The Cover Up

by Marnie Riches

  Fixing her with a slack-mouthed look of disbelief, Lev paused midway between spoonfuls – the drippy, orange-tinged mash threatening to drop onto the carpet in a fat, gloopy teardrop. ‘You never made that up! That’s some Bible quote.’

  ‘Actually, young man, if you had any understanding of your heritage, you’d realise it’s inspired by a lyric from a very important James Brown song.’

  ‘Bollocks. I’m gonna google it when you’ve gone. You’re full of it! And you’re playing with fire. You shouldn’t be putting yourself under the nose of a copper that’s hot on your trail, just to save Sheila’s bloody arse.’

  Her son screwed up his face. Was he angry? No. Frustrated, Gloria assessed. Did his words mean that he cared for her?

  ‘Anyway, don’t fob us off,’ he continued, shovelling the mash into Jay’s expectant mouth. ‘You told me this property developer feller made you uncomfy. But now you’re off on a date with him?’

  Wiping her hands a little too roughly on the bleach-white hand towel, Gloria peered out of the kitchen’s rear window at the semi-neglected garden. Fixed her gaze on some late-flowering nasturtiums that were the approximate hue of her new admirer’s skin. ‘Do you have to suck all the joy out of the day, Leviticus? Is it so unbearable for you to get your head round a man wanting to date your mother?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You didn’t have to.’ She wracked her brains for some Bible quotation that would put the cynical young upstart in his place. Smiled when she happened upon the perfect passage. ‘If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.’

  ‘Gong? Frigging gongs? That’s not a Bible quote!’ Lev started to wheeze with laughter, finally turning round to face her with true amusement in his insolent face. ‘You’re making all this shit up as you go along, man!’

  ‘It happens to be 1 Corinthians 13:1, Leviticus. I did not make it up!’

  ‘Yeah, bollocks.’

  He was insufferable this morning! She needed a put-down, but what? Cupping her hand to her ear, she smiled as she took out her wine-coloured lipstick from her handbag. ‘Oh, sorry, Leviticus, but I can’t understand you for the racket of clanging cymbals coming out of your disrespectful mouth. I reckon you could do with taking a leaf out of my book, sunbeam, because that Tiffany has got you right where she wants you. You’re nothing more than a turkey voting for Christmas. You are certainly not one to lecture me about love and romance.’

  Boom. Wasn’t that what the young people said? What else did they say when they’d delivered the perfect retort? She could see the pain in her son’s anguished face. Not so cocky now.

  ‘I think you’ll find you’ve just been severed, young man.’

  ‘It’s served, Mam. You got served.’

  ‘Precisely!’

  Driving into Bramshott village for her lunch appointment with the terribly chivalrous, if slightly creepy Bob, Gloria acknowledged that she was exposing her vulnerable core to this man, like Abraham baring his son Isaac’s breast so that he might drive a sacrificial knife through his tender heart.

  Reversing into a parking space in front of the Italian restaurant where they had arranged to meet was a struggle that took several manoeuvres. She hit the dashboard in frustration, mindful of the Audi-driver who was now trying to pull out behind her, flashing her headlamps in irritation.

  ‘Flip off, sinner!’ Gloria shouted through the rear-view mirror, jabbing her index finger into the air in insult.

  Her throat felt tight. Her finger shook. Gloria took a deep breath. Edged forwards, finally satisfied that her parking was acceptable. It’s just a daytime date. A spot of pasta. Nothing more. Calm down, for heaven’s sake.

  The maître d’ opened the heavy door for her with a sycophantic smile. ‘Signora.’ Definitely a fake Italian accent. Gloria examined the man’s shoes. At least they were clean.

  ‘I’m meeting a gentleman here,’ she said, glancing around the eatery. ‘Perhaps he’s reserved a table. Bob’s his name.’

  The maître d’ checked a ledger of bookings. Gloria half-expected him to shake his head apologetically and show her the door. But then she remembered that she was a woman of substance and she was wearing her best new day dress from Hobbs. Seventy quid in the sale at Kendals, but it had been worth it.

  ‘Follow me, bella! Per favore! Your friend, he is not yet here. Someone will bring you a drink, si?’

  Buffoon, Gloria thought. ‘Lovely.’

