by Jill McGown
They had talked about themselves, mostly. And a lot about Lloyd, a little about Michael, Judy’s ex. A little about his ex, with whom he still had a friendly relationship. A little about Freddie. Now, a silence had fallen, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
Judy liked Hotshot. He always seemed to be faintly amused; he didn’t take anything much very seriously, except his job. That was why he and his wife had split up, he said. He didn’t think he was cut out for a serious relationship; he liked to take things as they came, and leave them when he wanted to. There was something calming, something soothing about that; it was very undemanding, unthreatening. And it seemed to her that he was a very good man to have around when you were in trouble; he didn’t make matters worse by getting into a state about it.
“If I am charged with murder, will you defend me?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
“Why not?”
He smiled. “I think you know why not,” he said.
Judy looked at him, and smiled back. She picked up the bottle, and held it inquiringly over his glass.
“It depends,” he said.
“On what?”
“On whether or not I’m driving.”
She thought about it; thought about the sheer relief that a cheerful, uncomplicated liaison, free from emotional entanglements, would bring. She thought about it, then put the bottle down again, a little reluctantly.
“Pity,” he said. “It could be fun.”
“I’m sure it would be,” said Judy. “We could make all these jokes about sliding down barristers and watching briefs.”
He smiled. “But you think that sex should be some sort of a commitment?”
“No,” said Judy. “I don’t, really. Not even when I’m sober.” She poured the wine into her own glass. “But I know a man who does,” she said. “And that’s very important to me.”
“Then why are you ringing up near total strangers and inviting them to bed with you?” Hotshot inquired, still smiling.
“I did not invite you to bed.”
“Yes, you did.”
“All right—yes, I did,” Judy conceded. “But I canceled the invitation.”
“I didn’t get that far along the tape.”
“Yes, you did.”
He laughed. “And I thought I was on a promise,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” said Judy. “I shouldn’t have rung you—I was hurt, and angry, and—well, I shouldn’t have rung.” She looked back into the kind, amused gray eyes that looked into hers. “Look—I’ve messed everything up,” she said. “My job’s on the line. Maybe so’s my freedom, for all I know. But if it’s not there already, my relationship with Lloyd’s not joining them.”
“Even though he makes you hurt and angry?” Hotshot’s eyes were still amused.
“He only does that because I make him hurt and angry,” said Judy.
“Sounds like a wonderful relationship.”
“It is.”
“Good.”
Hotshot managed to get up from the carpet gracefully; Judy wasn’t even going to try without assistance.
“Why on earth don’t you marry the man?” he asked, holding out his hand and helping her to her feet.
Judy might have answered, had the door not opened, and Lloyd appeared. She and Hotshot were holding hands. Still, if her mental coin had landed the other way, it could have been a great deal worse.
“I’m sorry,” he said coldly. “I didn’t realize you were entertaining.”
“I’m not,” said Judy. “I’m quite drunk, but I’m not in the least entertaining. Lloyd, this is—” She looked at him, and giggled. “I don’t know your first name,” she said.
“James,” he said.
“This is James Harper, and James, this is Lloyd. I do know his first name, but I’m not allowed to tell you it.”
“How do you do?” said Hotshot, admirably bearing up to Lloyd’s less than friendly handshake. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Don’t let me break anything up,” said Lloyd.
“I was just leaving,” said Hotshot, smiling, picking up his jacket, making for the door.
Judy went with him. “Thank you,” she said. “I think I did need a good lawyer. You cheered me up.”
“You’re welcome. And I’m sure it won’t come to it, but if you do really need a good … well, I can give you the name of a very good lawyer. It’s the same as mine—he’s my father.”
“The other Harper,” Judy said. “I’ll bear that in mind.” She closed the door.
“What was he doing here?” demanded Lloyd.
Judy smiled. “Giving me advice,” she said.
“It didn’t look like that,” said Lloyd. “And how much have you had to drink?”
