She manages a small smile. ‘Can’t be easy, on your own,’ she says, pausing.
My instincts are telling me that Davis wants to get something off her chest, but I don’t push. Instead, I change the topic back to business.
‘There’s something Claire said, something she said that Robert Mills had said to her… something like, “I can’t wait to be away from that close, or to get away from that close…”’
‘What about it, Gov?’ Davis is yawning and I catch it.
‘Why did he say “close” and not, “I can’t wait to get away from Laurie” or “the wife”? Struck me as odd.’
Davis shrugs. ‘Maybe he didn’t like the place. Maybe it meant the same thing, the close, the wife… all of it.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, unconvinced.
Davis takes a slug of water from a bottle and makes a guttural noise.
‘You sure you’re okay, Davis?’ I frown at her as we pull up outside her apartment block. It’s modest, but nice enough. Modest. Bloody hell, I’m turning into my father by the hour. ‘Get some shut-eye – you look like you need it as much as I do. Let’s reconvene in’ – I check my watch – ‘approximately four hours and fifty-two minutes.’
Davis nods. She’s still covering her mouth and as she opens the car door she immediately throws up onto the pavement.
‘Bloody hell, Davis, are you sure you’re okay?’ I lean across the passenger seat as she retches on the kerb.
‘I hope it wasn’t that sandwich,’ I say, trying to inject a little humour into things.
Davis wipes her mouth and slumps back into the passenger seat. I blink at her silently for a few moments.
‘Sorry, Gov,’ she apologises, dabbing at the mess on the passenger seat.
‘Just had the bloody thing valeted as well.’
A light in her apartment comes on and we both watch as her husband peers through the curtains. ‘You should go,’ I say. ‘Looks like the old man is waiting for you.’
She nods. But she doesn’t budge.
‘Look, Lucy…’ I use her Christian name like Woods uses mine when he wants to say something earnest. ‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on? I mean, tell me to mind my own business if it’s personal, but—’
‘I think I’m pregnant, Gov,’ she says quickly, like the quicker she says it, the less real it is.
I blink at her, stunned for a moment. ‘Well, that’s great,’ I say, because that’s what you’re supposed to say, isn’t it? ‘Should I say congratulations?’ I’m sensing from her face that it might not be the right word.
Davis nods. Looks down into her lap and we sit in silence for a moment longer.
‘If I am pregnant, then I’m not sure who the father is,’ she says eventually.
It’s my turn to sigh then, as thoughts of sleep and a chicken dinner for one rapidly disappear.
Twenty-Three
So, turns out I was on the money after all and my worst suspicions have been proven correct. Something has been going on between Davis and Delaney, and now Davis thinks she might be joining a club she had no intention of becoming a member of. Very rarely, I find myself wishing I wasn’t always right.
I feel a mix of sympathy and irritation as Davis pours her heart out to me. It’s clear from the way she’s speaking – fast and candid – that she’s been desperate to talk to someone. And while I’m somewhat flattered that person is me, part of me wishes it wasn’t. Turns out that schmuck Delaney had been making a play for her for months and finally struck gold one night after a few too many in the White Hart, a local establishment close to the nick that’s frequented by our kind.
‘It was a drunken mistake,’ she tells me sheepishly. ‘And now I think I’m in the shit. I don’t want to lose John…’ We both looked over to the window of Davis’s apartment but John was no longer standing there. I wonder if he suspects anything and it suddenly strikes me that perhaps he thinks it’s me she’s been off doing the dirty with.
‘It’s not me you need to apologise to,’ I say gently, and she screws her eyes shut and groans. ‘But Delaney, Davis? Of all people. I thought you had more sense than that.’ I know I shouldn’t say it but I do. I can’t stop myself.