  The interior of the restaurant was all leather booths and marble tables. It was surprisingly full considering how early in the day it was, but then the wealthy residents of Bramshott probably thought nothing of squandering ten pounds or more on a bottle of wine and probably the same again on some risotto. Gloria took a seat, perched her reading glasses on the end of her nose and looked at the wine list that was handed to her.

  ‘Thirty quid for the house white?!’ she said, looking askance at the wine waiter.

  ‘Si, signora,’ the boy said, looking bored.

  ‘I’ll have tap water for now.’

  If Mr Big Shot Property Developer wanted to meet her in a place like this, he could pay for the privilege. Sheila had always been the one to pick up restaurant tabs and Gloria was not about to start indulging in uncharacteristic profligacy as well as taking a ludicrous emotional risk at one in the afternoon on a damp, grey Wednesday.

  When he arrived, Bob appeared marginally less dayglo than he had at the speed-dating. Or perhaps it was a flattering light. He wore a pale grey suit that complemented his white spiked hair, though his shoes, with their pointed toes, were more than a tad on the ostentatious side. Gloria was glad his feet would be concealed beneath the table.

  ‘Gloria,’ he said, holding his arms out as he approached the table. He took her hands into his and kissed her knuckles with a satisfactorily dry mouth. Produced from his inside pocket a somewhat flattened corsage of an amber rose and a cluster of St John’s Wort berries. ‘May I?’ He pinned it carefully to her dress.

  ‘Oh, what a lovely, lovely gesture,’ Gloria said, willing herself not to complain that he would leave pin marks in the fabric of her new prized purchase that she was hoping to wear to church on Sunday. ‘Aren’t you quite the gentleman?’ The pastor had never bought her a corsage. Leviticus’ beast of a father had certainly never bought her so much as petrol station flowers on Mother’s Day. His sole floral offering had been a free undersized red rose from a curry house on Valentine’s Day in the mid-nineties.

  As she perused the menu and made polite conversation with this stranger called Bob, Gloria started to feel that he was looking at her in a peculiar way. There was calculation behind his eyes, but, of course, it was difficult to really read a man whose skin was so perplexingly tight; she could hardly read his facial movements as pleasure, displeasure or complete indifference. He was a little visibly sweaty on his smooth forehead, however. And he was blinking rather a lot. Perhaps he was nervous too.

  ‘Are you driving?’ he asked.

  ‘I am, as it happens.’ She found herself giggling but couldn’t explain why. ‘Although you’d think I’d already been at the sherry, the amount of goes it took me to get parked.’ Stop babbling, woman!

  ‘Not drinking, then. Good. Are you all right to stick with the water?’

  Gloria stifled a frown. ‘Actually, I’d like a Diet Coke, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Two fifty,’ Bob muttered under his breath. ‘Bloody Nora.’ He glanced at the food menu, ignoring her fizzy drink demands. ‘You don’t want a starter, do you? No. Good. Neither do I!’

  She hadn’t even had the opportunity to answer. And yes, actually, she had been looking forward to some nice garlic bread or bruschetta. Come on, Gloria. Cut him some slack. There’s a certain virtue in thriftiness. And gluttony’s a mortal sin. ‘Fine.’

  The chit-chat came easy enough, as they discussed the pandemonium they had fled at M1 House. Gloria gave her usual speech about the ‘youth o
f today’, which seemed to go down well enough. Then, the food arrived.

  ‘Where do you live then?’ he asked, halfway through her pappardelle.

  It seemed a terribly direct question and he kept looking at her neck. Strange and disconcerting. Gloria giggled. ‘Oh, you are forward! I’m not telling you where I live!’

  ‘Go on. I bet you live in one of those big houses, a classy chassis like you.’ When he grinned, she realised his whiter-than-white teeth were capped. There was the ghost of a rotten stump beneath each one, just visible when he turned a certain way.

  ‘I live near but not in Bramshott. And that’s all I’m telling you, for now. A lady has to retain a little mystery, Robert.’ Change the subject. ‘What about your latest building project? Tell me about that. Or tell me about your kids. Come on! Something about you.’

  Forking a piece of steak into his mouth, he chewed a little too noisily. Sipped from his Peroni, which he’d had no compunction in ordering for himself. ‘It’s a lickle estate in Sale,’ he said. ‘Seventeen houses.’ More masticating. Clack, clack, clack. ‘Planning department were a nightmare. Like they had a wasp up their arse from the minute I submitted for permission. You can’t do this. You can’t do that.’ He wasn’t meeting her gaze. He kept staring at her neck and her breasts. He forked the last piece of steak into his mouth. ‘Are you and your partner cleaning the trains at Piccadilly? Or did you say the trams? Does Sheila O’Brien own that dating agency, True Love Dates, then? Didn’t you say you had a son? Does he live with you?’

