The police, that was it! They’d come back, wouldn’t they? The police. If not he’d call them. Ring them up and get them to send someone round to hear what he had to say. But he was too weak now. Slowly, he pulled the corner of the bedspread up to cover his head, leaving a small gap for his nose and mouth. Keep the heat in.
Maisie had laughed at him when he used to do that, she never felt the cold, slept with her arms flung out and often as not half a leg showing. Big and warm, she was. God, he missed her. Even after all these years. Sixteen years. Still such a keen loss. Like a cut that wouldn’t heal properly.
Aw, Maisie. He didn’t believe in heaven but he’d a notion he’d be nearer to her in death than he was now. Never expected her to go first. He’d always imagined she’d be the one to get a phone call from a stranger or to find him slumped in his chair.
Cycling club. That’s where they met. He smiled, let himself drift in echoing memories of those times. Freewheeling down from Hayfield, stopping for sandwiches and Pale Ale at a country pub, cycling behind Maisie, aching to touch her. Getting a kiss for fixing her puncture.
Then the first time they spent the day alone together. A picnic up in Peak Forest near Buxton. Cider in a flask and pork pies and hard-boiled eggs. She kissed him, slow and soft, tasting of apples. She had sighed with pleasure and stretched. She was a lioness, big boned, tawny coloured. She kissed him again, mischief in her eyes. By the end of the long, dreamy afternoon, he thought he’d died and gone to heaven.
Lesley Tulley’s sister arrived within twenty minutes.
By then two uniformed officers had been drafted in to guard Ashgrove from the press pack.
Emma was a taller version of Lesley Tulley; same dark hair, same shaped face but lacking the particular combination of features that made Lesley Tulley a beautiful rather than just a pretty woman. Emma was pallid and trembling as she hugged her sister.
Janine introduced herself and answered Emma’s questions as best as she could. She suggested that the Tulleys’ GP be contacted in case Lesley required a sedative or sleeping pills. ‘It’s a huge shock at the moment, she may become more distressed later when it begins to sink in,’ she spoke quietly to Emma, aware of Lesley curled into the corner of the sofa.
Janine left them to get ready for the trip to the mortuary and the formal identification and waited outside in her car with Richard.
‘She never asked where he was.’ Janine pointed out. ‘Neither of us mentioned the allotment.’
‘She knew that was where he was heading.’
‘But he could have been attacked en route, rough area, more people about.’
‘What do you make of her?’
Janine considered the question. It was too early to tell, really. She shrugged. Lesley and Emma emerged from the house and approached the car. Richard stepped out to open the doors for them.
Janine drove, Richard beside her. Lesley and Emma silent in the back, faces bleached by shock. At the bottom of Princess Parkway, Janine swung off the round about and took the road to the mortuary. The building was adjacent to the police station. From the outside it all looked bright and shiny and proud, glass and steel, reflecting the clear blue of the sky, the glint of the sun. A façade and behind it, inside the mortuary, waiting for them, was something grim and sordid and humbling.
Before Lesley went in she could feel her heart climbing into her gullet. She held her hand against her throat, the other gripping Emma’s. She barely heard the man gently explaining the procedure. DCI Lewis put her hand on her arm saying, ‘Take your time, just let us know if it’s Matthew.’ Though they’d said they were certain. She had to face the reality. To see he was dead for herself. To try and understand. She nodded to let them know she was ready.
A flashback came; her wedding day. Ivory silk dress, little country church outside Chester. Nodding and taking the first slow steps down the aisle. Matthew in a charcoal suit, turning to watch her coming. A quiet wedding, a handful of family and friends. A perfect day.
That night, in the country inn with its four poster bed and real log fire, he’d undressed her, laid her on the bed and watched her. Always watching. When at last he entered her, he slid in deep, just this side of pain, again and again, his gaze locked on hers. ‘I love you, Lesley,’ he said. ‘You are so beautiful.’ She cried when she came. He wanted to take her photograph. ‘You look so beautiful.’
Suddenly shy, she said ‘I don’t know.’
‘We’re married,’ he said. They both laughed.
‘Mrs Tulley?’ She dipped her head now to let them know she was ready and they went in to view the body.
Lesley stared through the glass at the still body of her husband. Unable to speak, she nodded to confirm his identity.
It looked like a model of Matthew, she thought, not the real thing. His skin had a yellow hue accentuated by the lighting, his hair brushed with a parting at one side; he never wore it like that. His mouth turned down giving him a glum expression. He looked older.
She wasn’t allowed to touch him, they’d explained to her. The body had yet to be examined. The sheet covered everything but his head. No sign of what had been done to him. The viewing room was cold. A faint anti septic smell percolated from somewhere as though the hard vinyl floors had just been mopped.
Lesley turned to Emma and the detectives. ‘I’d like a few minutes on my own?’
They nodded and withdrew. She hitched her little knapsack over one shoulder and pressed her hands against the glass of the viewing window, tears running from her eyes. ‘Matthew,’ she whispered, trying the name in her mouth. The sound resonated in the stark room. But what could she possibly say? There were no words. His eyes were closed. It looked as though they had sunk a little. She imagined them drying up, the fluids leaving his body. He would never gaze at her again. His eyes a stunning blue. Hers brown. What will our children look like? A game she had played when it was still a possibility.
The thought brought a sob to her throat. She didn’t know how to say goodbye, didn’t know that she even wanted to. So she turned and left him.
In the corridor Emma was crying too. Lesley hugged her sister. ‘Oh, Emma,’ she cried, ‘who would do such a thing?’ Suddenly a wave of nausea swept through her, she pulled away from Emma, covered her mouth.
Janine Lewis realised what was happening. ‘This way.’ She led Lesley to the Ladies, waited while she went into a cubicle. Impossible not to hear the noise of her vomiting. Janine leant against the wall and tilted her head back trying to squash the rising queasiness. Blame the pregnancy – anything would set her off.
In The Parkway pub on Princess Parkway, nineteen-year-old Ferdie Gibson, his head cropped so close that his scalp was visible, a badly executed tattoo of an eagle on his neck, rolled up to the bar and ordered two Stellas. The giant-sized TV screen above broadcast Man U’s fixture. Ferdie sauntered over to the corner where his mates were. He passed Colin his drink.
‘Ow yer doin’, Ferdie?’ someone said.
‘Aright.’
‘Tosser,’ one of the lads screamed at the screen. ‘Did you see that?’ He swung round challenging the others to share in his indignation. ‘Total crap. They ought to cut his legs off.’
Ferdie sat down, took a swig of his drink, the eagle on his neck rippled. Ferdie waited for the right moment then leant forward. ‘You lot, you heard the news?’