‘Yes, boss. Should I take prints for elimination, boss?’
‘No, Butchers, you shouldn’t. You’ll only need to do that if someone says they used the tap, won’t you. Christ!’ If Butchers had been present she’d have been tempted to deck him. She slammed the ice cream down and began to unload several large pineapples.
‘You favour one of the other gardeners for this, Butchers?’ she said sarcastically. ‘Know something we don’t?’
‘No, boss.’
‘Sure? No one getting a bit carried away with his fish, blood and bone mixture?’
‘No boss.’
‘Fine,’ she hurled the tins of beans down. ‘Because I have got a dead man on my desk, Butchers, and I’d like him off it before the maggots start to hatch!’ She pressed end call.
The checkout girl was gawping at her.
Janine shook her head, leant closer. ‘Just can’t get the staff,’ she said confidentially.
The girl smiled uncertainly.
She asked Pete how Michael had been while the other two climbed into her car.
‘Not seen much of him He went round to his mates after lunch. I told him to be back at yours for eight.’
‘He won’t report it.’
Pete shrugged. ‘Not much point.’
‘Pete!’ They’d always been pretty much in agreement about the kids, the moral lessons to teach them, the rights and wrongs. Was it Tina’s influence? Or just another form of needling that he’d discovered? Something to confuse the fact that he was the guilty one.
He turned and began walking away. ‘You thinking about him, Janine – or how you look at work?’
‘Piss off!’ she flung after him.
It was on the box, they watched it at Colin’s place. Ferdie called it the caravan. Ignored Colin who told him it wasn’t a caravan – it was a static. Should have kept his trap shut. Something else Ferdie could wind him up with.
‘Fame!’ Ferdie shouted after and started clapping. He nodded his head at the whisky Colin had opened.
‘Refill.’
Colin passed him the bottle. He’d had enough of the stuff last night, puked his guts up till there was nothing left. Ferdie – he could drink bleach and he’d not bother.
Colin lit another cigarette. Wondered how long Ferdie planned on staying. Need a cool head for the next day. Remembering, Colin felt his bowels loosen. He wasn’t cut out for all this. Doin’ his head in.
DI Mayne had spoken to Shap about the CCTV tapes that had been collected from the car park. There was only the one camera but it covered the entrance, which was where their interest lay.
Richard told Shap to study the tape between nine and eleven for Lesley Tulley’s car. ‘Fast search if you like but don’t miss a thing, see if she doubled back. ‘Course,’ he went on, ‘she could have got a cab in-between times and leave us none the wiser.’
‘Don’t,’ DCI Lewis had groaned, overhearing.
Shap had been scanning the film for half-an-hour, and his eyes were going. He needed a fag an’ all and it was past knocking off time. Rumour was The Lemon wasn’t granting much overtime to the enquiry and Shap didn’t do the job for the good of his soul. He saw a silver car, right sort of shape and paused the tape but it was the wrong registration, earlier model too.
Time to call it a day.
Janine had just lugged in the last two bags of shopping when Michael made his entrance. Staggering in with a silly grin on his face.
‘Michael?’
The grin dissolved and he looked pale then, clenched his mouth tight. ‘Feel ill.’ His speech was slurred. He giggled.
‘You’re drunk! What have you been drinking?’
‘Vodka – and cider.’
‘Upstairs,’ she pointed.
Tom jumped into the room and rolled across the floor. He peered up at his big brother. Frowned. ‘What’s wrong with Michael?’
‘Now!’ Janine told Michael.
He set off, his footsteps heavy and uneven.
Janine sighed. Praying he wouldn’t throw up all over the carpets, or his duvet. The washing threatened to overwhelm her as it was. What if he’s got alcoholic poisoning, needs his stomach pumping? Her heartbeat increased. Stop it! Bad enough without anticipating worse.
‘I’m starving,’ Eleanor wandered in. ‘Mum, did you get the present?’
Janine held up a box of hair decorations from the supermarket. ‘Thanks, Mum. Have we got any wrapping paper?’
It was never-ending. ‘Dining room drawer.’
When Ellie had gone she rang Richard. ‘Hi. Raincheck time. I’m sorry. We’re only just back and something’s come up with Michael – or is about to.’
She gazed at a row of pineapples on the work surface. Did she buy them? Why on earth did she buy them? Maybe her body was telling her something. Some mineral she needed found only in pineapples. Or maybe her mind was going. Pregnancy could do that -addle the intellect.
Richard told her not to worry and they’d try it some other time.
Half-an-hour later and she was doling out spaghetti and garlic bread.
‘I just want bread,’ Eleanor said.
Janine was tempted to quiz her but she was sick of debating food with her daughter. Food had somehow become an area for argument instead of something nice to share. She wouldn’t get drawn into it anymore. ‘Fine.’ She kept her tone light.
Sarah knocked on the back door.
‘S open.’
‘You not got your glad rags on yet?’
‘Not going?’
‘Why?’
Janine darted her eyes towards the two kids and said. ‘Tell you later.’
Sarah caught on: not in front of the children. ‘Right. See you then.’
‘What’s a beach whale?’ Tom asked. ‘Does it live on a beach?’
Janine felt her hackles rise, suspecting Pete of slagging her off to Tina.
‘Who’s been… Beached whale. It’s one that’s washed ashore and can’t get back in the sea.’
‘It’s on my story tape.’
Ah. God, she was knackered.
Eddie Vincent had had a cup-a-soup for his supper. Not that he was hungry; as he got older and closer to the end he ate less and less, but it made a change from drinking tea. It had been growing dark by the time he’d finished. He struggled to his feet and went to close the curtains. He had turned the telly on. Eddie liked the wildlife programmes best. And science. There’d been a great series on about the universe and the planets. He could have watched that all day long. Whatever was on was just finishing. The credits rolling.
Yesterday’s Evening News was in the kitchen but he hadn’t got the energy to go and fetch it. He sat down, his hands wrapped round his belly for comfort. The pain wasn’t too bad at present.
The titles came on for a documentary about the war, My War, Our War. He shuffled in his chair. Maybe he should turn it off? Save the upset. But he didn’t move. He watched with a growing sense of fascination and unease as men his own age and older talked of their experiences. Of homesickness and conditions at the front, of letters home, and shrapnel and friendship. Two spoke of killing. One, chap, a little wizened man from Wales, could only estimate how many men he’d killed in fierce fighting in North Africa. Another, a blind man with a rough Yorkshire accent, spoke about killing a German, a boy his own age, and of losing his faith. ‘I know it was a just war,’ he said, ‘we were fighting the Nazis, but it was hard to see any justice in that act.’
Eddie had closed his eyes and leant his head back against the chair. He’d never told anyone. No one to tell now. In those days you didn’t speak of it. It was too raw. It wasn’t dignified to spill the beans like that. Those that came home, it was like their secret. Not the stuff you told to sweethearts and kiddies. Not even your parents. He’d never even told Maisie. Best left unsaid. You got asked now and again. Young lads in particular. Did you kill anyone? What’s it like to kill someone? Heads full of heroes and comic books, the pictures at La Scala or the Empire, with Jimmy Stewart and John Mills being noble and decent to stirring theme tunes. You never told them. The youngsters. Shook your head. Never let on.