by Jill McGown
“Is it ridiculous? I’ve been holding a glass to a couple of walls, and what I am telling you is this—you should distance yourself as fast and as far as you can from DI Hill, because it’s not all over yet.”
Lloyd gasped. “What?” he said, almost laughing, it was so ludicrous. “Why on earth should I do that?”
Case sighed. “The words shit and fan come to mind,” he said.
“What shit?” demanded Lloyd. He spread his hands. “What fan?”
“I don’t know yet,” said Case. “But I’ll recognize it when I see it.”
“Perhaps you’ve been overworking,” said Lloyd. He laughed. “If you knew DI Hill, you wouldn’t—”
Case threw his pen down on the desk in a gesture of frustration. “I’m trying to do you a favor here!” he shouted.
“May I ask why you should want to do me a favor?”
“Good God, man, why do you think? Because shit goes in all directions, including up! I’m asked to conduct a damage-limitation exercise on a claim visited on us by a load of bent coppers, and what do I find? My second in command is humping one of them! She’s using you, man! She used you to get her out of Malworth before that arrest went down, she used you to get a quick arrest on the murder, and she’s using you now that she’s trying to cover her ass! This whole thing is going to blow, sooner or later. Is it worth risking your pension for the sake of an occasional leg-over?”
Lloyd leapt to his feet. He did not obey the order to sit down. And he wasn’t laughing anymore.
Ginny woke up, momentarily confused, thinking that she had to get up and get Lennie his breakfast, then realized that she was wearing the sweater, and remembered why she was in bed, with a smile.
It was too hot in here with the duvet and the central heating and Lennie and the sweater. She sat up and peeled it off, shivering a little as perspiration dried on her skin. He hadn’t let her take it off. She snuggled up to him, skin against skin, and kissed his cheek as he slept. Then she saw the time, and reluctantly nudged him.
“It’s ten to eight,” she said. “You’ve got to get the taxi back to Rob.”
Lennie opened an eye. “Fuck the taxi,” he mumbled.
“Aw, Lennie, he gets mad if you don’t take it back on time, and you’re going to be late as it is. He might take it off you.”
He was asleep again. She leaned over him and switched on the bedside light, shaking his shoulder. “Lennie,” she said.
He pulled her down on top of him, kissing her, then held her in his arms, his eyes still closed.
“Do I have to go down the park again tonight?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
“The Ferrari?” she said.
“No.” He cuddled her. “We’ll have a night off,” he said.
Ginny burrowed herself into the crook of his arm. “Can we have a take-away?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “A take-away and a couple of videos— how’s that sound?”
“Great. But Lennie—”
“I know,” he said, opening his eyes at last. “I’ve got to take the taxi back first.” He made to kiss her, then frowned, touching her neck. “What are those marks?” he asked.
Ginny giggled. “You should know,” she said.
“They’re not love bites! They’re bruises.”
His fingers touched them; it didn’t hurt. The bruises had come out that morning; she’d seen them in the mirror. That was why she’d put on the polo neck, so Lennie wouldn’t see them and ask about them; she’d forgotten.
“Someone’s had you by the throat,” he said.
“Must’ve been one of the punters at the park,” she said.
He shook his head. “I’d have heard all about it if one of them had done it,” he said, sitting up, kneeling beside her. “You never stopped complaining. Who was it, Ginny?”
“The one this afternoon,” she said.
“You wouldn’t be able to see the bruises yet.” He pushed her chin up so she had to look at him. “Don’t tell lies. It was Jarvis, wasn’t it?”
“No,” she said, twisting away, looking down at the duvet. It matched the curtains. She loved their bedroom.
“It was Jarvis—why did he do that?” He caught her shoulders, made her look at him again. “Why, Ginny?”
“No reason. He just gets mad sometimes. ’Cos he can’t do it with his wife and he doesn’t want to do it with me, not really. Don’t make a fuss, Lennie—it was last time. He was all right this morning.”
