Gordon Pearce pulled the car into the kerb, almost unable to see because of the tears in his eyes.
He had caught them in his headlights. Just a courting couple, he had thought, until he had really seen what he was looking at, and he had stared transfixed. Lennie. It had been Lennie. He had told himself that he had been mistaken, that it couldn’t have been. She wouldn’t behave like that – she wasn’t … He sniffed, and searched for a handkerchief. He had a good mind to go straight back and tell Jonathan what she was up to when his back was turned. That would wipe the smug look off his face.
Not that Jonathan was behaving much better, but at least it wasn’t in public. She had been wrapped round that … that – he blew his nose noisily as his brain failed to come up with an adequate description of her companion.
He knew him. He knew his face, from way back. From before Lennie had married Jonathan. Was he the one she had been trying to avoid, when she had used him, as she had always used him? ‘Oh, Gordon, save my life, there’s a love. If you’re with me, he’ll just go away.’ And he had done as she had asked, as he had always done.
He had been so pleased to be of assistance, so eager to prove himself worthy to her. And she had smiled, and kissed him, and said she didn’t know what she would do without him. He had believed her, when she had presumably just been playing hard to get, and using him to do it. She wasn’t playing hard to get now.
He had been there, if she had needed someone. But of course, there was Pauline. Even if he had known that Lennie was … well, available, there was still Pauline.
He’d only married Pauline because Lennie had got engaged. And if she hadn’t wanted Jonathan at all, then why? Why? What sort of a marriage was that? You were meant to stay faithful to your vows – my God, look what was happening to him. He wasn’t grabbing at anything that passed just because Pauline wouldn’t …
He rubbed his eyes, and started the car. They had screwed up his life, between them, Lennie and Jonathan. Damn them. Damn them both. Damn them all. Jonathan and Lennie, Rosemary Beale, Pauline. All of them. All screwing up his life.
Damn them all.
Jonathan didn’t want to stay in the house, with Gordon’s animosity still thick in the air. It had been the hardest thing he had ever had to do; he genuinely liked Gordon. In an odd way, he would have felt better if it hadn’t been true, but the company could function without its founder. It could function just as well with him, but his usefulness had long since been overtaken by the company’s own momentum. And, left to Gordon’s devices, it was entirely true to suggest that the whole thing would have slid into bankruptcy. All true, and none of it made him feel any better.
He wasn’t looking forward to telling Leonora what they had been discussing, either. But that wouldn’t be as awful. She would be angry, and demand reasons which he couldn’t give, but he could handle that. Gordon’s bewilderment, his hurt confusion, was much more difficult.
Where was Leonora, anyway? He glanced at the clock. Ten twenty-five; it was getting late. He would have expected her to have been home by now. Perhaps she was staying at the studio for the night; she had done that on other occasions when she had been angry with him. But she had told him, those times. She was just staying out as long as she could to worry him, he told himself. That was all. Or she had got wrapped up in something that she was doing. He didn’t pretend to understand Leonora’s work, but she did seem to be very highly thought of by those who mattered in the art world, and she could forget everything when she was working.
He wished he could. More than anything, he wished he had some overriding interest in something, something in which he could lose himself and let the rest of the world go to hell. But facts and figures were his forte, and they concerned the rest of the world too much to let him forget it. Leonora’s painting was more important to her than anything; it was why she had married him, Jonathan knew that. He wished, really, that she hadn’t. He wished he had never asked her. She could have had his financial backing without marrying him; he might not understand what she did, but he understood investment in art, and Leonora was a good investment.
Where had she gone, anyway? She had never left without telling him where she was going. His heart suddenly sank as he realised that she might have gone to keep Pauline company. She might be hearing about it from Gordon even now. He closed his eyes. This was a nightmare. The whole thing was a nightmare.
He had opened the floodgates deliberately, but he hadn’t really been prepared for just how insecure Judy felt.
‘It’s only the first day, love,’ he said, his arm round her, patting her. ‘It’ll get better it’s bound to.’
‘It couldn’t get much worse.’ She sounded so down.
