I had a rush of elation once I was homeward-bound. I fished out an Otis Redding tape and stuck it on. Joined in with a vengeance. All the fears I’d been sitting on since Nina had rung could be faced now. Nina was alive. She hadn’t been attacked. There was no big conspiracy; I hadn’t had to find another corpse, just a dead drunk, and I was so grateful to her. I sang along to ‘Try A Little Tenderness’.
Half-way home, I remembered Diane. My stomach plummeted. I should have been there hours ago.
‘Diane, it’s Sal, I’m so sorry. I got a phone call from this woman. She’d drunk herself unconscious – not when she rang me, but nearly – and…’
‘Sal, spare me the sordid details. You could have bloody well rung me.’
‘But…yes, I’m sorry, I didn’t think.’
‘I know.’
I squirmed at the chill in her voice.
‘I don’t need this, Sal, not on top of everything else. It’s not fair. If you can’t make the time, I’d rather you came out and said so. I need someone I can rely on.’
‘I could come now.’
‘And regale me with stories about your adventures tonight? No thanks.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what else I can say.’ Silence. ‘Diane?’
‘Goodnight.’ She rang off.
I smarted with the injustice of it. Did she really think I was so shallow? Was it just her depression talking? My fists were clenched. I couldn’t keep still. No way was I going to sleep, in this state. I wanted to run, to hit something, to dance myself senseless. I was full of energy again, dizzy with adrenalin.
I pulled my cycle from the shed and set off down the backstreets. Turned into the park and pedalled fast round the outer paths. I passed a couple of dog-walkers, spotted a huddle of teenagers under the climbing frame in the playground. Caught a whiff of sweet smoke.
At the far side of the park, I joined Platt Lane, a long straight road, not too busy. I pedalled hard, pushing myself as fast as I could. When I reached the end, I took a right. It didn’t much matter where I went. It was the speed I wanted. I kept up the pace. My calves and buttocks clenched with the effort. My chest burned.
I was red, gasping and bathed in sweat when I walked unsteadily into the kitchen.
‘Well,’ said Clive, straightening up from the fridge, ‘just look…’
I was beside him in a trice. ‘Don’t say it, Clive,’ I jabbed my finger at him in warning, ‘just don’t say a fucking word.’
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
‘What makes wind, Mummy?’
Six-thirty. A host of worries swarmed in on me like parasites. Diane, Nina, Fang. That voice on the phone. Getting out of bed, I felt as though I’d been fed through a mangle. When I tried to bend to put my socks on, the muscles across my lower back screeched in pain. It was a day of picking up pieces. I dropped the kids off and walked round to the Dobson’s. It was ages since I’d been to the office – its new cheap and cheerful look still felt unfamiliar.
I called Stockport Infirmary and found out that Nina Zaleski would be discharged by early afternoon. I asked them to tell her I’d bring clothes and give her a lift home.
I rang Mrs Williams. She was hopping mad, having tried to speak to Miller; she’d been told he was unavailable and had been fobbed off with Sergeant Boyston. ‘He couldn’t tell me a thing,’ she said. ‘He didn’t even seem to understand why I was complaining. I told him I wanted the Inspector to contact me as soon as he’s back.’
As soon as I rang off, the phone bleated at me. I snatched it up, unnerved by the sudden noise. It was work. Bliss. Paid work which would help offset the horrible details in the bank statement that had come that morning.
My client was a worried employer. He ran an electrical goods shop. Someone on the staff was siphoning off stock on a pretty regular basis. I arranged to call and discuss the details on Wednesday afternoon, when the shop was shut.
I spent an hour putting the files from the salvageable pile in order in the cabinet. An old one that I’d created in my first flush of optimism, when I’d started the business on the Enterprise Allowance Scheme, was marked Equipment Guarantees. Inside was my camera warranty, well past the expiry date. I binned that, crossed out the title and wrote VAT in big letters. Surely that would bore the pants off anyone who might come looking? Into it, I put a note of the car numbers I’d copied from my arm, together with a short biography of all the characters connected to the search for Martin Hobbs. For prudence’s sake, I altered names and glossed over details.
Gaunt Man – rich, Gaelic, high-tech empire, cold fish, maybe living with…
Peter Pan – no home of his own, hiding or hidden?
Pudding Bowl – business with gaunt man, ex-‘film’ director, white car.
Kirk Douglas – charity champion, connection to gaunt man? Money?
I bracketed those four together. At the bottom of the page, I added Tinkerbell – light-fingered friend of the Artist (dead) and the Suspect (dead).
Grumpy – rubbed out the Artist? Hooked the Suspect. Frightens Tinkerbell, and me!
I realised that Janice connected to the top via Martin and to the bottom via Derek, the Suspect. And that Martin was still the key to it all – he linked the two groups.
I jotted down a few other questions and observations, including the warning I’d received.
On a fresh sheet of paper, I wrote myself a note in large capitals: THE LETTER – NOTHING ELSE. An admonition to keep on the right track. Like talking to a brick wall.
The sky was full of the promise of thunder. Sulky clouds, tinged violet, moved into place. The air was stifling, a headache lurked at the nape of my neck.
Along Old Hall Lane, the bin-bags crouched in little piles, waiting for the refuse van. A daft idea formed and, without taking time to assess it, I stopped the car at the pile nearest to Fraser’s and Nina’s, nipped out and slung the lot in the boot. Only when I was back in the Mini, did I risk checking to see if anyone had seen me. The street was deserted. My blush faded and I drove on to Nina’s and deposited the rubbish round the far side of the house.
I unlocked the door and went in. Fang roared into action from behind the kitchen door. Upstairs, I searched through drawers and cupboards till I’d found underwear, a stylish turquoise tracksuit and some white leather sports shoes. I paused on the way down to peer out at Fraser’s. No cars there today. I’d go round with the letter once I’d brought Nina back.
Finding the hospital was a doddle, finding a parking space a nightmare. At last I spotted someone leaving, on a side street, and sat patiently while they loaded assorted bags and babies and moved off.
Nina was alone in a dayroom, the television on. She wore a paper hospital gown. Her face was the colour of oatmeal. When she saw me, she looked embarrassed. She covered it quickly with an expression of world-weariness.
‘Sal.’ A brittle smile.
‘Clothes.’ I handed her the pile. ‘I’ve come to give you a lift home.’
She sighed and nodded. She got up slowly and walked to the door. When she’d gone, I turned the television off and turned the chair round to face the windows that looked out onto buildings and, beyond those, fields and trees. The sky glowered darker and a flash illuminated the landscape. I counted four before the thunder broke in a rich growl. Large drops of rain followed, splashing as they hit.
I was mesmerised by the time she returned. I didn’t hear her come in. She touched me lightly on the shoulder and I started.
‘You need to sign out or anything?’ I asked her.
She shook her head.
I hadn’t brought her a coat. That made two of us. By the time we reached the car, the rain had mottled our clothes and drenched our hair.
‘I suppose I should thank you – for last night,’ she said dryly, as she fastened the seat belt.
‘It’s not compulsory,’ I said. ‘How do you feel?’
‘As though they put lye in the bottle. And pretty stupid. I’d appreciate it if we could just forget the whole thing.’ Tough lady talking but out of the corner of my eye I caught a twitching jaw muscle that told me she was hurting.