“I don’t give a stuff when it was,” said Lennie, pulling on his clothes. “I’ll make a fuss, all right. That bastard isn’t going to do that to you and get away with it.” He was out of the door, in seconds, rattling down the stairs.
“Lennie—” She scrambled out of bed, running after him, trying to think of some way of stopping him. The front door slammed, and she sat down on the top step. She couldn’t have stopped him, anyway.
She went back into the room and pulled on the sweater, then went downstairs, picked up the jogging bottoms, and pulled them on.
Then she sat at the kitchen table, her head in her arms, dreading Lennie coming back.
Where was the bloody cab? Tonight of all nights, he has to be late with it, Rob thought, pacing up and down the living room, looking out of the window every time he reached it, taking the same measured strides, the same length of time, for each trip.
If there was one thing Lennie Fredericks knew, it was that the cab had to be back here at eight o’clock. My God, didn’t he skim off enough money in the time he had it, that he had to run into overtime?
He picked up the phone, and punched Lennie’s number, but the line was out of order, or something.
Finally, on one of his trips, when he was at the other end of the room to the window, he heard the mournful squeal of the brakes, and ran through the room, out into the hallway, out of the front door, to where Lennie had pulled up.
Carole heard the brakes, too, and looked out of the bedroom window to see Rob pull open the back door and get into the cab, and the cab turning in the road and roaring off in a great puff of exhaust smoke.
Lennie would have to be late tonight, when she had been sitting on the edge of the bed, a pillow clasped to her stomach, as she had when she was a child, and was being expected to perform in some school production. The pillow seemed to help fill the terrible empty pit of fear. She had longed for Lennie to come, and prayed that he wasn’t going to, that she could legitimately cancel her plans.
But she had got the worst of both worlds: Lennie, late. They had gone now, she told herself, forcing herself to remove the pillow, put it back where it belonged. Now, she had to stand up, walk downstairs, open the front door, and walk around to the garage and get the car.
Her knees still shook, but she was walking, she was going downstairs.
“Where the hell were you?” Rob demanded, raising his voice against the protesting engine as Lennie drove too fast through Stansfield, out to the dual carriageway. “Don’t get us a ticket!” he shouted. “There’s a speed trap along here!”
“There were cops all over the house,” Lennie said, slowing down.
“Why?”
“Looking for stolen property,” said Lennie, approaching the first of the big new roundabouts, the one that took him onto the bypass. “Ginny might have nicked something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t make head nor tail of what she said. I don’t know, I don’t want to know, and I don’t care.”
Rob shut up then, but he started going at him again when he had to wait for ages at the turning for Parkside. At last, he was on his way, driving past the still unlit bonfire which was beginning to gather a crowd while everything was being set up for it to start at eight-thirty. The smell of hot dogs wafted in through his half-open window; he was reminded about the take-away. He couldn’t stop at the Indian, Rob wouldn’t hear of it. He had a booking, and Lennie had made him late. Oh, dear, what a pity.
He’d go
out later, get a Chinese, maybe. She liked that better than Indian, any way.
He pulled up outside the house, pulling on the hand brake, getting out as Rob did, taking him by surprise, grabbing him by the throat and pushing him hard against the shuddering cab, holding him there as Rob tried to pull his hand away.
“You lay a finger on Ginny again and you’re a dead man,” he said, and released him.
Rob rubbed his neck, cleared his throat a little. “I was just giving her a lesson in self-preservation,” he said. “There’s no point in keeping a gun if you don’t know how to use it.”
A what? Lennie couldn’t believe what he’d heard. She still had it? He had told her to take it back where she’d got it. Shit! She hadn’t taken it back at all. And that’s what all that nonsense had been about. All that business about the police not finding it, about Rob maybe having told them. What if they had found it? They’d have done him for having it, and quite likely done him for whatever job it had been used for.
“She keeps it in the drawer with S and M stuff,” said Rob. “I think she reckons it’s better protection than you, Lennie.” He got into the cab, and closed the door. “So do I,” he added, through the open window.