He sighed. At least she wasn’t crying. He realised with a little jolt of surprise that in all the time he’d known her, and all the trauma that their relationship had been subjected to, he had never seen her crying. She’d be fine once she had been there a couple of days, he knew that Judy hated change, hated anything which removed her from whichever rut she was in, whether she liked being in it or not. She hadn’t enjoyed being married, but it had been a long, painful haul before she had finally left Michael. She had almost cried that night, he remembered. Almost, but not quite. She had been crying, that much had been obvious; but not in front of him. He wasn’t sure he liked that, and had said so. She had told him that it was the job that had taught her how to check tears. It was one thing a six foot six burly copper shedding manly tears over a particularly sad accident; it was quite another to have some damn female blubbing all over the show.
But she hadn’t been crying tonight. And in a way, this was tougher than leaving her dead marriage, because she had loved it at Stansfield. All that was wrong with her, Lloyd knew, was that she was in a new place with new people and new routines to which she would almost immediately become accustomed, and then that would be where she felt comfortable. No point in telling her all that, of course. She never believed him when he tried, so now he just made encouraging noises. And if it occurred to him that no one would be having to perform this service for DS Drake, it was merely a passing thought on human nature, on the different personalities with which one had to deal on one’s daily round. It wasn’t a male chauvinist thought on la difference. Of course it wasn’t.
‘For some reason,’ she went on, ‘they’ve got it into their heads that I’m some sort of tub-thumper for Women’s Lib.’
‘It’ll settle down,’ he said. ‘Eventually they’ll realise your sterling worth.’
‘Stop making fun of me,’ she grumbled, but she was smiling. She closed her eyes and leant against him.
‘Vive la difference,’ he dared to say aloud as he gave her a cuddle, and escaped a telling off because she had just done the slowest double-take in history.
‘Yours wasn’t a real Welsh mam?’
He shook his head. ‘She was only half Welsh,’ he said.
‘What was the other half?’
There was a tiny silence before he spoke, and Judy opened her eyes. ‘Well?’ she said.
‘I’ve just given you a clue, as it happens,’ he said.
‘What? What did you just say? I wasn’t listening.’
‘You never do. I said, ‘‘Vive la difference.’’ ’
‘French?’ Judy looked at him suspiciously. ‘ Your mother was half French? Is this true?’ she demanded.
‘Yes.’ He smiled. ‘French. My grandma Pritchard was French.’
Judy blinked. ‘So you’re part French,’ she said. He nodded. ‘Which part?’ ‘You tell me.’ He kissed her. ‘I’ll tell you later.’ ‘You know something?’ said Lloyd, as they got up from the sofa. ‘What?’ ‘I’ve never made love to a detective inspector,’ he said. She smiled. ‘I have,’ she said. ‘I can recommend it.’
‘He doesn’t make you feel like this,’ Steve said. ‘Does he?’
She shook her head, her eyes closed. ‘ You can walk me home,’ she said, after a moment, relenting a little. ‘Well – some of the way, anyway.’
Rock ‘n’ roll, walking a girl home. It was the fifties, thought Steve, as they walked up from the pub, arms round one another’s waists, crossing the railway bridge as a train thundered under them.
‘If this was the fifties,’ said Steve, going over to watch the train, ‘there would be smoke and steam everywhere now.’
‘I don’t remember steam trains,’ she said, joining him.
He smacked her playfully. ‘Don’t rub it in,’ he said, looking over the edge of the bridge as the train snaked off into the distance, its red tail lights blurring with the speed. ‘ I loved them. Even then – it’s not just nostalgia. They were big and noisy and smelly – I don’t know. They had personalities. I didn’t want them to go.’
They spent a few more minutes on the bridge, until Lennie decided people might see. They walked on slowly, past rows of shops.
‘If this was the fifties, we’d be ducking into a shop doorway,’ he said. ‘People wouldn’t see then. There aren’t any now,’ he added wistfully, looking at the plate glass doors, flush with the windows, covered in their safety mesh.
‘Neither there are,’ she said, surprised. ‘There used to be. When I was little. When did that happen?’
‘Search me.’
They left the shops behind, and passed the empty spaces where Mitchell Engineering’s buildings used to be. Some had been redeveloped, mostly by small factory units let out to various businesses; Lennie’s husband’s new, custom-built factory still stood alone, but it was surrounded by ground marked out for others.
