‘Please, just take a look.’
Despite herself, Elaine examines the image on McAvoy’s mobile phone. At the large lady in the black swimsuit, floppy hat and sarong.
‘She looks nice,’ says Elaine, sniffing. ‘I’m sorry, though, I don’t know her. I don’t know why she’d want Mum,’
McAvoy tries not to let the disappointment show on his face. He drains his tea. Begins to stand, then stops as he remembers the other thing that was bothering him.
‘Elaine, last time we spoke you mentioned your mum was a lifesaver. Can I ask what you meant by that?’
Through the tears, Elaine gives a proud little grin. ‘Means a lot of things, I guess. Means she was always helping people when they needed it most. She would do anything for anybody.’
‘Oh.’ McAvoy looks away. ‘I thought you meant …’
Elaine opens her mouth. ‘You mean actual lifesaving? Oh yeah, she was trained. Part of her job, I think. She went on a course, years ago. Came in handy, too.’
‘Go on.’
‘She never really told me much about it. She gave CPR to somebody though, on a long weekend in Bridlington. I think it
was some drunk bloke bumped his head. She didn’t speak much about it, to be honest.’
McAvoy’s lips have formed a tight line. ‘Do you know when this was?’
‘Maybe fifteen years ago? A bit less? I’ll have been at college, I think.’
‘Would your dad know more?’
‘Maybe.’ She rubs a hand over her face. ‘Why, is it important?’
McAvoy looks away, scratching at his cheek, tongue clicking at the back of his teeth. ‘Did she save the person?’
Elaine nods. ‘Oh yes. Apparently it took a while. That’s all she really told me about it. Broke a few ribs …’
She stops herself. McAvoy sees goose pimples rise on her forearms, the colour bleaching from her face and neck.
‘Is that … no … is that something …?’
She dissolves, all ghastly thoughts and half-imagined memories. McAvoy pulls her to him and holds her, her sobs trapped within his embrace. He closes his eyes, angry at himself, unsure how much he should have said, how much he should still say. He disentangles himself and tries to get her to look up. She fights like a child, one arm beneath her chin, another behind her head, face pressed into the grain of the table. He excuses himself and walks into the living room. Makes a quick call to the control room. Comes back to sit at the kitchen table. Answers his phone before it has a chance to ring.
He listens as the civilian officer relays the information he had sought. Hangs up, eyes closed. Insides churning.
‘Elaine,’ he says softly.
She looks up, eyes full of so much pain that McAvoy feels his stomach lurch.
‘Elaine, we can’t say with absolute certainty but it looks like your mum did know Yvonne.’
She blinks, twice, to clear her vision. ‘How?’
‘If the dates are right then your mother was an even more impressive person than we first gave her credit for. December, fourteen years ago. Bridlington seafront. Your mum saved a man’s life. She gave heart compressions while another bystander applied a tourniquet to another serious wound. That person was Yvonne Dale. They both gave witness statements. The man didn’t die so there was no inquest, but the person they saved was later charged with an incident and they were called to court to give evidence. As it happened, they didn’t have to go into the courtroom, but I can only presume that is how they got to know each other.’
‘So why was she phoning last night?’
McAvoy looks away. ‘She probably heard what happened to your mum. Was ringing to offer condolences …’
His phone bleeps, alerting him to an email from control. The files he has requested are being electronically downloaded and will be with him inside the hour. The officer involved in the Bridlington incident is now retired, but still lives in the area. His phone number and address are included in the message.
McAvoy looks up. Locks his jaw.
‘Your mum went to Bridlington a lot?’
Elaine gives a little nod. ‘She was from West Yorkshire, wasn’t she? They love it, the Westies. Look, should I phone Dad? Ask him about this lady? That night? I mean, her chest. Mum’s chest. That’s how she died, isn’t it? And this other lady who died? You said she was cut. Did they say where she applied the tourniquet? Years ago, I mean.’
McAvoy shakes his head. They didn’t say. But he reckons he knows anyway.
Elaine stands up, pulling at her hair. ‘But somebody killed her. Hours after Mum. That can’t be … I mean, it’s too much of a coincidence. I don’t understand,’ says Elaine, lost and tearful.
McAvoy stares at his phone, a picture, all blurred edges and uneven patterns, swimming in his vision.
‘Nor do I.’
*
‘It should be a costume party,’ says Mel, over the top of her takeaway iced coffee. ‘Cops and robbers! Or tarts and vicars, maybe. No, no, Disney characters. I could make the costumes.’
