They were talking about him again. He wasn’t being paranoid, he knew it.
Detective Chief Superintendent Derringdo pulled his hand away from the fresh scab on his chin. Mustn’t pick it. He had enough scars. Enough worries.
He wished he could stop worrying and just concentrate on his job, but how could he? The doctor had just rung to tell him the tests had confirmed the diagnosis: the five-year-old twins had leukaemia – both of them.
And young Lesley, nearly seven, was due for her hole-in-the-heart operation next week.
‘Tea, guv’nor?’ WPC Bentley hovered over him worshipfully. She had been like that ever since he had rescued her from the mad axeman who’d been holding her hostage. ‘Or coffee? Can I get you a sandwich? It’s chicken curry in the staff canteen today – I could bring you some.’
‘Just coffee, thanks.’ Why did women always want to feed you? Especially when they were invariably on a diet themselves. His older sister, Angie, was a case in point. Been on a diet all her life, down to about six stone now. Sometimes he wondered: could it be anorexia? Rum, that.
Rum, yes. And vodka. Never mind the coffee, that was what he wanted: a whole bottle of vodka, followed by rum, scotch, beer, brandy … He’d been on the wagon for twelve whole hours now. God, it was hard! Agony! Perhaps he’d let himself have just a snifter or two tonight when he got home.
But first he would have to stop by the Special Needs school on
the way home and pick up little Simon, the eight-year-old. If it was a good day, Simon might even speak to him.
‘Sir – ’ Detective Sergeant Croxley was beside the desk, holding a sheaf of computer printouts. ‘Sir, we’ve got him! That villain you pulled in last night. He’s Mr Big! We’ve found his warehouse – it’s crammed to the gunnels with firearms, ammunition and a whole mountain of drugs. We’ve got him dead to rights!’
‘Oh. Er, good. Good work, lad.’ He hoped his young and enthusiastic team attributed his bleak croak to the fact that he was concerned because his mother was not recovering properly from her hip replacement operation and it might have to be done again.
How long could he keep it from them that his baby sister had eloped with Mr Big six weeks ago? She had even made it legal – they were married. And how was he going to break it to Cissy that her bridegroom would be going down for a very long stretch?
Oh, yes – and under the new regulations, Mr Big’s house, chattels and bank accounts would be seized. Cissy would not take kindly to being made a pauper … .
At the end of a long day, his home looked almost welcoming as he approached it. But he was not deceived.
He carried Simon up the stairs, the child’s leg brace hitting against his sore ribs with every step.
Tomorrow, he promised himself, tomorrow he would try to put aside his personal problems and concentrate on solving the murder of the elderly much-loved local vicar. The tabloids were already baying at his heels about it and he was afraid that his job was on the line. Again.
At the top of the stairs, he set Simon down on the floor and gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder.
‘Run along now,’ he said absently.
‘Run? Run? You fool!’ Christine, his wife, appeared out of the shadows. In a raging temper, as usual. ‘Hobble, you mean! You
know he can’t run! He’ll never run! Hobble, hobble along, Simon, like a good little cripple!’
‘Christine!’ He tried to be understanding, to empathize with her. ‘I’m sorry. The doctor rang me about the twins this afternoon. Don’t worry, we’ll get through it somehow – ’
‘The twins! Simon! Lesley! There’s something wrong with every one of your children! Your genes are rotten! Useless! Damned – ’
‘Oh, really?’ He tried to keep calm and rational. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that it might be your – ’
That was as far as he got. Where had that heavy iron frying pan come from? She must have been hiding it behind her skirt.
‘No! Don’t!’ he shouted, raising his arms to shield his head.
‘Shut up! Shut up!’ She lashed out with the frying pan. ‘Do you want the neighbours to hear you?’
No! No! That must never happen!
He lowered his arms and grappled with her, trying to get control of the makeshift weapon.
She kicked out and he felt his knees give way. He crashed heavily down the stairs, trying again to shield his face to minimize any visible bruising that would betray his shame to the world. The floor rose up to meet him. He clenched his teeth to keep from crying out.
No one must ever know. To his dying breath, he must guard the worst, the most shameful, secret of all:
That he, the brilliant detective, the hero of a hundred daring raids, the respected Detective Chief Superintendent, the man with hopes of becoming Chief Constable some day … that he … of all people … was a battered husband.
The cats no longer even blinked when a paperback went soaring over their heads. To be honest, she hadn’t thrown it with her customary vigour. The storyline had brought back the sudden disturbing memory of the bruises on Macho’s face the other week. Those bruises had faded away now and no fresh ones had appeared.
Did that mean that Cressie was growing better at controlling her temper – possibly because she was getting her own way? Or did it mean that she was striking where the bruises wouldn’t show?
What’s it to you
? The echo from that earlier unsettling dream returned to her, so vividly that it was hard to remember that it had been just a dream … a nightmare …
What
was
it to her?
Macho Magee was a colleague, a neighbour, an old friend who had grown more endearing since they had moved into nearby houses in this comfortable retreat. Macho Magee – No! – Lancelot Dalrymple was a sweet gentle man and a scholar, a man who deserved better in life than a termagant … a domineering shrew … a … a Cressie! Why couldn’t he come to his senses and realize that?
What was it to
her
?
She caught up as many of the remaining paperbacks as she could hold in each hand and hurled them across the room, this time with considerable force.
The cats went skittering for the exit, colliding with each other in their eagerness to get out of her way.