Judy focused on the wine bottles. “He had about a glassful, I suppose,” she said. “I had the rest.” She squinted at them. “There’s still some in one of them if you want a glass,” she said. “And you’re right—it very nearly wasn’t like that.” She knew she was only saying this because she’d had far too much to drink, but she was going to tell him anyway. “I came this close,” she said, holding her finger and thumb a millimeter apart.
“I hope you didn’t deny yourself on my account,” he said, picking up a newspaper, pretending to be terribly interested in something that had just happened to catch his eye.
“No,” said Judy. “I didn’t.”
He looked up.
“There was no self-denial involved,” she said. “It wasn’t him I wanted. It was you.”
“Why?” asked Lloyd. “He’s twenty years younger than I am, he’s handsome, got all his hair—he’s rich and successful. You seem to like him.”
Judy nodded, then giggled again. “But he was ten years old when we met,” she said.
Lloyd put down the paper, and his arms were around her, and he wasn’t walking out on her, or yelling at her, or demanding an account of the entire evening. He was saying he was sorry for what he’d said, that he had never thought for one moment that she had done any such thing, that he could have cut his tongue out—
She held a finger to his lips, and she told him she was sorry. About everything. Hotshot, everything. She had been wrong— Hotshot had explained about how Drummond could have given her that statement, and she had been wrong, and now they were in this awful mess, and it was all her fault. And she was sorry about everything else. She had been shutting him out, but she hadn’t honestly meant to, it was just that she was afraid to let go of what she had in case what she got wasn’t what she wanted, so he was in a different compartment. In a way.
Lloyd shook his head slightly. “I think I got most of that,” he said. “Are you aware that your speech is slurred and your breath smells of alcohol, madam?”
“I’m drunk,” she said.
“No!”
“Do you want to know what Hotshot’s advice was?” she asked. “He thinks I should marry you. So do I.”
“Well, you did say you probably would.”
“Definitely,” she said, definitely. “I’m sorry, Lloyd. I’m sorry I’ve messed you about for so long.”
“Are you remorseful enough—or drunk enough—to put a date on this definite marriage?” he asked.
She nodded. “When you retire,” she said.
He smiled. “Well, that’s something to look forward to when I’m drawing the old-age pension,” he said. “Just another fifteen years to go.”
“No! When you retire from the job.”
He laughed. “That could be next month,” he said. “Especially if you get done for murder.”
“Then I’ll marry you next month,” she said. “Will you marry me? If I’m being done for murder?”
“Yes,” he said. “And I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you—and I don’t do this for all my customers—I’ll let you reconsider your proposal when you’re sober.”
“I’ll say the same when I’m sober.”
“Good. Now, I’m going to make you something to eat.”
Judy sat down on the sofa, her knees a little stiff from her evening on the floor. Lloyd always fed her when things got a bit emotional. She could hear him busying himself in her kitchen; he would find things to make into a proper meal. She never could. Funny—she would have thought he’d have been huffy for days about finding her with Hotshot, but he had taken it in his stride.
She was starving, she realized, when a mixed grill and chips made its appearance.
“Not exactly what I had in mind for the birthday meal,” he said. “But I expect you’ll like it better anyway.”
She sobered up enough as she ate for him to bring her up to date with work, at her request. His latest theory had bloomed and died before she had even had a chance to vet it.
“But it’s another little puzzle,” he said. “Isn’t it? Why would she make what was an immense effort to make herself go into the garage, and then not use her car? I mean, I know she had a thing about it as well, but the garage was the big thing. Once she’d done that—why would she stick at the car?”
“Wouldn’t start,” said Judy. “Or … she needed Dutch courage to get in there, and thought she’d get done if she drove it.” She thought for a moment. “Or maybe seeing all the stolen stuff made her feel shaky—she hadn’t driven for two years, didn’t want to risk it. She—”
“All right,” said Lloyd. “It isn’t a puzzle at all. End of work session.”