Roisin laughs at the thought. ‘Can you see Aector agreeing to that?’
Mel blows a raspberry derisively. ‘He’d agree to whatever you asked. If you told him to run to bloody Land’s End and bring you back a pebble he’d be out the door before you could tell him what type you wanted.’
Roisin pauses before smiling. She isn’t sure if her friend is making fun of her husband. ‘Just because he would do it, doesn’t mean it’s fair to ask. He’d hate it.’
‘Who hates costume parties?’
‘Giant ginger policemen,’ says Roisin, grinning. ‘He doesn’t like being the centre of attention, you know that.’
‘But we’d all be in costume. Oh go on, Ro, it would be awesome.’
Roisin shakes her head. ‘No, he’d hate it. We’ll have fun anyway. Just wear something nice.’
Mel pouts. ‘Wouldn’t get anything to fit him anyway,’ she says, trying to get a laugh.
‘Don’t,’ says Roisin, with a little shake of her head. ‘Don’t make fun.’
Mel opens her mouth to speak, but closes it again. Sips her drink.
They are sitting in Mel’s alterations shop on Southcoates Lane, bakingly hot in the glass-fronted, airless room. To Mel’s left is a rail of clothes in polythene covers, labels pinned to cuffs and lapels. Mel is sitting behind a sewing machine, looking pretty in a short skirt and a floaty poncho patterned with butterflies. She has her feet up on the desk, pieces of tissue paper stuck between each freshly painted toe. Roisin is sitting on the windowsill, lifting up her purple vest top to feed Lilah, the baby suckling contentedly on her left breast. Her beauty kit is open beside her, a rainbow of varnishes and treasure chest of files, clippers and emery boards. She’s warm, but has not yet had to reapply her mascara, or stuff any loose and frizzy hairs back into her ponytail. Still, she’s regretting her black leggings and wishes she’d gone for a skirt or pair of denim shorts. She feels sticky and a little irritable.
‘Coffee’s nice,’ says Mel, to break the silence.
Roisin smiles. ‘Place on Newland Avenue that does the good cakes. Took ages to get parked. You have to go in at such a funny angle.’
‘I heard they got the plans the wrong way around,’ says Mel, leaning forward to check whether her toes are still tacky. ‘It’s madness. You have to reverse into the space but there’s never a moment when the cars aren’t nose to tail. You go forwards, it’s …’ she counts on her fingers. ‘It’s like a 260-degree maneuver. Mental.’
Roisin nods. She’d parked on a side street because it was easier. Had thought about leaving Lilah in the car as she popped in to
Planet Coffee but decided the car was too hot and there were too many odd-looking people around to risk it. Besides, if Aector found out, he would want to go spare. He wouldn’t actually do it, but he’d want to, and Roisin hates her husband suffering as much as she loves his flickering moments of true happiness.
Mel is about to suggest that they close for lunch and head to the pub near the fire station, but she stops herself when she sees the shape of a customer at the frosted glass door.
‘Put it away,’ hisses Mel at Roisin.
Roisin looks puzzled. ‘What?’
‘Your boob.’
Roisin laughs. ‘Bugger that.’
The door opens and a good-looking lad in his early twenties steps into the shop, bringing with him the sound of the street and the whiff of liberally sprayed deodorant. He’s wearing slouchy jean shorts and a white T-shirt with a slashed neck. He’s in good shape, with a pop-star look; a diamond earring in his left lobe and three stars inked on his skin. His hair is neatly tapered at the back and stylishly ruffled at the front, and the headphones that he has taken off and looped around his neck are the most expensive model Roisin knows of.
‘Hi,’ he says, approaching the counter and enjoying Mel’s legs as she hurriedly removes the tissue from between her toes. ‘I was hoping for air conditioning.’
‘We had a fan,’ says Mel, hopping on one leg and blowing her fringe out of her eyes. ‘It was blowing everything around.’
‘I know girls like that,’ he says, turning to Roisin. He gives her a quick once-over, sticking out his lower lip in a sort of gesture of admiration when he notices the feeding child at her breast. ‘They do that in Amsterdam too, y’know.’
‘What?’
‘Shop window. Goods on display. You know how it is.’
Roisin stares at him, a half-smile on her face. ‘You in here to have a few inches knocked off something?’
He grins back, playing ball. ‘Nothing needs lengthening, I’ll tell you that.’
Mel looks between the two of them, a little confused. Roisin is always better with the customers than she is. She has a way about her. She knows what to say. Mel always feels like she’s a couple of sentences behind the conversation.