They crossed over the silent, empty traffic roundabout, and walked towards the old post office. Pedestrian street-lighting was not a priority here, where the combustion engine reigned; dark slashes of shadow were pooled here and there by watery light. They took advantage of the privacy, and made slow progress through the shadows, stopping for minutes at a time, then moving on a few feet before stopping again. She wanted him, Steve knew that.
She drew away from him as they came up to the old, empty post office, stepping into the deep shadows of the building. ‘You’d better not come any further,’ she said. ‘I don’t want anyone on the estate seeing us. Let’s say goodnight here.’
Steve had no intention of saying goodnight; she was as eager as he was, and he made the most of it.
‘Oh, Stevie, please stop. Please,’ she said, after long, agonising moments. ‘Please don’t do this.’
‘We’ll find somewhere to go, Lennie.’
‘No – no.’ She tried to twist away from him; he pulled her back roughly, his tongue teasing hers into a would-be reluctant kiss as headlights swept them again, this time remaining on them as the car pulled to a halt a few feet away.
Steve looked over at it after a moment. Was it the same car? It had to be, but he couldn’t make it out; it was just an indistinguishable dark shape behind its glaring headlights.
‘What the hell is he up to?’ he said angrily. ‘ I’ll sort him.’ He walked purposefully towards the car, which drove off as he came up to it, heading down towards the village.
He walked back to Lennie. ‘Where had we got to?’ he asked, slipping back into the shadow with her.
‘Steve – stop it. I’m going home. Now. I’m not going to get involved with you.’
He stood back a little and looked at her. ‘You want to,’ he said. ‘You know you do.’ She took a breath, and nodded. ‘ But I’m not going to. I’ve made
promises, Steve.’
He laughed. ‘Marriage vows?’ he said. ‘Who takes any notice of
them?’
‘Jonathan does.’
Steve shook his head. ‘ Why did you marry him, Lennie?’
‘Security,’ she said.
‘Security,’ he repeated.
‘Yes,’ she said hotly. ‘ Three meals a day. Not being frightened
to open my mail in the morning. Security. Precious little of that
I’d get from you.’
‘I’m not asking you to give that up!’ He took her in his arms
again. ‘A nice, old-fashioned affair, that’s all.’
‘And a nice, old-fashioned scandal. Candidate’s wife in love-nest
with pusher.’
Steve smiled, and pulled her closer to him. ‘All right,’ he whispered.
‘A nice, old-fashioned one-night stand.’
She shook her head. ‘ It might not be a match made in heaven,’
she said. ‘But he sticks to his part of the bargain, and I’m sticking
to mine.’
Steve let her go, and put his hands in his pockets, looking at
her. He hadn’t been going to say anything. None of his business.
But Austin didn’t deserve Lennie. ‘ Is that what you think?’ he asked.
‘That he sticks to the bargain?’
She frowned. ‘Yes,’ she said warily.
Steve shook his head.
Mickey Drake drove slowly past the Austin-Pearce factory; a car had come out of the service road a few minutes ago, and it was an odd time of night for anyone to be in the area. He looked across, watching for any signs of life that shouldn’t be there, but his mind was still on the couple.
They were a couple; he was sure of it. She wasn’t being molested, as he’d thought might have been the case, when she had seemed to try to pull away from him.
He picked up his radio. ‘Delta Sierra to Delta Hotel,’ he said.
But it wasn’t either of the men who had been at the flat earlier, and it wasn’t Frankie Beale, who had dropped her off there in the first place.
The factory logo was lit up at night, though they had stopped working nightshift. It made the police’s job a little easier, lighting up the corrugated grey wall like a fluted cinema screen, against which any miscreant would clearly be seen. Lorries were scattered round the car park, and he watched carefully for signs of life behind them.
He shook his head slightly, wondering why architects wanted new factories to look like old Nissen huts, and why it was suddenly fashionable to have all the paraphernalia of servicing a building picked out in red paint instead of boxed off neatly, out of sight.
‘Delta Hotel,’ said Jack Woodford’s voice. ‘I thought you were off watch, Mickey?’
‘I am. But I thought you ought to know that I haven’t seen the panda car.’