Judy smiled, and kissed him. He made coffee, they moved to the sofa, and things got quite exciting. Then she remembered she hadn’t taken her pill, and had to find her handbag, and then had to turn it out to find the packet, and it was while she was doing this that Lennie’s scornful appraisal of street girls came into her mind. They think if they’re on the pill, they’re laughing. They’d all be HIV positive in five minutes.
She stopped with the pill halfway to her lips. That was Drummond, she thought. It was Drummond that Rosa thought couldn’t make her pregnant. And she had said he couldn’t make her pregnant, not that she couldn’t get pregnant. It had nothing to do with her being on the pill.
“What’s wrong?” said Lloyd.
She swallowed the pill. “Nothing,” she said.
Light was beginning to dawn. But it could wait. The work session was over.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sunday 7 November
ROB WAS SIGNALING, APPROACHING THE TURNOFF for Parkside, before he remembered.
He took the right, carrying the acute turn on like you could in London cabs, so that he was facing the other way, a maneuver only possible here at this time on a Sunday morning, when there was no commercial traffic, and the Sunday drivers were still tucking into their bacon and eggs.
He pulled out onto the bypass again, and drove back through Malworth, on to Stansfield, and home. No more Lennie. No more Ginny. No more break-ins.
Today was the first day of the rest of his life.
Lloyd had unilaterally reinstated Judy to the two inquiries from which she had been barred; Case didn’t know yet, and Lloyd was well past caring what he did or said when he found out.
He hadn’t told her, couldn’t if he’d wanted to, how he had felt when he had walked in on her and Harper. The feeling had been, quite simply, indescribable. His worst fears realized. And he knew his subsequent reaction had puzzled her, for he had a tendency—perhaps even a marked tendency—toward jealousy where she was concerned. He put up with Freddie flirting with her, just. He had hated it when she had still been married to Michael. He had regarded with deep suspicion the men with whom she inevitably worked until he had satisfied himself that they had no designs on her, and that she wasn’t interested in them. And last night, there she had been, obviously very relaxed, to put a kind construction on her condition, holding hands with someone he didn’t even know she had met.
But she had had a straight choice, and she had chosen him. He had won the gold medal, and wealthy, handsome, debonair, charming Hotshot Harper had come puffing in for the silver. She may have been uncharacteristically squiffy, but Lloyd had been as high as a kite. And he had discovered that he sometimes did like the company of drunken police officers.
And now, complete with hangover, she was pursuing inquiries of her own with Ginny, and he was facing Matt Burbidge across the table in the interview room. He hadn’t been able to run a motorbike to earth, but his chat with the caretakers had been interesting; if Matt hadn’t turned up by half past ten, they had said, they just left; he had a key to the back door. He hadn’t arrived by ten-thirty on Friday night, but this was not unusual. So, motorbikes apart, he could have raped and murdered Marilyn Taylor. But Lloyd started off with Rosa.
“You must have known as soon as you saw that security-camera still that Mrs. Ashman was the prostitute whom you knew as Rosa,” he said. “Long before you were suspended, long before Drummond ever mentioned her.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone that?”
“I did,” said Burbidge. “It’s a long story.”
“Tell me it,” said Lloyd, sitting back. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”
“All right,” said Burbidge. “When I was on the beat in Parkside, I nicked those whores every time I could. I don’t approve of it. Never have. Carrying on like that where decent people are trying to bring up kids. But I was told not to arrest Rosa, so I didn’t.”
“Who told you not to arrest her?”
“It doesn’t matter. But when I saw that security camera photograph, I went back to this person, told him. He said to forget it, but I didn’t think that was right. So I told DCI Merrill, who was in charge of the rape inquiry. Told him she was working the Ferrari under the name of Rosa. Turned out he already knew that. And he didn’t want it broadcast.”