‘You don’t need to tell me, Gov,’ she says, self-loathing evident in her voice. ‘It’s just… well, me and John… things haven’t been great lately. We hardly see each other, and when we do we’re always knackered or distracted and so, you know’ – she lowers her eyes again – ‘things haven’t been good in that department… and Martin, well, he’d been putting it on me for weeks – months even. The innuendos and flirting, buying me coffee, being overly friendly… I took it in good humour initially, didn’t think too much of it, brushed it off as banter. I suppose I’ve been feeling a bit…’ She stops. ‘Oh I don’t know, lonely maybe. Then that night, in the Hart, we got talking, me and Martin. He was asking me about John, you know, if I was happy, all of that. And at the end of the night he came on to me and I… I’d had too much to drink and…’ She buries her head in her hands. ‘And it just happened.’
I’d carried on looking at her in silence. Unsure exactly what to say.
‘I can’t believe I fell for it,’ she says, and I think she’s crying but it’s dark and I can’t be sure. ‘It was just the once. I mean, I can hardly remember because I was so—’
‘Spare me the details, Davis,’ I say. ‘Unless you want that sandwich to make a reappearance.’ I laugh gently in a bid to lighten the conversation but actually I’m a little cross with Davis, although not as cross as I am with that piece of shit Delaney. He knows Davis is married. Or perhaps that’s the whole point. I know for a fact Davis isn’t the first female copper, or married one for that, to have fallen foul of Delaney’s ‘charms’. And no doubt she won’t be the last. I’m fond of Lucy. Genuinely. I don’t want her to have been another of his conquests, another notch on his bedpost to fuel that insatiable ego of his. I feel like she’s let me, and herself, down – not that I need to say it, judging by the look of her.
‘Does he know?’ I ask her. ‘Does Martin know about the pregnancy scare?’
‘No!’ she says. ‘And I won’t be telling him.’
I glance sideways at her. ‘Good,’ I reply. ‘I’d think twice about telling that smug bastard the time.’
Davis laughs a little, but it sounds desperate – more like a prelude to a scream. ‘Thing is, Gov, now he won’t leave me alone, Delaney. Ever since it happened he keeps making all these snide comments, sly little digs, like he’s got something on me, you know… I just can’t believe it… It was only the once.’
‘We all know once is all it takes, Lucy.’
She looks away, embarrassed, and stares out of the car window. ‘I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid.’
‘Neither can I. Look…’ I soften my tone because she’s self-flagellating enough. ‘It was a mistake. Don’t beat yourself up too much. If you are, you know, in the “family” way then I can’t tell you what to do. But what I do know is that I need you on this case. You’re the best DS I’ve got. And don’t ask me why but I’ve got a nasty feeling that all isn’t as it seems on this one.’
She smiles at me then. Seems genuinely touched by my compliment and instinctively I put my arm around her, pulling away quickly when I remember that John might be looking out of the window. I don’t want to be held accountable for all of Delaney’s cock-ups, no tasteless pun intended.
I watch as Davis disappears into her apartment, cutting a forlorn figure. I could be wrong, and maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I can’t help wondering if Delaney has gone after Davis to somehow get one over on me. Frankly, I wouldn’t put it past him.
Twenty-Four
I trip over a pair of trainers as I walk into my apartment and I curse. The place is a mess where I’d left it in haste. It feels like I haven’t been home in weeks. I shuffle into the small kitchen and open the fridge. It’s practically empty as usual, though there’s always a few beers knocking around, so I gr
ab one, take a deep slug and search the freezer compartment for that gourmet chicken dinner for one, only Davis’s news has all but killed my appetite so I give it a miss and opt for a mini pork pie instead. Hey, don’t say I don’t know how to live.
After my nutritious dinner I strip off and grab a quick shower before throwing on some bed clothes, namely a pair of ancient Superdry joggers that Rachel bought me and I can’t bear to be parted from, and a clean white tee. She liked me best in my ‘comfies’ as she used to call them. Thinking of Rach reminds me that I still haven’t called Fi. It’s nagging at my conscience but I’m exhausted and I don’t feel up to having that conversation just now. I text her instead.
‘Hi Fi, how are you? Drink in the Hart this Friday? D x’
Yes, I know, cop out. Literally.