Lennie wasn’t listening. “Just wait till I get my hands on her,” he said, as Rob reversed out.
She didn’t know the first thing about guns—the stupid little bitch, the stupid little bitch. She would blow her head off with the bloody thing. And if she thought she’d avoided a hiding with that rigamarole this evening, she was wrong. She was going to get the hiding of her life for this.
CHAPTER NINE
CAROLE STOOD IN THE COURTYARD, LOOKING AT the row of garages. Each door had been painted a different color now; theirs was maroon. The Council must have used vandal-proof paint, she thought; there was no graffiti. She stood still on the pavement, her foot unwilling to step onto the tarmac. She kept turning at every sound, looking along the little exit road, thinking she could see someone in the shadows, but there was no one there. And the dark skies were lit by flares and sparks, the night full of loud, comforting noises.
She tried to walk forward, toward the maroon door. She had the key. She just had to open it. Once she had done it, it would be all right. Once she had walked in there, the worst part would be over. Getting into her car wouldn’t seem so impossible anymore. Somehow, she moved to the door, and crouched down to the low lock. Her hand was shaking too much to insert the key, and she couldn’t stop the memories.
Of lying on her face, her hands taped behind her back, her ankles crossed and taped together. Of being pulled up by her hair, onto her knees, the knife touching her neck, the ungloved hand lifting her head, forcing open her mouth; of the voice telling her what she must do, of retching when it was over. Of being pushed down onto her back while she was still on her knees, of lying there, exposed and vulnerable, unable to move, her feet trapped beneath her body, her thighs splayed painfully wide. Of being penetrated over and over again with sudden, savage thrusts, of being viciously stretched and squeezed and bitten and sucked, her involuntary sobs of pain and fear stifled by a gloved hand stuffed into her mouth. Of being told all the time that he was the Stealth Bomber, he was the Stealth Bomber. Of the terrifying silence that had followed the ferocity, of listening in the darkness to his breathing growing fast and shallow, not knowing what was happening, what was going to happen. Of lying rigid with fear as she had been washed with some sort of baby wipe.
She could still smell it, a strange, alien, innocent smell in amongst the sweat and the blood and the dust and the degradation. He had worked carefully, silently, wiping her, combing her, cleaning up her bleeding, bruised, and torn body as methodically as he had violated it.
Then he had pulled her back up onto her knees, and she had heard the scrape of metal as he had picked up the knife once more, heard the swish as its blade flicked out. Don’t kill me, don’t kill me. Please, please. Don’t kill me. She hadn’t spoken the words aloud; he hadn’t killed her. The tape had been cut from her wrists and ankles, and it had been over.
It was over. Tears were streaming down her face, but the key was in the lock. Behind that door, there was no horror. It had been twenty minutes of her life; it had been twenty-seven months ago. It mustn’t rule her life, not anymore. She wiped the tears, turned the handle, pulled it up. He had dominated her then, but she had been helpless to prevent him; she wasn’t helpless now, and he must not be allowed to dominate her now. She had to get past this; she had to move on, and there was only one way. The door opened with a rush, and Carole looked into her garage for the first time since that night.
And her eyes widened at what she saw.
Eight twenty-five, and still no sign of Lloyd. Judy wanted to talk to Ginny; she wanted to know what had happened in Hosier’s Alley. She could have gone to see her from work, if she had known that Case was going to keep Lloyd this late. Another ten minutes passed; she left a note for Lloyd to the effect that she would be back at about nine, and went to set her mind at rest.
The traffic at the turnoff held her up; she wouldn’t be back for nine, which had been a silly thing to think in the first place, since Ginny might be entertaining a client, and she would have to wait. Lennie would probably be out looking for the next one, though, so that was one hurdle she shouldn’t have to clear.
She would be late back, and there would be another row. But she had seen Ginny in court, and none of the people who were so certain they knew what had happened that night had seen her give evidence, except Hotshot, and even he said she had been compelling. She just wanted to know. It was personal. It was a test of her instincts.