Ginny had told them about the police taking advantage. That in itself hadn’t surprised him; he just hadn’t thought of Merrill as being one of the ones she meant. “Who’s the other person who knew?” he asked. “The one who told you not to arrest her?”
“Oh, no—you’re not getting names from me. The investigation team have tried that once or twice. I’ve only given them one name. Your girlfriend’s.”
“I take it you’re referring to DI Hill?” said Lloyd, getting up, stretching a little. Feeling a slight twinge of back pain. “Are you saying she knew?”
“Not about Rosa. But she’s involved.”
Suddenly, things got a lot clearer for Lloyd. “You’re DCS Case’s mole, aren’t you?” he said.
Burbidge nodded. “I was keeping him informed,” he said. “Until your girlfriend decided to stitch me up, too. Now he’s not sure he can trust me. You have to admire her style, don’t you? She gets rid of me and Barry, makes herself look true blue with the top brass, gets herself airlifted out of Malworth, then gets all the glory in a murder inquiry. Then when things get sticky, she turns the tables on me, making out I raped the Chalmers woman. I knew what the bitch was up to when she came around asking questions— Why do you think I was on my way to France?”
Lloyd frowned. “Why were you on your way to France?” he asked.
“To talk to my wife’s parents! Tell them that I had to see her, that she had to make contact. That I needed her to confirm that I was with her that night, not raping anyone!”
“Wouldn’t a phone call have done?”
“Do you think I haven’t tried? They hang up!”
“What have you done to upset them all so much?”
“Mind your own business.”
“And Marilyn Taylor’s rape and murder? Is DI Hill stitching you up for that, too?” asked Lloyd.
“Of course she is.”
“And how is she supposed to have done that?” he asked.
“The blood on Drummond’s jeans matches the hair found on Taylor’s bed. Well, I know it isn’t my hair, so it can’t be my blood, can it? Anyway—I didn’t cut myself that badly. I doubt if I even got any blood on his jeans.”
“So whose is it? It isn’t Drummond’s.”
&
nbsp; “It must be the real rapist’s blood, mustn’t it?”
“And how would it get on Drummond’s jeans?”
“Because she put it there!”
Lloyd laughed. “DI Hill had nothing whatsoever to do with Drummond’s jeans,” he said. “She never even saw them, never mind handled them.”
“No, but her mate did, didn’t he? Finch? They know who the rapist is, and they’re covering up. They’ve been covering up all along.”
Lloyd felt much more philosophical about all the accusations swirling about Judy’s head now that he realized that Bartonshire Constabulary wasn’t really alive with mutterings about Judy’s alleged corruption; it was the concoction of one very bitter man and one misogynistic anachronism, which was one of the things he was proudest of having called Case during their little tête-à-tête about Judy.
He sighed, shook his head. “You know your trouble, Burbidge?” he said. “You and your friends at Malworth were conspiring to pervert the course of justice for so long that you think everyone’s doing it.”
“She is, that’s for certain.”
“No,” said Lloyd. “She’s not.” He tapped his temple. “That’s all in your mind, Burbidge,” he said. “And if the blood on Drummond’s jeans isn’t yours, that’s easily confirmed. Let us have a sample of blood.”
“No. You can’t charge me with that girl’s murder, not on what you’ve got. And even if you do, no jury’s going to convict me because the blood on someone else’s jeans matches evidence found at the scene. You can say I refused to give you a sample, but it won’t do you any good. I was never anywhere near that flat, or that girl—and no one’s going to frame me for it.”
Lloyd smiled. “You’re out of touch, Burbidge,” he said. “I can oblige you to submit to a sample of saliva being taken. Didn’t you know?”
Burbidge stared at him.
Lloyd sat back, folded his arms, and examined Burbidge for some moments. “And I can’t think of any reason why you wouldn’t cooperate unless it is your blood,” he said. “Therefore I will so oblige you.”
Burbidge sighed, ran a hand over his unshaven face, and looked at the tape recorder. “Put that off,” he said. “And I’ll tell you.”