I let my head fall back onto the pillow and wonder if I’ve been a little hasty writing off anything more with Fiona. It’s at moments like this that I wish I had the comfort of a body next to me; someone to hold on to, to fall asleep with, our limbs intertwined, our heartbeats synching. It would be nice to have someone to come home to; someone to chat to about our respective days; someone to relax and unwind in front of the TV with, to share dinner and a bottle of wine. I find myself thinking about all the lonely people in the world, all the Eleanor Rigbys and Father McKenzies. Widows and widowers, like my old man, single mums, abandoned kids, and those who haven’t found someone to share their existence with. And I wonder then, if there’s no one to witness your life, do you even exist at all?
It’s in these moments that I miss Rachel the most and crave a human touch, a smile or a kiss. That night with Fi, it had felt natural, easy, comfortable. But it had not felt the same. And it makes my heart feel heavy because I know, no matter how good the sex is, no matter how beautiful a woman is or how much we have in common, I will never again feel the same with someone else as I did with Rachel.
As I’m drifting off into the land of Nod it starts: the baby upstairs. It’s like it somehow instinctively knows and has decided to open its airways. Loudly. I groan and roll over, grit my teeth and pull a pillow over my head, willing it to stop. Only the little shit seems to know this and ramps up into high-pitched screaming – you know, how babies do when they’re seriously pissed off. I imagine its little face, all purple and screwed up as it continues to exercise its lungs like it’s just discovered what they’re for.
I lie in the dark listening to this small human being crying in peaks and troughs that seem to reach an ear-splitting crescendo every five minutes or so. After about an hour, I’ve reached breaking point and fuelled by a severe lack of sleep, I throw back the duvet and stomp up the staircase to the apartment above and thump loudly on the door. A good few seconds later, a young woman answers it. She’s holding the source of the noise over her shoulder and her long dark hair is piled in a messy bun on top of her head. I go to speak, give her a piece of my frazzled mind, but before I can get the words out, her face goes all crumpled and screwed up like the baby’s and she starts to cry.
Twenty-Five
‘I think the police are still outside, parked across the road, outside that nosy bitch Bartlett’s house. I’ve never liked her, that Jessica, full of her own piss and importance. Anyone would think she’s the only woman in the world who owns an Aga and has Sanderson wallpaper in her lounge. There are still a few journos hanging around too by the looks of things. They’ve been ringing the doorbell all morning, since 6 a.m., bloody parasites. Can you even imagine what it must be like to be famous, have them outside your door 24/7, having your every move watched and dissected? What a pain in the arse, even with all that money. Anyway, how are you feeling, hon?’
Monica drops the curtain, moves away from the window and sits on the edge of Laurie’s bed. ‘I’ve made a fresh pot of coffee and some scrambled egg,’ she says in a sing-song voice that mothers usually reserve for their sick children. ‘I’ll bring it up. Do you think you could eat something?’ She cocks her head to one side, placing her fingers on her arm.
Laurie’s eyelids are heavy and she struggles to open them. She feels like she’s been drugged. When she finally blinks her eyes open, the realisation hits her full force like a hatchet to the skull. Robert is dead. It isn’t a nightmare after all. ‘I don’t think I can, Mon,’ she says, sitting up and rubbing her gritty eyes. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘But you’ve got to eat, love. There’s hardly anything of you as it is. I’ll bring it up anyway, hmm?’ Monica runs her hands down her skinny jeans as if to smooth them, making sure the curtains are closed before she goes. ‘Just try a few mouthfuls – for me, yeah?’
Laurie nods and tries to feel grateful. Monica has been good enough to her already. ‘Thanks, Mon. Look, I really appreciate this, everything you’ve done for me, for looking after me. I’m sorry. I know you don’t need this. I—’
‘Shhh,’ Monica cuts her off. ‘Listen, what are friends for? You were there for me after Dougie went, weren’t you? I wouldn’t have got through that terrible ordeal if it hadn’t been for you.’