She continued throwing until there were no books left. Then, for good measure, she crossed the room and kicked them into an untidy heap. There! They could stay there! She wouldn’t waste another moment on them, far less force herself to read them. Perhaps tomorrow, she’d gather them up and hand them over to Freddie –
Freddie! She was supposed to be at Freddie’s for dinner! Tonight … now! She was late – and she still had to change into something more suitable for a social evening.
Had-I and But-Known raced inside the moment Freddie opened the door. Sniffing rapturously, they made straight for the kitchen, following the heady aroma of roasting chicken.
‘Can you take them anywhere?’ Lorinda shrugged an apology.
‘Funny, I got the impression they were taking you. I do admit, however, that you have better manners. Come in.’
‘Are we the first to arrive?’ Lorinda admired the inviting scene: bowls of nibbles on the tables, along with vases of spring blooms. Soft music played in the background. ‘You’ve really pushed the boat out.’
‘I thought I’d remind Macho what civilized living is like,’ Freddie said. ‘I don’t have the feeling that he sees much of it with Cressie.’
A sudden loud crash from the other half of the semi-detached made them both jump.
‘That is,’ Freddie added bitterly, ‘if my dear neighbours can restrain themselves. Otherwise, Macho will think he’s still in the War Zone.’
‘So the Jackleys
are
back. I know Dorian had that postcard from Karla saying that they were on their way, but I haven’t seen them around.’
‘Neither have I, but for the past few days I’ve been hearing the occasional thump and bump on the other side of the wall. I assume they’re back, although some of the old fire seems to be missing. Perhaps they aren’t well.’
‘Or perhaps they have deadlines to meet before they can allow themselves to get back in the social swim.’
‘Anyway,’ Freddie sighed, ‘the peace and quiet was great – while it lasted. And, so long as I don’t admit that I’ve noticed that they’re back, I don’t have to do anything about it.’
‘Good thinking.’ Lorinda was in perfect accord, she didn’t want to have to start coping with the Jackleys again, either. Cressie was quite enough to be going on with.
Following immediately upon that thought, the doorbell rang. The temperature of the room dropped by about fifteen degrees when Freddie ushered them in. It was easy to see why.
Macho held Roscoe clasped to his chest and Cressie was in an icy fury about it. Freddie and Lorinda exchanged
glances; they would be lucky if the next heavy thuds didn’t come from this side of the wall.
‘Hello, Roscoe,’ Freddie said: he seemed to be the safest member of the trio to speak to. ‘Nice to see you again.’ Casually, she removed a heavy crystal ashtray that now did duty as an almond dish from within too-easy reach, replacing it with a plastic dish full of cashews.
Roscoe miaowed a polite rejoinder and Cressie made a barely repressed sound of disgust.
‘And you, too, of course, Cressie,’ Freddie said. ‘And Macho.’
Macho nodded glumly, neither looking at the others nor releasing his hold on Roscoe, who was beginning to squirm restlessly as he scented the chicken.
Had-I and But-Known appeared in the doorway, lured from the kitchen by the sound of Roscoe’s voice.
‘God!’ Cressie exploded. ‘I don’t believe you people! You even take your damned animals with you when you go out to dinner!’
‘They’re welcome guests, too,’ Freddie said mildly. ‘If I’m not complaining, I don’t see why you should.’
‘Go and join your friends.’ Macho let Roscoe slip to the floor. Had-I and But-Known came forward to meet him, touching noses before leading him off to the kitchen.
‘And don’t think you’re breaking your diet!’ Cressie shouted after him viciously.
Macho’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything.
We’ll see about that!
hung in the air.
‘Drinks!’ Freddie intervened briskly, trying to avert the threatened scene. ‘Dry sherry …’ She began to pour. ‘Very dry sherry, in view of the menu.’
‘I don’t like sherry,’ Cressie said flatly. ‘Don’t you have any vodka?’
‘Sorry,’ Freddie said, ‘I used up all the vodka in the first course.’
‘You did?’ Lorinda felt a faint stir of alarm. ‘What are we having?’
‘I told you it was an experiment,’ Freddie said.
‘That’s where the vodka went?’ Bemused and forgetting her earlier declaration, Cressie accepted her sherry and sipped it absently. ‘What kind of experiment?’
‘Wait and see.’ Freddie raised her glass. ‘Cheers!’
‘Cheers!’ Macho responded, lifting his glass with a barely veiled sneer at Cressie for starting before the toast.
Someone’s been feeding him meat!
Lorinda thought.
And I’ll bet it wasn’t Cressie!
‘Anyway,’ Freddie smiled at Cressie, trying to defuse the situation, ‘isn’t it lucky that you haven’t sent your party invitations out?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It saves you the bother of having to cancel them.’
‘Cancel? Why should I want to cancel the party?’
‘Because you can’t have it now.’ It should have been obvious. ‘All things considered.’
‘What things?’ Cressie glared at her. ‘It’s going to be the most exciting party this place has ever seen. Everyone has heard about it and is looking forward to it. Everyone I talk to has been hinting for an invitation. Nothing has changed.’
‘Nothing?’ Freddie asked unbelievingly, looking towards Macho, who was oblivious. ‘Most people would consider a death in the family a good enough reason to put festivities on hold.’
‘It’s not my family,’ Cressie said.
‘Look.’ Freddie spelled it out. ‘You cannot hold a big party in a house where one of the occupants has just died. For heaven’s sake, they haven’t even done the autopsy yet.’
‘Autopsy?’ Cressie looked shaken. ‘Why should they want to do that?’
‘It’s customary,’ Lorinda joined the fray, ‘in the case of a sudden unexplained death.’
‘What do you mean, unexplained? She was hit by a car.’