  So many questions. Too many questions all at once. Gloria put it down to dating nerves. She sidestepped all of his probing save for the subject of the cleaning agency. ‘Oh, me and Sheila don’t do any cleaning. We’ve got women for that. Very good workers.’ She carefully wrapped the pappardelle around her fork and shovelled the pile onto a spoon. ‘We work out of the back of a builders’ merchants at the moment.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘One day, we’ll get a fancy business address that lives up to our reputation.’ Spooned the pasta into her mouth, savouring the fantasy of being able to sit behind a gleaming rosewood desk in an office that wasn’t freezing cold and at the back of a smelly Portakabin. ‘Amen to that!’ she said aloud.

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She felt herself blush.

  Perhaps Bob sensed her embarrassment and mistook it for amorousness. She wasn’t sure. But suddenly, he placed a clammy palm over her hand. ‘You’re a very attractive woman, you know. Do you fancy … going to a hotel room, Gloria?’

  Gloria set down her cutlery, feeling her cheeks really buzz with heat. The pastor was the only man she had imagined naked in years. ‘This is un-unexpected.’

  ‘How do you fancy it? Eh? Me and you in a nice airport hotel. Crisp sheets. A bit of slap and tickle.’

  She was about to quote Colossians at him, but Gloria was suddenly aware that her body was overriding her mind. Despite the strange shine of his skin. Despite the ostentatious pointed toes of his shoes and the absence of wine and a starter – and clearly also a dessert – from the lunch menu, she felt stirrings in her best M&S panties. Animal desires. She fanned herself with a leaflet that told her to book her office Christmas party early to save disappointment.

  ‘Oh, Bob. You are a one! I don’t think—’

  ‘Go on! I want to make sweet love to you, Gloria.’

  Gloria’s mind tried desperately to fight the lust that was taking over her body. Her lust won.

  ‘All right then.’

  Mulling over this indecent proposal, Gloria was so breathless from excitement as Bob settled the modest bill that she barely registered that his steak knife seemed to be missing both from his plate and his place setting. She also almost entirely failed to notice that he omitted to leave a tip for the full ten per cent. It was too late. By then, she was already committed to this terrible tryst. May God have mercy on her soul.

  In her Mazda, she followed Bob’s four-wheel drive to a three-star airport hotel that was sadly closer to Northenden than the more sophisticated, five-star offerings that were scattered around the airport complex itself. Still, it didn’t matter.

  Wordlessly, they rose in the lift to the fifth floor. Scurried like furtive teenagers to their room, where Bob unlocked the door with the slightly dodgy key card.

  Once inside, Gloria started to panic that her body might not work after so many years of disuse.

  ‘Oh, I want you, Gloria Bell,’ Bob said.

  He bent down, manhandling her full bosom and kissing her chest. She found herself pushed up against the closed door. Felt his member, stiff against her stomach. He was undoing his fly with one hand and already had the clammy fingers of the other inside her knickers.

  You’re a hussy, Gloria. A wanton woman, she thought. But all she could manage to say was, ‘Ooh, Robert.’

  Freeing her breasts, he led her to the bed.

  ‘You’ve got magic tits.’

  He tore off his shirt and trousers as though he were up against the clock. She failed to notice the steak knife sliding out of his trouser pocket.

  ‘I’m going to fuck seven shades of shit out of you, love. And not in a racist way.’

  His erection was red and angry. Full of lustful intent. Finding herself overcome by anticipation, Gloria kicked her dress and panties to the floor, opened her legs and let him enter her.

  ‘Go easy. It’s been a while,’ she said, as he started to ride her.

  ‘I will.’ His eyes were closed. His taut face almost smiling. ‘And when I’ve finished, I’ve got a special surprise for you.’

  Chapter 17

  Conky

  Whistling the Motown classic ‘My Girl’ to himself as he prepared his first coffee of the day, Conky McFadden considered how lucky he was on that Tuesday morning. The marble tiles beneath his feet were warmed by underfloor heating, mitigating the Reynaud’s in his toes and almost compensating for the pains in his calves thanks to his thyroid being out of whack, yet again. He had traded in the cold, empty bed of a confirmed bachelor for the hottest king-size of all: Paddy O’Brien’s, occupied by Paddy O’Brien’s widow. Sheila. Ah, magnificent Sheila. Conky’s lover; his employer; his Queen.

