The Other Woman Read online

  Simon had declined the invitation to the opening, and had worked late as usual. Lionel had left him dictating to Sharon, who was pleased to have the overtime, he supposed, though he would have thought that a girl of her age should have better things to do on a Friday night. Lionel had received a last-minute invitation, and was there because it had seemed like a pleasant way to spend an evening; he should have known that there was no such thing as a free lunch.

  ‘You know Sharon came here to speak to me?’ Parker asked.

  Lionel frowned. ‘Sharon?’ he repeated, uncomprehendingly, feeling the vulnerable way one does when one’s thoughts are apparently read.

  ‘Sharon,’ repeated Parker. ‘Your secretary.’

  ‘I know who she is,’ said Lionel testily. It had been Parker who had recommended Sharon when Lionel’s previous secretary left. Why should a visit to her old boss be newsworthy?

  ‘She told me something that you ought to hear,’ said Parker.

  The young man came into the office. ‘ You wanted me, sir?’ he asked, his round, almost child-like face belying the commendation for bravery that he had received. His fair hair was curly, and cut short, adding to the impression.

  Chief Inspector Lloyd looked up from the report he was reading, and nodded briefly. ‘ Interested in conservation, are you, Detective Sergeant Finch?’ he asked, employing what Judy called his RSC Welsh.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Finch, a little uncertainly.

  Lloyd wished he hadn’t thought of Judy. ‘Sit down,’ he said, with an extravagant sigh.

  Judy Hill had been a previous sergeant of his; she was a detective inspector in B Division now, based at Malworth. She was also the woman with whom he shared his life and with whom he had shared his flat until six weeks and three days ago.

  Finch swallowed a little, and sat down gingerly; rather as though he thought the chair might have a whoopee cushion on it.

  ‘Preservation of endangered species?’ he asked the youth. Detective sergeant, indeed. In his day you had to have had some service before they went about promoting you.

  ‘Sir,’ said Finch, his voice deeply suspicious.

  ‘Mm,’ said Lloyd. ‘I saw the catalogue.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Finch. ‘I didn’t think anyone would mind me bringing it in.’

  ‘My,’ said Lloyd. He didn’t mind what he brought in, even if it was a Christmas catalogue in October. He minded the language being misused.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘My bringing it in, Finch.’

  The young man frowned. ‘You, sir?’ he said, then coloured. ‘Oh – I didn’t realise. I’ll take mine away.’

  Lloyd unnecessarily smoothed down what was left of his dark, short hair, a gesture that those who knew him recognised only too well. ‘No,’ he said, with dangerously exaggerated patience, ‘I was—’ He broke off. ‘Forget it,’ he said wearily. ‘ In fact – let me see the catalogue some time – I’ll buy something from it. I’m very interested in endangered species.’

  Finch looked puzzled. ‘ But if you’ve already got a catalogue—’

  Lloyd jumped to his feet and leant over the desk. ‘ I don’t have a catalogue, Finch!’ he shouted, making the sergeant jump. ‘All right?’

  ‘Sir.’

  Lloyd sat down again. ‘Endangered species,’ he said, his tone well-modulated once more. ‘ There’s a little creature that I’m very fond of. Tiny little thing. It’s tail’s longer than its body.’

  Finch looked a touch desperate. ‘To be honest, sir, I don’t know too much about animals. I just …’ He cleared his throat. ‘ I just think we should hang on to the ones we’ve got, that’s all. Some sort of monkey, is it?’

  Lloyd shook his head. ‘It performs two distinct and very useful functions,’ he said. ‘And yet it’s dying out.’

  Finch nodded. ‘Habitat being destroyed?’ he suggested, hopefully.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Lloyd stood up again, and walked over to the table on which he had piled baskets of files and street-maps and his in-tray, on the grounds that that way his desk looked tidier. He perched on the only available corner, and regarded Finch. ‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘Its habitat’s being destroyed all right. Being eroded further and further every day – every minute of every day.’

  The sergeant looked round, as though he thought someone might rescue him.

  ‘But that’s not the worst of it,’ continued Lloyd. ‘ Some well-meaning but ill-informed people pick them up and put them where they don’t belong at all.’