She must have been with him, all the same; she hadn’t tried to get away when he came towards the car. Though she might have been too frightened, if she was being assaulted. But she wasn’t. It had looked, for a moment, as though she was resisting, but she wasn’t. She was with him. She was.
There was a silence, during which he knew that Woodford was sighing, or mouthing to someone. ‘ He’s checked in, thanks Mickey,’ he said. ‘ Everything’s OK.’
Maybe she was frightened to run, in case that got him angry, he thought. Maybe he should have got out of the car and found out for himself what was going on.
‘It wasn’t him I was worried about,’ he said.
‘No, well – you wouldn’t have thanked him if he’d scared off your courier. He’d be keeping clear.’
The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Mickey. ‘ Or sitting up a side-street eating fish and chips,’ he said.
He drove through the old village. Chief Inspector Lloyd lived here. He glanced at the flats as he passed, on his way down to the dual carriageway; he’d heard that he lived with Judy Hill, but he was disinclined to believe station gossip. People usually had the wrong end of the stick. And he was inclined to think that it was their own business, if it was true. The force didn’t own your soul. But she wasn’t divorced from Mr Hill; he knew that.
‘That’s a possibility,’ said Woodford, after another long silence. ‘But I’ll tell you what, Mickey. You worry about your job, and I’ll worry about mine. All right?’
Mickey had found DI Hill to be pleasant to look at, and talk to, but he’d only worked with her for a couple of weeks before she went off on a course prior to taking up her inspector’s duties at Malworth. He’d have to reserve judgement on her, and on the rumours. Though he certainly wouldn’t kick her out of bed.
He shrugged at the radio. ‘All right,’ he said. He liked Jack Woodford, but he really didn’t check up on his beat men often enough.
She was with him, he was sure. She was with him. She was with him, she wasn’t resisting.
He drove along the dual carriageway, to where there was a break in the central reservation. Then he executed an illegal U-turn on the empty road, and headed back the way he had come.
Pauline Pearce sat in the darkness, looking out of the window at the still, quiet street, and the dark river. Some noise, something had attracted her attention; it was unusual to hear anything after the shops had closed. She had switched off the lamp, and gone to the window, but whoever it was had gone. Across the road on the other side of the river was a children’s play park; the moon, high and round and full, sat hazily in the dark blue sky, lighting the swings and slides standing silent in the night. It was such a beautiful night now, after the drizzle that had fallen all day; she would have been able to see if there was anyone across there.
A dull glow lit the pavement outside one of the shops below her, and it was this that Pauline was looking at, had been looking at, for ages. It was coming from Lennie’s studio, directly beneath their flat. And why would Lennie be working at this time of night? It could hardly be burglars; they surely wouldn’t put a light on. And she hadn’t heard anyone breaking in – though it could have been someone forcing the door, she supposed, but it hadn’t sounded like that. It couldn’t be Lennie working, because it wasn’t the studio light itself; that would make a much brighter splash of colour. It was the light in the back room. She closed her eyes briefly, and tried to recall the noise.
More like trying the door, she would say, when she was asked to remember everything she could about this moment. But right now, she didn’t know to commit it to memory. It was just a strange noise, down there in the street.
Perhaps Gordon had carried out his threat; she had thought he was joking, but he might not have been. He had come in from the bedroom, smelling of aftershave, still in his bathrobe.
‘How about some afternoon delight?’ he had said. ‘Well – early evening delight, anyway.’
She had wanted to say yes. She could have said yes; she had done that before. But that had just made him angry, because she didn’t know how to simulate desire. So she had said no.
‘Oh, well, I’ll just have to go and make another pass at Lennie,’ he had said.
Now she was being silly. Jonathan was there too; if she did have anything to fear from Lennie, it wouldn’t be tonight. But he had said that; another pass. Just a joke? Or a slip of the tongue? Or an oblique way of telling her that if she couldn’t bring herself to … She was being silly, she told herself. But it was late. Quarter past eleven was late, especially in Jonathan’s book, and Jonathan never encouraged visitors to stay late. And Gordon wasn’t home. And she had heard someone … doing what? Opening the door to the studio? Someone was in there. Someone had been in there a long time. And why would Lennie be working?
