The Other Woman (3 page)

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 with 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.

‘Are you going to spend all the time grumbling?' she asked, as she surveyed the many Chinese dishes at her disposal, and selected a spare rib dripping with syrup.

‘I just wish one of them could spell, for God's sake. Is that asking too much? What do they teach them at school, that's what I'd like to know. Can't multiply or divide without a calculator.'

Judy smiled. ‘Neither can you,' she said.

‘That's different. I know
how
, even if it's not my forte. They don't.
And
they can't spell.' He stabbed at a prawn ball with his fork. ‘Watch your sweater,' he advised.

Judy put a hand under the treacherous rib to catch any drips. It was really a little too warm in Lloyd's flat for the sweater, but he liked her in it. ‘ It's not new, you know,' she said.

‘You still don't want to drip syrup on it.'

‘Not the sweater! The problem.'

‘Oh.'

‘Just after I started in the job, I had to deal with the applications for licence extensions. They were supposed to be addressed to the chief superintendent, but one firm of solicitors always addressed them to the chief inspector.' She rescued some syrup that dribbled down her chin. ‘Anyway, one day I was in their offices, and I asked the typist why she addressed them to the chief inspector. She said it was because she couldn't spell superintendent.'

Lloyd permitted himself a reluctant smile. ‘At least she
knew
she couldn't spell superintendent,' he said.

Judy knew that it wasn't the prevailing standard of literacy that was really bothering him, but she kept up the pretence, listening to the moans about grammar and punctuation that she had heard a million times before, because the last thing she wanted was for him to get on to the real reason for his mild fit of depression.

That, she knew from experience, led to rows. Rows in which she was always the loser, always the guilty party. In the past, this had been true; she had been trying to string him along and keep her marriage going at the same time. But she could hardly be held responsible for a job where your bosses had the right to make you live where they wanted you to live.

But everything was always her fault. Lloyd was always right, always knew best. He had been analysing her and her motives for seventeen years, and she didn't suppose he was going to stop now. Every time they had a row – if you could call the one-sided harangues rows – she was told precisely what was wrong with her, and how that could be remedied if she would just think about other people for a change. The fact that his words echoed uncomfortably closely those of her mother when she was in her teens, and Michael when their marriage finally hit the rocks, did nothing to make it easier to take.

So she would let him go on about people using commas instead of semicolons, because that was only an indirect criticism of her, and not one which gave her any sleepless nights.

‘Are you listening to a single word I'm saying?' he demanded.

‘No,' she said, with a grin, spooning fried rice on to her plate.