  ‘In zoos,’ Finch volunteered.

  Lloyd beamed. ‘ Yes,’ he agreed, enthusiastically. ‘In zoos – very often in zoos. And …’ He leant over to his desk, and picked up the open file on the rapes, two in Malworth and one in Stansfield, on which Finch had prepared a report for the incident room which had been set up in Malworth. He reached into his inside pocket for the glasses that he had discovered, much to his chagrin, that he needed for small print. He didn’t need them for Finch’s large, clear hand, but he had been given a new prop, and that had taken a lot of the sting out of losing his twenty-twenty vision. He took them out of their pouch, cleaning them carefully before putting them on and glancing at the report.

  ‘In zoos,’ he repeated, with a sad shake of the head. He took off his glasses again and looked at Finch. ‘And cafés.’

  Finch stared at him. ‘Cafés, sir?’ he repeated, his voice incredulous.

  Lloyd’s eyes widened. ‘I don’t know why you look so astonished,’ he said. ‘You’re the one who puts them there.’

  Finch’s eyes held something very like alarm.

  ‘I am very well aware, Finch,’ said Lloyd, ‘that you would infinitely prefer to be facing a crazed gunman, but this is part of your job too.’ Lloyd was almost enjoying himself, despite his dark mood.

  He glanced down at the file again. ‘… ‘‘anywhere that young people can be expected to gather, especially cafe’s’’,’ he quoted, holding his glasses a few inches from the page like a magnifying glass. ‘ It’s called an apostrophe, Finch,’ he said. ‘And when you add an ‘‘s’’ to a word to make it plural, that is all you are doing. Even if the word ends in a vowel, though that does seem to be the bastard rule that has evolved amongst those who were never taught English grammar and punctuation. It is quite, quite wrong – believe me, Finch. It is wrong, and no amount of popular usage will ever make it right, because it conveys an entirely different meaning from the one that you are attempting to convey.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘And it can in no way substitute for an acute,’ Lloyd continued. ‘But that’s another matter. For the moment, it’s the rudiments of English punctuation with which I would like you to get to grips. I want you to find out exactly what functions the apostrophe performs for us, and I want you to use it correctly in your paperwork or not at all. I’d rather the poor thing died out altogether than it languished in words where it has no business to be. Off you go,’ he concluded, without drawing a breath.

  Finch stood up, and walked to the door, doubtless raising his eyes to heaven for the benefit of the cleaner who was carrying a vacuum cleaner along the corridor to the interview rooms, if the sympathetic smile she gave as she looked up at him was anything to go by.

  And that was another thing, thought Lloyd sourly. They were all too bloody tall these days. He stared at the door as it closed, feeling disgruntled and just a touch guilty. Why had he picked on young Finch? They all did it. But Finch was on night-shift and therefore still there because he had to be, and not because he didn’t want to go home. That was what had really annoyed him.

  For the truth was that Detective Chief Inspector Lloyd’s life was not, for the moment, as he would choose it to be. He finished reading Finch’s report, put the top on his pen, closed the file, stretched, yawned, and looked with a lacklustre eye at the clock. He frowned as he heard the commotion outside his door, and went out into the corridor in time to see a bruised and bloody constable manhandle a man towards the cells. Perhaps his clock had stopped; he looked at his watch. No, it was just eight fifteen.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked the desk sergeant. ‘Isn’t it a bit early for the Friday night round-up?’

  Sergeant Woodford looked up from what he was writing. ‘Crowd trouble at the match,’ he said, his face totally expressionless. ‘ We’ve another one already down there.’

  ‘You arrested the entire crowd?’ He liked getting Jack Woodford going. He was a staunch supporter.

  The sergeant would not take the bait. ‘ Near enough,’ he said. ‘But you know who that is, do you?’ he asked, jerking his head towards the disappearing miscreant.

  Lloyd didn’t, and didn’t particularly want to know. ‘I thought this was a friendly,’ he said, not above making very old jokes when the occasion presented itself. ‘Who’s winning?’ he asked.

  ‘The match was abandoned on account of the fog.’

  Lloyd groaned. ‘ Oh, God, it’s not foggy, is it? Tell me it’s not.’

