charlie Rutherford’s house in Devonport. They’d both celebrated their O’Level results with a bottle of cider and an attempt at recreating some of the spirit of that year’s Summer of Love. In the end it had been among the least romantic experiences she’d ever enjoyed. And it certainly hadn’t been safe. She could still recall the anxious weeks wondering if she was pregnant and panicking about what she would do if she was. It wasn’t until she’d met Tim that she’d decided to try and repeat the
experience. And then she’d got pregnant with Jen after their very first time!
She walked into Leo’s room. A hand stencilled ‘No Entry – Biological Hazard Warning’ sign was tacked to his door. Inside a huge ‘Guns ‘n’ Roses’ poster dominated one wall, against the other a tottering pile of computer games was stacked up against the old black and white portable TV they let him use as a computer monitor. A picture of a girl in a bikini was above his bed, although it was not as revealing or provocative as the poster of Madonna he’d once put up. Leo’s absence surprised her, until she remembered that he was going to the football with Kev and Ben that afternoon. He’d probably hared off already for the pre-match analysis.
If Kevin hadn’t been a colleague from work – a D.C. whose son Ben was at school with Leo, she probably wouldn’t have allowed Tim to let their son start attending home games at Exeter City. Especially as her dad’s family were all Argyle supporters. And yet it had been the television coverage of the fans dying in their dozens at Hillsborough at the end of last season which had nearly made her forbid it. The images of them trying to clamber over the security fences and on to the pitch to escape the fatal crush on the terraces behind them had made her think long and hard before allowing her boy to start going to the Grecians’ home games the following season.
She’d then tried to use the fear of football hooliganism as a valid reason for denying Leo the pleasure of spending a couple of hours on a Saturday standing in a dilapidated grandstand watching two teams kick lumps out of each other, but Leo, with his unwavering logic, had said Kev would look after him and Ben. This seemed a fair enough point as the DC not only had a warrant card, but an imposing physique to go with it. One she sometimes considered Ben’s mum as having been daft to leave him for.
