by Ann Cleeves
‘What’s this about?’ Marilyn asked. Seeing her closely Sally realized that she was wearing make-up. Thin eyeliner, the remains of mascara. A tentative experiment which hadn’t quite come off.
‘It’s rather delicate. That’s why I didn’t want to come to talk to you at home.’
Marilyn stared at the window, though it was impossible to see anything through the condensation except the distorted yellow glare of bus headlights.
‘I think I know what you want to ask.’
‘Do you?’
‘Go on, though. I’d look a right fool, wouldn’t I, if I got it wrong?’
There was no humour in her voice. She sounded terribly weary.
‘It’s about your father. And Claire.’
Marilyn said nothing, continued to stare.
‘Is that what you were expecting?’
Marilyn nodded slowly. ‘How did you find out?’
Because Ramsay guessed, Sally thought. He’s more of a magician than your father.
She said, ‘Things often come up in an investigation. If it weren’t for the murder it wouldn’t be any of our business.’
‘This has nothing to do with the murder,’ Marilyn said firmly. ‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘All the same we do have to ask.’
‘They’re so stupid,’ Marilyn cried. ‘They don’t realize there’s bound to be talk. The two of them living in the same home. They’re like kids. Kids playing house. It’s so embarrassing.’
‘And there is something to talk about?’
‘You mean, are they having an affair?’ Marilyn demanded. She turned away and blushed.
Sally nodded.
Marilyn cupped her hands around her coffee. Even when she spoke she didn’t look up.
‘Did Inspector Ramsay tell you that I knocked on his door one evening looking for my mother?’
‘Yes. In the autumn, wasn’t it?’
‘That was the day she found them in bed together. She ran out of the house.’
‘It started as long ago as that?’
Marilyn sighed. ‘Oh, when I think back I realize it had been going on for ages, years even.’
‘Did she talk to you about it?’
‘Mummy? Of course not. She’d die.’
‘Claire, then?’
‘Nobody told me about it. They wouldn’t. I’m sixteen but they treat me like a baby. And they were so dumb! It’s a small house with thin walls. When I was upstairs in my room working they forgot about me. They assumed I couldn’t hear what was going on, what they were saying to each other.’
‘They were shouting?’ Sally was wondering if the neighbours had heard. If it ever came to court they could do with an independent witness.
‘Mummy was a bit hysterical when she found out. I could tell that. I don’t suppose it ever occurred to her to think of Claire as a rival. Her little sister, not much older than me. It must have come as a shock. That’s why she ran away, forgot all about me coming home from school that day. But no, there wasn’t much shouting. Enough for me to work out what was going on but not rows that went on for days and days. Nothing vulgar like that. That’s never been our style.’
‘How did they work things out?’
Marilyn shrugged. ‘I’m not sure.’ She gave a little smile. ‘I could hardly ask them, could I? I wasn’t supposed to know that anything was wrong. I was swotty little Marilyn who only cared about GCSEs and music exams. I wondered at first if Claire would be banished from the house, but things seemed to carry on much as they did before. I presume they both promised to behave in the future.’
‘And did they behave?’
‘I think they must have done, at least while Mummy was alive. There were no more rows.’
‘And after your mother’s death?’
‘They’ve tried very hard to be discreet.’
‘But not hard enough?’
She paused, looked up and smiled. ‘I told you. The walls are very thin.’
‘You don’t seem very upset. About the relationship between your father and your aunt.’
‘I’m not. I mean, I would have been if Mummy were still alive, but now I don’t blame them. It’s hard to explain. Mummy’s dead and nothing’s going to bring her back. Why shouldn’t they have the chance to be happy?’
Sally chose her words carefully. ‘ Even if they only achieved that happiness through your mother’s death?’
‘What are you saying?’ Marilyn demanded, though Sally thought she knew very well.
‘You told me they couldn’t have been involved in the murder. Why are you so sure?’
‘They wouldn’t have had the nerve. Get real!’
