‘I can’t… we can’t go back. I couldn’t…’ What? She thought. Do it, trust you, face it going wrong again – all of the above? ‘… after everything… it’s too late…’
‘The kids…’
‘We’ve still got the kids, Pete. We’re lucky.’
His face fell, he twisted away, then back. For a moment she thought he might argue with her but instead he just said, ‘I’m sorry. Oh, Janine, I’m sorry.’ She could hear the passion in his apology, his voice cracking. She believed him. He really was sorry. So was she. But sorry didn’t make it all better.
Then he held her again and she squeezed her eyes tight to contain the tears and wished for the thousandth time that they could turn the clock back. That things could be as they were, that he’d never cheated on her, left her, ruined it all.
When he had gone she ran a shower, washing her hair and her body, turning the water very hot until she was breathless, then a shot of cold. She pulled on comfortable clothes, towelled her hair dry Then, with exquisite bad timing, Charlotte woke up.
The dog nudged at Chris’s leg, after food. He pulled himself up and found a tin in the cupboard, spooned out the meat and put it down. The dog got stuck in.
It was Debbie who had pushed to get a dog. Ann-Marie had been five at the time. Debbie had developed fibroids and the pain and bleeding had become so severe that the consultant recommended a hysterectomy. No more children.
Debbie fretted about Ann-Marie being an only child. ‘I don’t want her spoilt,’ she had said, ‘thinking she’s the be-all and end-all.’
‘She is the be-all and end-all,’ he’d protested.
She dug him in the ribs. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘You don’t want her spoilt but you want to buy her a dog. What’s next, a pony?’
‘Chris!’
‘Debbie, she’s fine. She gets on all right at school, a lot better at sharing than some of them, by all accounts. She sees her cousins. A dog would want walking and vets’ bills and all sorts.’
She let it go then but not for long. Dropping canine hints into the conversation. How a dog would be great for exercise, how so-and-so down the road had got a lovely mongrel from the Dogs’ Home. He feigned disinterest, mentioned hairs everywhere and worming tablets. Meanwhile he’d called on a mate whose wife ran a kennels in Reddish. They knew someone who wanted a good home for a young dog. House trained but they’d discovered the grandson had a bad allergy.
He took Ann-Marie with him; told her they had to collect something for work.
She started at first when the dog came forward and sniffed her hand. She pursed her lips and blinked hard but stood her ground.
‘You can stroke him,’ the owner said. Ann-Marie put her hand on the dog’s neck and rubbed it gently.
‘He’s called Tiger.’
‘What sort is he?’ she asked.
‘He’s liquorice.’
Ann-Marie frowned.
‘All sorts,’ the man said.
Chris laughed but she didn’t get the reference.
She patted the dog’s back.
‘He likes that,’ Chris told her. ‘Shall we take him home?’
She glanced at him, her mind alert to adult teasing. But he nodded.
‘Yes?’ he said. ‘To keep?’
Delight bloomed on her face. ‘Yes!’ She clapped her hands and Tiger barked.
He couldn’t cry. There was sand behind his eyes, heavy, hot, dry sand. A desert.
‘Daddy,’ her voice jolted him. Shock sparking through his blood. He looked up sharply, his spine crawling. She stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, her tracksuit trousers on, the ones with the zips and her stripy pink and blue sweater. There was a smudge of biro on one cheek and an orange smear at the corner of her mouth. She must have had beans for lunch, or hoops. ‘It’s a bit messy.’ She frowned at the state of the kitchen.
He nodded. His heart blocked his throat, his vision tilted.
‘Tiger wants a walk,’ she said. He stared at her.
‘Come on, then,’ she said impatiently.
He stood clumsily, grabbed the lead from the hook, keeping his eyes locked on her. The dog, hearing the chink of chain, skittered round the kitchen, winding its body to and fro in anticipation.
Chris opened the back door and the dog darted through. Ann-Marie stepped out afterwards. Chris followed, bent to fit the lead on Tiger and, as he straightened, Ann-Marie slipped her hand into his.
When they got back, the dog shook itself, rain spangled everywhere. Chris hung up his jacket, regarded the clutter. He moved the pots to the dishwasher, opened the cupboard under the sink and got out the dustpan and brush. His face was wet, tears dripping steadily from his nose as he laboured, small huffs of breath shook his shoulders.
He heard Debbie coming downstairs and wiped one sleeve across his eyes, the other across his nose.
She stood in the doorway, her arms wrapped about her waist. ‘The police rang, they’ve arrested Lee Stone.’
He felt his shoulders drop, the crash of relief. Still kneeling, avoiding her gaze.
‘Chris, there are things we have to do. The registrars, for the death certificate, the funeral home…’ she spoke with effort and he could tell she was fighting emotion. Being practical. ‘I can’t do this on my own.’
He bobbed his head. ‘We’ll go first thing.’
He heard a little sharp exhalation – she’d been holding her breath, her turn now for relief.
‘Debbie,’ he halted, his tongue thick, the words like broken stones in his mouth. ‘I can’t… don’t, don’t want to talk,’ he managed.
‘OK.’
‘Just get through this.’ He meant the funeral.
He would come and sit at her side while they watched the registrar use a fountain pen to meticulously enter the facts of their daughter’s death. He would make sure he had cash from the ATM to pay for their copy of the certificate. He would drive with Debbie to the undertakers and choose a coffin and listen while she talked about what clothes they wanted her to be dressed in and when the viewing would be and special mementoes they wanted to put in the coffin. ‘We,’ she would say but in his silence Chris would leave it all up to her. Because none of it mattered. He would stand with her while the small coffin slid from view, shake hands with the rest of the family, the teachers, acknowledge the children’s flowers and poems. He would listen while she dictated the text for the memorial stone. Sit beside her as they were driven home. Walk the dog.
And after all that… he really didn’t know. Was there anything left between them but grief? Could he ever look her in the eye again? Forgive her as Ann-Marie had forgiven him? Forgive himself? He simply didn’t know.
Chapter Twenty-Two
At the station, Stone repeated his version of events in the formal setting of the interview room. Butchers accompanied Richard. The duty solicitor, who had been hoping for a quiet night in with a video, looked half asleep. Stone had exchanged his own clothes for overalls and had been fingerprinted and swabbed for DNA. He answered all the questions they put to him.
‘Sulikov rang you on Monday at 7.15. What exactly did he say?’ Richard asked.
‘There was a problem. One of the girls had OD’d… we needed to dispose of her. He said to pick the car up at eight near these units in Burnage.’
‘You got the car from Harper’s, didn’t you?’ Richard checked.
‘What?’ Stone frowned. ‘No. I mean it’s Harper’s car, bet he wasn’t too happy about it.’
‘But you didn’t get it from his place?’
Stone got prickly. ‘I told you, Burnage, industrial units,’ he sighed and shook his head as though they were beyond belief. He spoke slowly as if dealing with a dozy child, ‘the keys were in the ignition, dosh in the glove compartment, body in the boot.’
‘Then what?’
‘We take it to the place at the river. Get rid of the body.’