  ‘A pea-souper. Haven’t seen one like it since the fifties.’

  ‘Don’t tell me – Stansfield were on the brink of clawing back the three-goal deficit when the ref abandoned the match, and both supporters staged a pitch invasion.’

  ‘No,’ he laughed. ‘ There were no goals – and there were two hundred-odd there, I’ll have you know. But it wasn’t the passion of the game this time, Lloyd. It was an older passion even than that.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘All over some woman,’ he said, a mock-warning in his voice. He was retiring later in the year, and had had a whole ten years more experience of life on this earth than Lloyd had had. This, he seemed to believe, conferred on him great wisdom. ‘More trouble than they’re worth, if you ask me.’

  ‘Don’t I know it?’ said Lloyd wit
h feeling. ‘Is she the one in the cells?’

  ‘No – she was long gone. Just left the fellas fighting over her.’

  Lloyd grinned. ‘Are you charging them?’ he asked.

  ‘Not Barnes, I shouldn’t think. They can hit each other if they want to as far as I’m concerned. Let him cool his heels and send him home. But Rambo there’ – he pointed in the direction that the constable and his prisoner had just walked – ‘that’s Jake Parker.’

  Lloyd’s eyebrows shot up. ‘The bloke who bought the ground?’ he said. ‘ What is he – some sort of hooligan-in-residence ?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. But he’s going to get done for assaulting a police officer if I’ve got any say in the matter.’

  ‘Why on earth was he totting policemen?’

  ‘He says he didn’t know it was a policeman.’

  Lloyd still looked wonderingly at Woodford. ‘Why was he hitting anyone?’ he asked.

  ‘From what I can gather, he was the one who was chatting up this girl – the other bloke objected, and the next thing the fists were flying. Or perhaps it was the other way round. No one seems too sure.’ He reached across to answer the phone as he spoke. ‘And Parker’s head flew into our lad’s face,’ he added. ‘Money. They think they can do what they like and get away with it, people like him. Stansfield Police,’ he said into the receiver, then held his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘He didn’t even go to public school,’ he said, with a grin. ‘ Or you’d understand the attitude.’

  Lloyd laughed. ‘Have a nice night. I’m off.’

  ‘Hang on!’ called Jack. ‘It’s for you.’

  ‘I’ve gone,’ said Lloyd, in a stage whisper.

  ‘It’s Judy,’ said Jack, smugly. Jack, who had known Lloyd since he was fourteen years old, was now the only person at the station who knew for a fact, rather than for a rumour, what was what in the Lloyd-Hill saga.

  Lloyd took the receiver. ‘Hello, stranger,’ he said.

  She sighed. ‘Don’t be like that. Are you thinking of coming home at all tonight?’

  Lloyd beamed. ‘Are you at my flat? Have you eaten?’

  ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘Good. Then don’t.’

  ‘I want my solicitor,’ said Jake.

  Detective Sergeant Finch sighed, and looked at his watch. ‘I take it you have someone in mind?’ he said.

  ‘Whitworth. Simon Whitworth.’ Jake gave him the number, and the sergeant looked at his watch again. ‘He’ll come,’ said Jake. ‘My business is worth too much to him not to come.’

  ‘I’m not sure why you want a solicitor,’ said Finch, getting up. ‘You can walk out of here on police bail.’

  Jake shook his head. ‘ I’m not being done for assaulting a police officer,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t look good.’

  Finch shrugged. ‘But he is a police officer, and you assaulted him,’ he said.

  Jake looked up at him. God, he looked about twelve. Did that mean that he was getting old, at thirty-eight? He wondered how old Detective Sergeant Finch was. ‘ I didn’t know it was a cop,’ he said. ‘I was grabbed from behind, and did what came naturally.’

  ‘Head-butting people comes naturally to you, does it, Mr Parker?’

  Jake smiled the smile that had got him out of scrapes when he was six, and still worked on occasion. Usually with women, but sometimes even with men. ‘I never claimed to be a saint,’ he said.

  ‘The sergeant is quite adamant that you should be charged with assaulting a police officer,’ said Finch.