The brash slang which was natural to Sally seemed foreign to her, as if using it were a newly acquired skill. She blushed again. ‘I’m sorry, but really it’s not possible.’
Sally let it go.
‘You must miss your mother.’
Marilyn looked up at her bleakly. ‘Yeah, I do. More than I ever would have imagined. She could be a real pain at times but she was always there when I came home from school, asking what I’d been doing, encouraging me. You know.’
Sally nodded.
‘Dad does his best but it’s not the same.’
‘He’s too wrapped up in Claire?’ Sally spoke lightly, tried to make a joke of it. Marilyn smiled dutifully.
‘No. He’s too wrapped up in himself. But that’s men for you, isn’t it? They’re all the same.’
Sally wondered who had passed on that particular piece of wisdom.
‘What did you do the evening your mother disappeared?’ Sally thought she might get extra points for asking.
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘It’s my boss. He thinks it’s possible your mother died later than we originally thought.’
Marilyn said nothing. She seemed lost in thought.
‘So what did you do that night?’ Sally persisted gently.
‘Nothing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I stayed in. Dad said it was so someone should be there if Mummy came home. He and Claire went off together. To search, they said.’ She smiled wryly. ‘An excuse, I suppose. Sick, isn’t it?’
A waitress in a red and white checked dress collected their cups. At the counter the lads had finished their chips and were getting rowdy. Marilyn had not even looked in their direction, which was odd, Sally thought. At sixteen raging hormones had given her a radar system which could pick up an adolescent boy at a distance of a hundred yards.
‘Got a boyfriend?’ she asked.
‘No one special.’
‘I suppose you’re too picky.’
‘Yeah,’ Marilyn said. ‘You could say that.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Claire was just leaving work for the evening when the phone went in the Coastguard House. She heard it ringing as she shut the kitchen door behind her but she didn’t go back to answer it. She had a meal to cook.
Emma heard the phone but she let it ring. She was bathing Helen in the children’s bathroom at the top of the house. A red net filled with plastic toys was strung round the taps and the shower curtain had pictures of the Little Mermaid. A clockwork turtle swam towards Helen, who splashed the water with her feet and chortled. The phone stopped. The answering machine would have clicked on. It would probably be for Brian. Business. Or rugby.
Owen answered the phone before the answering machine was activated. They’d recently bought a cordless receiver – a toy for Brian – and Owen arrived at the bathroom door with it in his hand, proud of himself, expecting congratulations.
‘It’s Uncle Mark.’
Jesus, she thought. What’s he done now?
She lifted Helen out of the bath and wrapped her in a towel. She dried her hands and took the phone. Owen hovered in the doorway.
‘Thanks, pet,’ she said, trying not to sound too impatient. ‘You can go back and play with David now.’ She locked the bathroom door behind them then sat on the closed toile
t seat with the baby on her knee.
‘Yes?’ She didn’t want to be too encouraging.
‘Emma. I’ve got to see you.’
She took a deep breath. Sometimes Mark reminded her of one of the boys. She had to try hard not to snap at him.
‘I’m not sure that would be a good idea.’
‘Please,’ he said. ‘ We’ve got to talk.’
‘We’re talking now.’
‘Come on, Em. You know what I mean.’
‘You can’t come here.’
There was a silence and she realized she had hurt him, so she added, ‘I’m sorry. Not the way things are.’
‘No,’ he said bitterly. ‘ I see that.’ He paused. ‘Could Claire have the kids one evening? When Brian’s working?’
Emma gave a little laugh. ‘You must be joking. Claire doesn’t stay five minutes longer than she needs to these days and overtime’s out of the question. She’s playing mummies and daddies with Bernard Howe.’
‘That’s not very kind.’ It was the old Mark, disapproving, self-righteous.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Well I don’t feel very kind.’
She thought for a moment. She knew he wouldn’t give up. ‘I suppose I could see you Saturday lunchtime. Brian’s working and Claire doesn’t mind coming up during the day. Where shall we meet?’
