Janine was trying to shift some paperwork, her mind circling around Tom and Michael, when Richard sought her out in her office.
‘What did I do?’ he said without preamble.
‘Frighten the children?’
‘What?’
‘Last night we were getting on fine, today I’m pulling a shift with the Ice Queen.’
‘Richard,’ she straightened a pile of papers, ‘can we discuss this some other time?’
‘I don’t like being messed about.’
Janine felt her cheeks grow warm. ‘Steady on.’
‘Put me straight, then.’
‘Okay.’ She sat back, took a breath. ‘You and Wendy. You made out it was like Pete and I.’
‘Yes.’
‘Wendy chucked you out, didn’t she? After numerous affairs.’
‘What’re you getting at?’
‘Did she?’ she challenged him. ‘Numerous,’ he stalled, ‘what’s numerous mean?’ Janine said nothing, waiting for an answer. ‘Yes, she chucked me out. You chucked Pete out, didn’t you?’
‘He had a choice.’
‘You gave him an ultimatum, though. Her or me.’
‘That’s not the point.’ ‘You’ve lost me.’ ‘I wish,’ she muttered. ‘No. Explain.’ ‘You like to play the field.’ ‘I have done,’ he said.
‘Seen anyone else you fancy since you got back?’
‘It’s not like that,’ he protested.
‘Last night, what was I? A warm-up?’
‘No!’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t mind, Richard. Three kids and one on the way. I was surprised I was on your list in the first place!’
‘List!’ He exploded. ‘List. Right! I’ll cross you off my list, then!’
‘Right!’
He shut the door without banging it.
‘Good,’ she shouted after him. She felt like throwing something. She was smarting from the encounter even though she’d made her point. The prospect of working with this tension between them was daunting. But, she stapled a report together, she was a professional, wasn’t she? And she’d just damn well act like one.
Dean had been back maybe ten minutes. Feeling like crap and having to watch Douggie acting like a kid at Christmas. Good day at the office, nudge nudge.
Douggie had dropped something and was out of his skull.
‘Where’s Gary?’ Dean asked.
‘Out,’ said Douggie. ‘Getting petrol. Busy week.’ Dean wished he hadn’t asked. ‘You hungry?’
‘Yeah.’
Dean looked in the kitchen. Found tins of tomatoes, a tin of tuna, some spaghetti. Reckoned he could rustle something up. He was searching for pans when someone started banging on the door, braying at the top of his voice.
‘Open the door! This is the police!’
‘Dean,’ he heard Douggie shriek. Saw him fly upstairs. To his stash.
Dean couldn’t think. How did they find him here? No one knew he was here. Had they followed Paula? Picked him up in the centre of Oldham and trailed him back? There could have been a regiment of them in full kit following him and he’d not have noticed. Too gutted.
More hammering. Dogs barking. Dean ran upstairs. Douggie was tipping stuff down the bog, ripping the plastic open, gasping like he’s going to collapse.
There was more shouting. So much noise.
‘Take this, Dean,’ he shoved a roll of notes at Dean, ‘put it in the tank.’
‘Dead clever that, they’ll never look there, will they?’ he said sarcastically.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ screeched Douggie. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ Trying to get the toilet to flush. Downstairs they were threatening to use force to gain entry. Dean’s stuff was in the cellar but there was nowhere to put it even if he had time to reach it.
He looked at the wad of money. Ran into Douggie’s room. Wardrobe, chest of drawers, bed. If they were going to search they’d find it any of those places. Dean looked up, giving up. His eyes landed on Douggie’s Chinese parasol; upside down, used for a lampshade. Dragons and flames on it. Dean lobbed the roll up and it landed, a cloud of dust puffed from the shade but with the light off there was no telltale shadow to draw attention. Cool.
Dean ran back to Douggie. There was a splintering sound from downstairs. Dean heard the door give with a loud crack, the sound of wood ripping and the tinkling crash of breaking glass.
‘Here.’ He grabbed the bags that were still on the sink and stuffed them into the airing cupboard as far back as he could behind the hot water tank.
The police came up the stairs and in the bathroom like the SAS. ‘Freeze,’ one guy barked. Watching too much NYPD Blue, thought Dean. There were loads of them. Dogs too. And when one of them read out the warrant and cautioned them he realised that it was a drugs bust. Not about him at all.
They put them in separate rooms. Dean in the kitchen, Douggie in the lounge. They were looking everywhere; methodically emptying the fridge, checking all the containers in the cupboard, peering under the sink. That was where the pans lived.
They found the gear upstairs and came down. They told Dean there’d be enough to make a case and it would be better if he cooperated now. Dean said nothing. One of the men went down the cellar, hauling a big Alsatian dog with him. Dean didn’t like the way the dog barked at him. He felt his toes pressing down in his trainers, like he was trying to hold onto the ground. Tried to blank it all out.
They couldn’t tie Dean to the drugs. No way. Everything’s gonna be all right, he thought. Just like the reggae man says. Take it away, Bob.
‘Sarge! Down here.’
Dean leant forward, head in his hands. He would pray if there was anyone to pray to. A big guy with a Groucho moustache and way too much aftershave came through the kitchen and clunked down the stairs. He could hear others above, moving furniture, opening drawers and tapping on the floor. Outside, Dean heard the chimes of an ice cream van in the distance. Teddy Bear’s Picnic. A surprise in the cellar never mind the woods. The dog and his handler came up the cellar steps, the sergeant behind them. The men were wearing tight rubber gloves. The sergeant was holding Dean’s stuff. ‘This yours?’
Dean swallowed. If he said no he could be dropping Douggie further in it. Could well be his fingerprints on it. Then it’d be a done deal. To hell with Douggie. Dean was furious. He wanted to crush something. He never should have come here. Some bloody safe house. Chock full of drugs. Douggie and his dealing. All that bull about how careful they were. Douggie wouldn’t know careful if it sat on his face. And he’d be looking at serious time. Whatever happened to Dean, Douggie would be going down. Possession and supply. Class A. Strangeways or Armley. Playing with the big boys. It’d kill him. And it’d kill Dean if they put him in there too.
‘Well?’ the man insisted.
Dean dipped his head.
‘Oh dear, illegal weapon,’ said the man. And he carefully withdrew first the flick-knife and next the videotape from the thick plastic carrier bag and placed them all in evidence bags.
They led them out to the cars. Neighbours stood gawping across the way, and a string of Asian kids in bright tunics and trousers watched from their garden wall. A gaggle of lads on bikes looked on in fascination. Douggie was shouting and cursing. Not his usual style. Dean put it down to the pills and the stress. Douggie had probably clocked what was going to happen to him and he was falling apart.
‘Don’t effing push me,’ Douggie kept on, ‘I’ll have you for assault.’
‘Douggie,’ Dean wanted to calm him down but Douggie didn’t hear or he didn’t let on.
Later, Dean couldn’t ever get the sequence of things exactly right.
They were just by the cars, taking them in different ones. Dean was a bit behind Douggie and they led him to the black Vauxhall Omega at the rear. They were putting Douggie in a squad car parked in front. Someone shouted. Dean looked up and saw two things. Douggie bolting down the pavement, back past Dean, legs going like pistons, face rigid with effort and a red car turning into the avenue. A red Nissan Sunny coming round the corner. Douggie running towards it, shouting ‘Gary!’ Gary driving the car.