  Jake still smiled. ‘I know. But I think my solicitor might talk him out of it – you get him.’ He frowned. ‘Why are you dealing with this?’ he asked. ‘It’s not a CID thing.’

  It was Finch who smiled this time. ‘You know all about the set-up, then?’

  ‘Spent more time behind bars than I have in wine bars, I can tell you that,’ said Jake.

  ‘I can believe it,’ said Finch. ‘Don’t panic – we’re just a bit short-handed. I volunteered.’ He went off, presumably to phone Whitworth. Jake sighed, and looked round the cell.

  He hoped Whitworth hurried up and got him out of here.

  Twenty-five to nine, said the green analogue clock on the dashboard. Simon Whitworth pulled into the verge, his heart sinking when he saw the lit window, and brought the car to a halt. Melissa was home, and there would be questions. She had said that she would be working this evening. He could have been home earlier, but he had caught up on the work that really did need doing before he left the office, on the grounds that that diluted the lies. He should have gone to Parker’s shindig at the club instead, and given himself an alibi.

  He got but of the car, pointing the remote at it, and walked up the path, his thin face pinched with cold and tiredness and worry, his unbiddable hair falling over his forehead, being automatically pushed back. The sky was lit with the strange light projected by the new floodlights at the sports ground; it was just a mile away across the fields, and the fierce glow in the sky told them when a match was on. Tonight it was muted by the mist, and as he watched, the glow diminished, disappearing by swift degrees until the sky was black once more.

  He unlocked the door, feeling wretched, wishing the lights hadn’t gone out like that, like some sort of heavenly reproof. For God’s sake, it was only the floodlights being switched off, he told himself angrily, but the darkness and the fog seemed to be claiming him. He could always say that he had been at the so-called opening, he supposed. But no – The Chronicle might be covering it, and she would find out that he’d lied. But working late was palling as excuses went, however true he tried to make it. The police station – he had been called to the police station, he would tell her. It was difficult to remember all the lies. Lying to Melissa, lying to Lionel. Lying to Sharon, even.

  She wasn’t in. Simon frowned, and went upstairs to check. The house was empty, but she must have been home for the light to be on. And she was a checker; they could never leave the house even for five minutes without her checking gases and lights and windows. On a night like this – what could have taken her out again in such a hurry?

  The cat, perhaps. He had gone to the vet at lunch-time to be shorn of his tomhood – poor creature, curled up happily on the passenger seat of Melissa’s car, quite unaware of what fate had in store for him. They had discovered Robeson’s love of travelling by accident; as a kitten, determined to win round a less than enthusiastic Simon, Robeson had spent weeks following him with a dog-like devotion which had extended one day to getting into the car with him. Simon had felt the first and fatal stirrings of proprietorial pride at being thus honoured, and had taken the cat for an experimental drive. By the time they had returned, Robeson had smugly reeled in his catch, and Simon was his for ever.

  They weren’t due to pick him up until tomorrow, but perhaps they had done the operation sooner than expected. Or perhaps something had gone wrong, Simon thought, with a stab of alarm.

  The phone interrupted this unhappy speculation.

  ‘Mr Whitworth?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Sergeant Woodford, Stansfield. We’ve got a Mr Parker in the cells – he was involved in an incident at the football ground, and may be charged with assaulting a police officer. He’s asked us to ring you.’

  Simon listened to the dead-pan delivery with disbelief. ‘Jake Parker?’ he asked.

  ‘The same. Sorry to drag you out.’

  Simon, who might have been expected to be irritated at being called out on such a night, smiled broadly. ‘ I’ll be there, Sergeant,’ he said.

  ‘So I can tell him you’re on your way?’ said Sergeant Woodford, with much relief.

  ‘You can, Sergeant. I’ll be there as soon as possible.’

  The sergeant’s relief was nothing compared to Simon’s, as he backed the car out again, and plunged into the mist.

  No lies. Just an economy of truth. God had sent him a real, live client. Jake Parker, involved in a punch-up during his opening party? In character, he was sure, but a funny night to show your real colours. Still, football seemed to do that to people.

  God bless him, anyway

  Half an hour after her phone call to the station, Judy was being presented with food, and a catalogue of complaints about the standard of English education in schools.