She turned from the window, and was still sitting in the dark when she heard a car drive away; too late, she looked out again, but it was gone. She jumped as the door opened.
‘Why are you sitting in the dark?’ Gordon asked, switching on the light.
‘Where have you been?’
Gordon sat down. ‘You are beginning to sound exactly like a wife,’ he said, and the words were slurring.
‘I am your wife. I’ve been worried.’
‘So you are. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.’
She felt guilty. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘I’ve been for a drink. I thought you were going to bed?’
‘I was. But I heard this noise.’
‘Noise?’
‘Someone. I think—’ She stopped. She mustn’t. If it had been him, this wasn’t the time to tackle it. If it hadn’t, he wouldn’t want to know.
‘What?’
‘I think I must have been hearing things.’ She went over to him, kneeling down beside him, her head on his knee. ‘ I’m sorry about earlier,’ she said.
She could feel him curl her hair round his fingers. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘You can’t always be in the mood.’
This was how he had been about it at the start. That bothered her a little, rather than comforted her. She planted a little kiss on his knee and looked up at him. ‘The doctor said it would pass,’ she said.
‘I’m sure it will.’ His eyes were closing, and he looked pale and upset. ‘It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.’
‘What?’ she said. ‘What’s wrong? Why have you had so much to drink?’ He didn’t drink, not as a rule. Just the odd pint. She had never seen him drunk.
He gave a shrug.
‘You didn’t drive home like that, did you?’
‘Yes. I drove home like this.’
His clothes, with which he had taken such care, were dishevelled. There was a strange smell.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked. ‘ What’s happened?’
His eyes were closing. ‘ To my own funeral,’ he said, indistinctly.
‘What? What do you mean? Gordon, tell me!’ She shook his arm.
‘Your friend Lennie,’ he said. ‘And our delightful next-door neighbour. They’ve …’ He opened his eyes with difficulty.
She sniffed. ‘Can you smell burning?’ she asked.
He sat up. ‘No,’ he said. ‘ I’m out, Pauline. I’m out of my own company. They wanted me to sign some … some agreement, but I’m – I didn’t. So I’m out. No money. No dividends, even. No money, no flat.’
‘Lennie wouldn’t do that to you!’
‘Don’t you believe it. She’s fallen in with thieves, Pauline. She’s no better herself. Used me. Only ever used me. And that Beale woman – she’s nothing but a …’ The words were slurring, and his eyes weren’t focusing. ‘ I’ve really done it now,’ he said, and fell back. He closed his eyes, and was dead to the world.
Pauline sniffed again, and went to the window, shielding the reflection with the curtain. She couldn’t see anything on fire. The studio light was still on. She remembered the noise, and looked again at the light from the studio. No. No, he wouldn’t have done anything like that.
She picked up the door key, and looked at Gordon, lying back, his mouth open.
He wouldn’t.
The champagne cork didn’t shoot up and break the light fitting; Lloyd was very proud of his prowess at opening bottles of bubbly. He poured it neatly, without spilling any, into two glasses, then topped them up as the fizz subsided.
He sat on the edge of the bed, and handed Judy hers. ‘You were right,’ he said, clinking his glass with hers. ‘ DIs are OK.’
She sat back on the pillow, her legs across his knee. ‘Just OK,’ she said. ‘And I get champagne. What do I get if I’m great?’
‘The champagne is to celebrate your new job, which you will like, believe me.’
Lloyd had made her feel better. The champagne was going to make her feel better still. One day, she would tell him how lucky she was to have him, but not right now. It would just make him unbearably smug.
‘How on earth did your grandmother come to be French?’ she asked.
‘I imagine it was being born in France that did it,’ he said.
She hit him. ‘How did she come to be living in a fishing village in Wales?’
‘Ah, well …’ Lloyd smiled. ‘It’s a very romantic story. It’ll be wasted on you.’
There was something malevolent about the telephone, she thought, as it punctured the mood. These days it did it almost politely, purring quietly at them; it was an improvement on harsh bells, but that was all. Its effect was the same, she thought, as Lloyd picked it up.
‘Lloyd.’ He listened. ‘Yes, she is. Just a moment.’ He held the phone out to her.