‘You could always come here. To the house.’
She thought of the Otterbridge house full of Sheena’s books and Sheena’s pictures, still smelling somehow of Sheena and always cold. She shuddered.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not there. A pub. Somewhere halfway between here and Otterbridge so it won’t take me too long to get home.’
‘The Lamb in Puddywell,’ he said. He hadn’t had to think about it and it surprised her that Mark, who hardly ever went into pubs could come up with a name so easily. ‘Twelve o’clock. I’ll see you there.’
Before she could answer he rang off. She pushed the button on the phone and set it on the floor. She wished she’d had the courage to stand up to him. She shouldn’t have said that she’d see him.
The bathroom door rattled. The noise startled her and she realized her hands were shaking. Brian shouted.
‘What are you doing in there?’ He sounded amused, not irritated, which made a nice change.
‘Bathing Helen.’ What do you think I’m doing? she thought.
‘Why the locked door? Teaching her modesty at an early age?’
She smiled despite herself. ‘No. Habit I suppose.’
She stood up, holding the shrouded baby against her shoulder and let him in. He kissed her lightly on the lips. He’d been making more effort lately and she was aware of a sudden and surprising surge of affection. They stood together in the steamy room, the baby between them. The smell of talcum powder and the heat made her feel quite faint.
He began to undress. Carefully, as he always did. He hung his jacket on a hook on the door with the children’s dressing gowns, threw his shirt into the wicker laundry basket and folded up his trousers. He turned on the taps. He took Helen from Emma, pulled away the towel and held her in the air, so he could press his lips on her stomach to make the farting noise which always sent the boys into hysterics. Then he said, in the gurgly voice he saved for babies, ‘You don’t mind, do you, Sweetie? You don’t mind if Daddy uses your bathroom?’ To Emma he said, ‘Why don’t you stay here? We can talk while you dress her. Before he climbed into the bath he locked the door again. ‘Mark hasn’t been round lately.’ He was lying right back so she couldn’t see his face. The words seemed to come from nowhere.
Helen was on the changing mat on the floor and Emma was bending over her, fixing the sticky tapes on the disposable nappy. She kept her eyes on the baby as she answered.
‘No. I suppose it’s a while.’
‘Not since David’s birthday,’ he persisted. ‘Why don’t we invite him round for lunch on Sunday?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I suppose we could.’
He sat up, sending a tidal wave into the toys strung from the taps and continued enthusiastically.
‘There’s a new place just opened round the corner from the office. It’s brilliant. A real old-fashioned toy shop. I bought some presents for the boys. Kites. Not those dreadful plastic ones that tear as soon as you look at them, but the sort we used to have when I was a kid. Canvas and bamboo. You put them together yourself. If there’s any sort of wind on Sunday we could fly them. Mark would enjoy that.’
‘Brian!’ Emma had to interrupt him. ‘Listen. There’s something you should know about Mark.’
Brian had been soaping his back. He stopped. ‘No,’ he said.
She kneeled up. They stared at each other.
‘I don’t need to know anything about Mark. He’s my friend. He’s been through a rough time. I want him to be happy. In the same way I want you to be happy.’
He reached out and put an arm covered with bubbles around her shoulder and pulled her towards him. When he kissed her she smelled the baby shampoo he’d used on his hair.
‘I don’t care what Mark’s been up to. You have to understand that, I don’t mind. As long as he’s happy I don’t mind.’
It was as if he expected her, absolutely, to know what he meant.
Because Brian was home early they ate with the boys in the kitchen. Pepperoni pizza from the freezer and baked potatoes in the microwave. Emma prepared a salad, which Brian made into a joke. He put his hands by the side of his head to form ears, pulled his front teeth over his lower lip and said,
‘Lettuce. That’s rabbit food. Men don’t eat that.’