‘Are you picking up or dropping off?’ asks Mel, and he turns his attention back to her.
‘Picking up. I’ve got my ticket here somewhere.’ He starts patting pockets. Finds a couple of receipts in his T-shirt pocket and puts his car keys, complete with BMW keyring, down on the counter.
‘When did you drop it off?’ asks Mel, quizzically. ‘What was it?’
‘Puffer jacket,’ he says. ‘Dark blue.’ He nods at the rail. ‘That one?’
Mel turns. ‘No, that was another man. He was wearing 501s. Proper Levi’s. I remember because we talked about them. I think he was foreign. Turkish or Kosovan or something. Are you picking it up on his behalf?’
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Mate of mine.’
Mel looks apologetic. ‘I need to see the ticket. Otherwise …’
He shrugs. Checks his back pocket. ‘I can tell you all about him, if that helps. Can give you chapter and verse.’
Mel looks at Roisin and receives a tiny shake of the head. ‘We’re a new business. Rules are rules. If he turns up tomorrow and I’ve given his coat to a stranger …’
The young man’s face hardens. He pulls out a mobile phone. ‘I can call him.’
‘No, that wouldn’t–’
‘Look, I’m sure we can sort this out. His ticket must just be in another pair of trousers, or something.’
Mel tries her most ingratiating smile. This is becoming awkward and unpleasant. ‘It’s the same for everybody.’
The man stares into her eyes, hard. Runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth and bites his lower lip. He’s getting pissed off. ‘Come on, love. It’s only a coat.’
Roisin interjects, her voice empty of patience. ‘She said no.’
He gives a perceptible twitch. He’s getting edgy, his gestures tense and nervous. Angrily, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a roll of notes, neatly bound. He throws the wad down on the table.
Mel’s eyes flicker to Roisin, who is busy putting Lilah back in her stroller and tucking herself away. She looks at the pair of them, and the money on the counter.
‘Your horse come in?’ Roisin asks, her Irish accent suddenly more marked.
‘Yours has, love. Now give me the coat.’ He pauses. Adds, unpleasantly: ‘Please.’
Roisin gently holds up her left hand, to indicate that Mel should do nothing. Her friend is looking at the money, and Roisin can see she is weighing up the offer. It’s only a coat. She could buy the real owner a new one. It doesn’t matter …
‘I’m sorry,’ says Roisin, leaning back against the wall. ‘It’s not worth the risk.’
He double-takes. ‘What fucking risk?’
‘Come on, fella, you want this coat that badly? Go buy yourself ten of the bastards. You could with that much cash. Don’t be bothering us. My friend here’s trying to run a business. I don’t know what you want, but I’d go while you have the legs to carry you.’
As she speaks, her accent becomes so thick that Mel misses a few words. The man doesn’t. He snarls.
‘Who the fuck do you think you are? Do you know who I am?’
Roisin laughs, softly. ‘I know what you are.’
He spits on the floor. Licks his lips.
‘Out of the way.’
Without another word, he walks behind the counter. Mel gives a little squeal and tries to block his way, but he puts one hand on her face and pushes her backwards, hard, against her desk. Threads and needles and £20 notes fall to the ground.
‘Silly fucking bitches,’ he says, grabbing at the puffer jacket on the rail. He gives it a squeeze, as if testing fruit for freshness. Nods. Turns to Mel, who is pulling herself up. ‘Didn’t have to be like this,’ he says. ‘I just forgot the ticket. Nobody else is coming for it. Why did you make a fuss?’
He bends to her face.
Hisses: ‘Bitch’.
Punches her in the stomach so hard that her feet leave the floor.
‘You fucking bastard.’
Roisin is standing between him and the exit, a nail file in her hand and Lilah on her hip. She doesn’t look scared. She looks like she wants to stick it in his eye.
‘What you going to do with that? File and polish?’ He laughs at her. ‘What are you, seven stone wet through? I could throw you through the fucking window.’
‘You could try.’
Mel gasps behind him. ‘Her husband … he’s … a policeman.’
The man laughs out loud. ‘Coppers don’t marry pikey slags, love. Well-known fact.’
‘You’re not leaving,’ says Roisin, matter-of-factly. She reaches into her waistband and pulls out her phone. ‘I’ve already called them. They’re on their way.’
He peers at the screen. Can see she is connected to the emergency services. He gives a mirthless laugh and moves forward, ready to shove her bodily from the door. He does not think she will swing the nail file. Does not think for one second she will get in his way.