‘Oh, Mon… the pair of us…’ Laurie feels a stab of despair in her chest. Monica has suffered too, losing Dougie like that. It had happened the year before the accident, when she’d been happy and everything had been normal. Dougie’s sudden fatal heart attack had devastated and shocked them all. With hindsight, Laurie was glad that such a tragedy had happened when it had, if it had to happen at all, because back then she had the strength to be there for her friend, to help her, comfort her and take care of her, just like Monica was doing for her now. God forbid it had happened after the accident. She would have been useless. Good to no one. Just like Robert used to tell her. Poor Dougie. She thought of him then, pictured his familiar happy-go-lucky, smiling face, his sunny disposition. It had been almost incomprehensible to think that he could just suddenly drop down dead like that at thirty-seven. It was no age at all.
God only takes the good young, Laurie remembered saying to someone at the funeral, though she can’t recall who now. Only now she’s not so sure. He took Robert too. Well, someone did anyway. And the police think it was her. Maybe it was her? She needs to try to wrap her head around this notion, the idea that maybe she’s a murderer. She wonders if she’ll end up on one of those low-budget TV shows, like Women Who Kill, and if they will depict her as a cold, callous, jealous harridan and take the angle that it’s no wonder her husband went off with another woman.
She thinks about that prison cell. If it wasn’t for Monica, she’d still be rotting in that awful place now, locked up like an animal in a cage. The memory resurrects naked fear within her, sending it crashing through her solar plexus and causing her body to tremble. She tries hard to collect her thoughts but her mind is jumbled and confused, and she cannot concentrate on one thought long enough to process it before another appears. The frustration makes her want to cry. It’s like her soul has been sucked right out of her and she feels dead inside, like she’s slipped into a black hole inside herself and can see only a pinprick of light at the top. There’s no coming back from this, Laurie, she tells herself. She’d told herself that after the accident too. No coming back. But she had, hadn’t she? She had tried. She had fought so hard. She couldn’t imagine ever in this lifetime or the next feeling more despair, rage, guilt, shame, terror, pain and anguish than she had following the loss of her babies, the loss of Milo and Nancy, and yet now… now this. She can’t understand how all of this has happened.
Laurie looks at the window and dreads what is waiting for her on the other side of it. This is all a terrible mistake. They will see that, won’t they? The police… the press… Robert’s parents? Can she make them see – understand?
Less than two years ago she was the happiest she’d ever been in her lifetime. Pregnant and happy, due to have twins – twins! Her mind rewinds back to the moment she’d discovered she was carrying two babies. ‘I’ve got something to tell you, Bobby,’ she’d said, returning home from her twelve-week scan, light-footed a
nd high on pregnancy endorphins and the momentum of such wonderful news. ‘I think you had better sit down.’ She smiles then, involuntarily, as she remembers his face. The look of shock, surprise and then… well, it was elation she saw wasn’t it?
‘Twins! Oh my God, Law.’ He’d put his hand up to his mouth before throwing his arms around her, enveloping her in his embrace. Her Bobby. Her husband. He could be so gentle and loving, so caring and affectionate. No one pretends to be happy, do they? No one pretends to love someone, do they? Not for all those years…
He had seemed so genuinely ecstatic. It had felt so real, his arms around her, holding her. How delighted he had been. How he had kissed her cheeks, told her he loved her. How he couldn’t wait to meet his two – two – children.
‘The look on your face!’ she had said and laughed, over the moon with his reaction. ‘Well, it’s nothing to what my face must’ve looked like when the sonographer told me there were two! I almost passed out with shock! Did you know there were twins in your family! It comes from your side, you know!’
‘How would I know?’ he’d said, the mention of his family clearly taking the sheen off the moment. She feels the elation of the memory passing as the realisation hits her that Robert had never really told her anything. Not one moment of truth in all their years together, not least the vows they had made on their wedding day.
It was all lies, Laurie. Her therapist’s voice suddenly appears in her mind. All of it. You have to try and accept that. Accept. How could she accept? How can anyone accept that their entire relationship was built on deception and lies? How does someone come to terms with that? They can tell you that you must accept it all they like, but how? How do you begin to try to emotionally process something like that? How do you accept that every moment, every memory, every intimate detail you have shared with another person was not based in any truth or reality? That behind the mask of love and respectability they were duping you, lying to you, using you… and for reasons you cannot understand, that make no sense to a rational mind.
The Couple on Cedar Close Page 13