She sighed. If something was going to happen in that dead and alive place, why did it have to be now, for God’s sake? She glanced at the bedside alarm. Twenty past eleven. A burglary, she thought.
‘DI Hill,’ she said.
‘Judy?’
She frowned, then recognised Jonathan Austin’s voice.
‘Oh, yes – sorry, Jonathan. I thought it would be work.’
‘I’m sorry to call so late,’ he said. ‘I just wondered if Leonora was with you.’
Judy frowned. ‘No,’ she said. ‘ Sorry, Jonathan. Should she be?’
‘What? Oh – no. That is, she didn’t say she was going to see you or anything. It’s just that she’s not home yet.’
Judy imagined that she must be the last desperate hope in a long series of phone-calls. Lennie had lots of friends, all of whom she had known longer, any of whom would be more likely than she was to receive an unannounced visit.
‘I haven’t seen her,’ she said. ‘Are you worried about her?’
‘No, no. She probably did tell me where she was going. I was a bit preoccupied this evening.’
It was so patently a lie that Judy was at a loss to know what to say next.
‘Look – she isn’t just telling you to say she’s not there, is she?’ he said.
‘Of course not,’ Judy said.
‘No. Sorry.’
‘It’s not all that late, Jonathan. She’s probably on her way home now.’
‘Yes. I expect so. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
Judy looked at Lloyd, and shrugged. ‘What’s worrying you?’ she asked Jonathan. ‘Have you had a row or something?’
‘Well, to be honest, I don’t think that’s—’
‘You’re quite right,’ Judy said quickly. ‘Curiosity is an occupational hazard, I’m afraid.’ In the background, she could hear the rise and fall of a siren in the distance, and an illogical cold shiver swept over her. ‘ Jonathan – everything is all right, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, I – yes, we did have words. Nothing spectacular, but she wasn’t very pleased with me. She’s probably at the studio. I can’t think why I didn’t try there. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
Judy put down the phone, concerned about Lennie.
‘Who was that?’ asked Lloyd.
‘His name’s Jonathan Austin. He’s married to a friend of mine.’ She shrugged a little. ‘He seems to have lost her.’
‘Does he think something’s happened to her?’ asked Lloyd.
‘It’s hard to say. I don’t think he has reason to think that,’ she said. She swung her legs off his knee, and sat up, the better to address the situation. ‘They’ve had a row, and she hasn’t come home yet, that’s all. It’s not late, not really.’ She smiled. ‘By your standards this is late afternoon,’ she said.
‘Do I know her?’
‘No. I met her when I was the crime prevention officer at Stansfield. She had a studio flat on Queens Estate. We got quite friendly. After she got married, she and Jonathan used to visit me and Michael now and then.’
‘Maybe she’s got a boyfriend. Used you as an alibi, and you’ve just blown it.’
Judy shook her head. ‘She’s not like that. Oh – I don’t mean that their marriage is too solid, or anything. Just that she’d walk out rather than cheat, I’m sure.’ She flushed slightly. ‘ She’s not like me,’ she said. ‘She’s got a lot more courage.’
‘Well – maybe she has walked out.’
‘Yes.’ Judy nodded. ‘She’s not a bit like herself with Jonathan, you know. She’s like … that film. You know? Where all the women do exactly what the men want?’
‘Stepford Wives,’ said Lloyd, and laughed. ‘Maybe her wiring’s gone wrong.’ His face sobered. ‘It’s bothering you, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Yes, though for the life of me I don’t know why,’ said Judy. ‘ I just don’t understand why he rang me. I saw her today, so we arranged to have lunch once I’d got settled in. And I gave her this number, and told her about you. But we’re not all that close – I mean, I hadn’t told her about you before, for instance. And we don’t pop in on each other.’
‘Maybe your number was written by the phone, or something,’ said Lloyd. ‘First one he saw.’
‘No. Jonathan was dropping her off at the studio, and she got him to make a note of it.’ She pulled a face. ‘Jonathan has a Filofax,’ she said. ‘Of course.’
‘Well, that’s probably why he rang you,’ said Lloyd, putting down his glass and getting back into bed. ‘ If you saw her this morning, and your number was to hand. Stop worrying about him. Worry about me instead.’