  In the kitchen of Sheila’s Bramshott mansion, Conky sung about having sunshine on that cloudy day, substituting his Northern Irish accent for a dodgy stab at American. He frothed the hot milk. Looked down at the grey veined tiles, imagining his toasty feet were attributable to Paddy, stoking the flames of hell in a fit of unbridled jealousy. ‘Sorry, Pad. Life is for the living, pal.’

  His moment of inner peace, savouring the fine place that the twists and turns of life had brought him to, was fractured by the front door slamming.

  ‘Conky? Conky!’ Sheila’s voice. Shrill, with a worrying tinge of desperation.

  ‘In here, love,’ he called back.

  When Sheila marched into the kitchen, ashen-faced, and continued onto the utility room without stopping to embrace him, he realised something was amiss.

  ‘I thought you’d gone to yoga or out for a jog,’ he said, following her to the adjacent room. It smelled of fresh washing in there, but he sensed she was more interested in the filing cabinet that was concealed in the corner behind the industrial-sized tumble dryer than in him or the laundry.

  Clanging drawers open and shut, Sheila rummaged through hanging files with trembling fingers.

  Conky embraced her from behind. ‘Jesus! You’re shaking. What the hell’s going on?’

  Sheila shrugged him off. ‘Bancroft’s buying up Manchester. He’s putting the moves on me, Conk.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Offices. He owns and redevelops property legitimately, right?’ She related the tale of having spotted the Bancroft logo plastered all over the gleaming new block in central Manchester. ‘So, he’s getting his feet under the table. You think if he’s buying up commercial real estate that he’s not giving some city-council official somewhere a back-hander? I bet he’s got local coppers on the pa
yroll too. If me and the Boddlingtons are doing it, do you think Bancroft won’t? This bastard means business. This is more than just trying to nick our drug-dealing turf.’ Rummaging, rummaging through the files, like stones fired from a slingshot, she pelted her theories at Conky without so much as casting a glance at him. ‘I’ve screwed up, Conks. Really screwed up. Bloody Paddy. This is all Paddy’s fault. What a bleeding legacy.’

  Conky reached out to touch a shining lock of her blonde hair but thought better of it as Sheila pulled a document from one of the hanging files. An official-looking thing with tiny print on the back. A contract, maybe.

  ‘Bingo. This is what I’m after.’ Finally, she made eye contact with him, glancing only fleetingly at his undisguised bald pate. ‘Pour us some of that coffee, will you, love? I’ve got a mouth like a mink coat.’ She finally treated him to a peck on his cheek.

  Touching the place where her kiss had lingered, Conky prepared her a coffee in silence, watching her take a seat at the island in the centre of the kitchen. She started to pore over the small print on the back of the official-looking document.

  ‘What’s got you so flustered?’ he asked, setting the cup on a coaster in front of her.

  Her eyes darted to and fro, following the lines of the text. ‘I couldn’t believe Gloria’s take. We counted it at the crack of dawn. This worktop was covered. Covered, Conks! Piles of cash.’

  ‘The protection back-pay?’ He sipped his own espresso. Chuckled. ‘I never thought Gloria would have it in her.’

  ‘There was so much money, I had to get it out the house. Policeman-frigging-Plod was on my back all the way into town. He’s like a dog with a bone, that one. I don’t like it, Conks. Why’s he still hanging around like a wet fart unless someone’s got it in for me and telling the little shit my business? Paddy’s been dead for months! As far as Ellis James knows, I’m just the grieving widow.’ She hadn’t taken her eyes off the small print on the document. ‘Anyway, I shake him off thanks to Gloria coming out of nowhere and doing a Stig in her Mazda, but then I spot this CCTV camera … Oh, shit! What have I done?’ Her voice suddenly became thin and high, like nails scratching down a blackboard. The bulging vein in her forehead told Conky she was still in a state of fight or flight. The delicate features of her face – already harried-looking – had frozen suddenly, as if the wind had blown, setting Sheila’s expression in horror-mode indefinitely. Finally locking eyes with Conky, she opened her mouth to speak. No words came. Her colour had drained away.