“Sarge, is it just me, or do you smell of strawberries?”
DS Clarke stared straight ahead, trying to focus on the road and not the fact that his cheeks were flushing red. He slipped the car into fourth gear as he responded. “Think that’s just you, Reynolds.”
She leaned in closer to him, pulling at her seatbelt for room to manoeuvre. “It’s definitely you, Sir.” She laughed — a light, natural giggle that he was sure he would be drawn toward if he heard it in a bar. “It’s not your new aftershave, is it? You might want to try a bit of Hugo Boss instead.”
“No, it’s not bloody aftershave. It’s toothpaste.”
“Toothpaste? Like the flavoured kiddie ones?”
“Yes. Kacey likes it, and I can’t be bothered to buy loads of different ones, okay?”
“All right, all right — I’m not going to judge you on your toothpaste choices. After all, I get mine from Poundland. I ain’t paying three quid for a tube of Colgate. Not on my salary.”
They fell silent for a moment, an awkward air passing between them. Clarke fiddled with the radio, tuning into Magic FM as he bumped over a pothole.
“Sorry, damn roads.”
“Oh, don’t worry. Though I must say, you seem to hit the potholes a lot. Is this why you always make me drive?”
Clarke bristled. “I don’t always make you drive — I’m driving now, aren’t I?”
“Only because I put my foot down for once. You’re the only guy I know that would actually prefer to be ferried around by a woman.”
Clarke rolled his eyes. This was why he’d ended up giving in and driving. It had been under control for a while, and he always knew when a skull-splitting migraine was coming, anyway. Most of the time.
“Teddy tells me this street is well known for being dodge, by the way,” Rebecca said as she studied Ray’s address. “He said it’s pretty much all council housing, and says that social services are very familiar with it, if you know what I mean.”
“Yep, sounds about right.”
“Bit like Bridgeton. To be avoided, at all costs.”
DS Clarke shrugged. “I don’t know Scotland at all.”
“East side of Glasgow, basically. There’s a random umbrella statue in the middle that is basically just a meeting ground for the pissheads and junkies.”
“Ah. I see.”
“How about you, Sarge? Did you grow up in Norfolk?”
He gawped in mock offence. “No, I did not! Do I sound Norfolk born and bred to you?”
“Well, you do sound a bit Norfolk, yeah. I cannae lie.”
“Right, well, that’s the worst news I’ve heard all day. I have been here over a decade now, though, I suppose.” He winced as he said it. Jesus, where had the time gone?
“Where were you from originally, then?”
“A little village in Essex, kind of near Stansted Airport. Great Dunmow, it’s called. My parents still live there.”
“So, how’d you end up here?”
“Came up to UEA for Uni. Met Kacey’s mum. Never left.” It was a cliché. Boy goes to University, full of adventure and dreams. Boy meets girl. Boy settles down. Dreams go out the window.
“Oh, right. What does Kacey’s mum do? Does she look after her full time?”
Bollocks. He should have known the conversation would end up here. It always did with women. Why did they always have to know about your home life? Couldn’t work just be work and home be home? He slowed down as he joined the Long Stratton traffic. There were mothers pushing their babies in prams along the sidewalks and a gaggle of school girls hanging outside the co-op. He was sure a couple of them were smoking, with a slightly ill but cocky expression hazy on their faces.
“Um, no. Emily’s mum, Kacey’s nana, looks after her most of the time.”
“Oh. Is Emily not around?”
He sighed. They would be stuck in the Long Stratton traffic for ages, and she wasn’t going to let up. He was going to have to explain. He glanced at the blue stone ring on his wedding finger and watched his knuckles whiten as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He could still see it, as clear as day. The blood oozing out from under the car and, as he stepped closer, the sense of dread that had filled him when he saw that coral stiletto poking out. The pair that they’d argued about. He’d said they were too expensive, and she’d said they were perfect for nice occasions. If only they’d known then that her shoes would end up in an evidence bag, smeared with her blood.
He coughed and shook the memory from his head. “She died. A year and a half ago. Kacey was eighteen months old.” People always seemed to ask how old Kacey was — as if there were an optimal age for a child to lose her parent.
Rebecca gasped and reddened in embarrassment. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise — you still wear the ring, so I just figured …”
“It’s not my wedding ring.”
“Oh.”
They sat in silence for a while, edging forward in the traffic at a painfully slow speed, before Rebecca gave in to the small talk that he wished she had started with in the first place.
“So, football man, are you?”