She smiled. ‘And why do I have to worry about you?’ she asked.
‘I’m lonely. And I’ve got a frightening detective sergeant.’
‘Poor Mickey,’ said Judy. ‘He’s all right.’
‘He’s like a recruitment firm.’
‘Oh, leave him alone!’ She laughed. ‘And you say I don’t like change! Anyway – he’s frightened of you.’
‘No one’s frightened of me.’
‘He is. He told me you’d probably heard terrible reports about him from Jack Woodford. I think he’s trying to impress you, not frighten you. He needs a good report from you.’
‘Mm,’ said Lloyd, not looking much happier. He put his arm round her. ‘What do you say we forget about Drake, and your friend and her husband?’ He kissed her.
Judy tried to forget. But she wished, all the same, that Jonathan hadn’t rung. It wasn’t like Lennie just to go off and worry him. She was straightforward, direct. The phone-call had unsettled her, and Lloyd wasn’t getting her full attention.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘I’m still here, you know.’
She made a determined effort to push the phone-call out of her mind. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘ I’m all yours.’
But she just hoped that wherever Lennie was, she knew what she was doing.
Lennie walked briskly through the Mitchell Estate roads while she listened to Steve, not caring much who saw them. Then she realised that that wasn’t sensible. Why kill the goose?
‘All right,’ she said slowly, measuring her words. ‘But we’re not going to advertise it.’ She smiled. ‘ You come to the studio tomorrow. At lunchtime.’
‘Just to get your own back?’ He smiled. He didn’t care why she was doing it, just as long as she was.
‘No,’ she said seriously. ‘To get you back. Now, I’m going home.’ She started to walk away.
He caught her up, catching hold of her arm. ‘ I’m not letting you walk up there alone,’ he said.
‘It’s five hundred yards! You can see the flats round this corner.’
‘I’m not leaving you alone with that weirdo in the car,’ he said.
Lennie frowned. ‘Do you think it was the same car both times?’ she asked.
‘I hope it was. Or there are two weirdos in cars. Come on.’
As they rounded the corner, Lennie could see that the flat was in darkness. ‘That’s odd,’ she said.
‘He’s gone out,’ said Steve, and smiled. ‘So I can see you safely in.’ He paused. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have told you,’ he said.
‘But you have,’ said Lennie. And it was the truth; she knew that. When does he go there? she had asked Steve, just in case. Wednesday, he had said. Jonathan’s chess evening, at a club in Barton. And she had believed him, wished him luck – asked him how he had got on, week after week. And she had been made a fool of, week after week.
‘Are you going to say any thing to him?’
‘No.’ No. But she would have a separate room in future. Not that that would worry Jonathan. And she would do exactly as she chose, but discreetly.
They could hear the muffled ring of the telephone as they pushed open the door to the flats. With an urgency that only the telephone can produce, Lennie scrabbled for her keys, and opened the door.
She went into the sitting-room, lit only by stray beams from the flat entrance light, and Steve followed her in, beating her to the phone and putting his hand on it as he caught her, turning her round.
‘Leave it,’ he said, pulling her into yet another kiss, which she never wanted to stop. All the time, the phone rang, over and over and over, demanding that she answer it, telling her that this was not discreet. If she was embarking on a truly double life, she should plan it, not let this happen.
She pushed him away. ‘Go,’ she said. ‘ I’m in. Safely. Go.’
‘You can’t leave me feeling like this,’ he said.
‘How do you think I feel? Go. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
He held up his hands in surrender, and waved as he went back out of the room; she turned, and picked up the phone.
‘Hello?’
There was silence. Not total silence, but no one spoke.
‘Hello, who’s there?’
She could hear sounds; unidentifiable, fuzzy sounds. ‘ Who’s there?’ she asked again, feeling a little alarmed. ‘I know there’s someone.’ But no one spoke.
She replaced the receiver, and glanced at herself in the mirror; even in the dim light she could see the little bruise developing on her lower lip. She examined herself for further proof of her evening’s activities, in order to disguise them before he came home. She had never had to be duplicitous, but if she was going to be, then she would do it well. She sat back a little, and looked at her back-lit reflection, smiling a little as she thought of tomorrow, and Steve.
That was when she saw the figure in the mirror.