The boys made rabbit faces, too, then collapsed into fits of giggles. Even Emma joined in, despite her disapproval. He knew how difficult it was to get them to eat properly. The laughter made her realize how tense they had been in the previous months, and remember that once they had got on very well.
After supper Brian sat her in an armchair in front of the television with a large glass of wine and took the boys up to bed.
‘Don’t wind them up,’ she said. ‘Not before bedtime.’
‘Of course not.’ His voice was solemn but when she looked up he was making the rabbit face at the boys who were waiting in the doorway and as he chased them up the stairs they whooped and screamed with delight.
They’ll wake Helen, she thought, not really caring if they did.
She’d finished the wine when he came downstairs.
‘Two stories each,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘And they’re fast asleep.’ He fetched the bottle from the fridge and poured her another glass.
‘Don’t you want any?’
‘I thought I’d pop out to the club. Just for a quick half.’
A quick three pints, she thought, and why do I have the feeling that he’s running away? But she was so grateful for his kindness, so frightened of spoiling the evening, that she let him go without a fuss.
Inside the club it was as cold as always. Brian kept on his overcoat and put on the pair of gloves he found in his pocket, making a show of it, so the regulars all laughed.
He was halfway through his second pint when Kim Houghton turned up with a new man in tow. Brian watched her from his seat by the bar. He’d had his own fantasises about Kim Houghton in the past. He’d imagined what it would be like to knock at the door of the little house in Cotter’s Row, to be taken inside …
The man was a jerk in a sheepskin jacket and black patent shoes. When he wasn’t drooling over Kim he was trying to sell Les a second-hand Cavalier. She’d been in with car dealers before. Perhaps she was trying to work her way through the motor trade. Or perhaps she fancied a little motor herself. The bloke wouldn’t have much joy selling to Les, Brian thought with satisfaction. Les had lost his licence the month before through drink-driving. That had given them all a shock, made them watch their step.
Brian wondered what Kim had done with the little girl. Being a single mum didn’t seem to cramp her style. He’d seen them together occasionally, the ch
ild immaculately dressed, colour co-ordinated, a scaled-down version of her mother. Poor little bastard, he thought. It couldn’t be much fun. He’d have to get Em to invite her up to play. Perhaps she’d enjoy flying kites too.
He’d just rescued Les from Kim Houghton’s boyfriend by demanding another pint, when the door opened and two police officers came in. They were in plain clothes but everyone knew what they were. It was the flash young man and the bonny woman with red hair. They stood for a moment, looking around them. All the conversation in the place stopped.
Les rubbed his hands together. He always did that when he was nervous.
‘Yes, folks,’ he said. ‘What can I get you?’ Pretending he didn’t recognize them, that they were just ordinary punters, though the day they found the body they’d been practically camping out in the place.
Brian could tell that the man was tempted. He was gasping for a drink. But the woman said, ‘Nothing, thanks. We’d just like a quick word with Mrs Houghton.’
They took Kim to a table in the corner so that not even the boyfriend could hear what they were saying, then the three of them walked out. The car dealer looked foolishly after them, finished his drink and followed. There was the sound of a car engine. He must have started his company car and driven away.
‘What was all that about then?’ Brian said. ‘Do you think she’s been arrested?’
Les gave a gappy grin. ‘Na!’ he said. ‘No handcuffs.’ He gave a lecherous wink.
Brian felt himself becoming flushed, though handcuffs had never featured in his fantasies about Kim Houghton. He’d imagined a wardrobe full of dressing-up clothes. A school uniform. Black stockings. Tarty red underwear. But nothing really kinky.
He decided he’d go. Emma would appreciate it if he wasn’t too late back. Besides, Les wouldn’t want to risk a lock-in for after-hours drinking with the police on the Headland.
It was even colder outside than in the club and he walked quickly past the jetty and into Cotter’s Row. There were still lights on in Kim Houghton’s house but he was surprised to see that the car the detectives drove was not parked there. It was pulled up right against the pavement outside the Howes’ place. And from inside came the sound of raised voices.