The lights were on, so at least someone was in, but the Transit was in the alley, so she would have to negotiate Lennie after all. Judy knocked on the door, and waited, but there was no reply. Maybe Lennie was still out with the cab. Ginny must be with a client, Unlike Tom, she did not keep knocking on the door in order to bring her down from her labors. She would wait in the car until she saw the punter leave.
She had been waiting about five minutes when she saw Drummond approach; the number of that bike was one that she had firmly committed to her less than reliable memory. He drove past; she checked her watch. Five to nine. Oh, well, she might as well be hung for a sheep and all that. She wanted to know where Drummond was going, in view of his unfinished business. She did a three-point turn, which surprised her with its efficiency; she wasn’t the world’s greatest maneuverer of a car. A car that obeyed her was a plus. She followed his rear light through the cobbled streets, the traffic moving slowly as people made their way to the bonfire, stepping out into the road with no regard for safety. And as the flames of the bonfire lit the black shiny surface of his bike, Drummond rode across the rough ground, behind the crowds of people, heading toward the underpass.
Judy couldn’t follow in the car; she ran down the window and watched Drummond as he arrived at the underpass and dismounted, hoisting the bike onto its stand. He removed his helmet, and walked down the ramp. She parked as soon as she found a space, and jumped out. He had a three-minute start on her, but she might as well see if she could find out where he was going. She walked quickly through the onlookers, feeling the heat from the huge crackling fire as she passed, seeing the Guy Fawkes perched on top begin to catch, smelling the onions from the hot dogs. She was hungry; she was supposed to be having dinner.
But if, as she suspected, she had lost Drummond, she might just come back and have a hot dog and watch the real fireworks, rather than go back to Lloyd’s emotional ones. The music began, and a whoosh of flame rose and burst, raining color against the black sky as she reached the underpass. The firework display had begun.
Her lip swelling, blood pouring down her face, down her neck, soaking into Lennie’s sweater, Ginny had cowered into the corner of a buttress, trying to make herself invisible; the footsteps had passed, and with the relief, she had felt herself drift away.
Now her head was swimming, her eyes were throbbing, and
there was a dull ache down the side of her face. She closed her eyes; it hurt too much to keep them open. There was a lot of noise. Bangs and cracks, and something that sounded like a machine gun. Music. More bangs and sizzles. She screamed as someone touched her, covering her head to shield it from further blows. But the hands were gentle, the voice female.
“Ginny?” An arm was around her shoulders. “Oh, my God, Ginny—What’s happened to you?”
She looked up, but she couldn’t see very well. Her eyes hurt, and anyway it was growing very dark …
She opened her eyes again. Her eyes still hurt, and the left one wouldn’t open. She was lying on her side, her face on the damp paving, her legs drawn up.
“Ginny—just lie still till you feel better.”
It was Inspector Hill. She was feeling her pulse, moving her hands over her ribs, moving her arms and legs.
“I’m all right,” Ginny said.
“You’re not. I’ve got to get you to casualty, Ginny. Do you think you can get up?”
She didn’t want to get up. Why did she always have to get up first? Couldn’t someone bring her a cup of tea in bed sometimes?
A voice from very far away. “Ginny—don’t think there’s anything broken. I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t move.”
She’d gone. Good. Ginny wanted to go back to sleep …
She opened her eyes again, and she was sick. She sat up, her back against the wall, and closed her throbbing eyes. She heard more footsteps, and opened them again. Inspector Hill crouched down beside her.
“Good girl. How do you feel?”
“Terrible. Sick.”
“Do you still feel faint?”
“No.”
“Do you think you can get to the car? I’ve brought it right to the underpass.”
She was being lifted up. Not like Lennie lifted her up, not swept up into someone’s arms. Just lifted, the inspector’s hands under her armpits, like you lifted a baby.
“Ginny, if you lean on me, can you walk a few steps to the car?”
