“Nothing that links Prince with the gun, any gun.”
A quick shake of the head. “No.”
“So your pal, Forbes …”
“Arthur Forbes is going to be meeting his maker a lot sooner’n he wants when I’ve got shot of him.”
“And we’re no closer to Valentine.”
“No.”
Silent, they were conscious of the constant thrum of traffic on the Derby Road, the shrill sigh of brakes as lorries slowed for the long left turn around Canning Circus.
“There is all that stuff in his lock-up.” Millington said. “Even a good briefs not going to talk him out of that. You never know, pile up the questioning, he might let something slip.”
“Yes,” Resnick said. “Happen he will.”
Neither of them believed it.
Outside, in the CID room, telephones rang and were answered, rang and were not.
Twenty-four
Sometimes, Maureen thought what her sister-in-law needed was a good seeing-to. Someone to get a firm hold of her and shake all that mardiness out of her, once and for all. A quick slap around the face, even, if that was what it took. She smiled at herself in the bathroom mirror. She couldn’t exactly see her beloved brother being the one to do it, not Derek: to Maureen’s way of thinking, her brother, now and from an early age, was a wimp. Lorraine has a headache, isn’t feeling too grand, getting her period, whatever-don’t worry, love, you rest, lie down, go back to bed, I’ll take care of the kids, do the shopping, run the car to the garage, mow the lawn.
What was that game they used to play as kids? O’Grady Says? Well, their marriage, Lorraine’s and Derek’s, that’s what it was like. O’Grady says clap your hands, all clap your hands. O’Grady says sleep downstairs on the sofa, Derek sleeps downstairs on the sofa.
Maureen stretched her lips back from her teeth to make sure there were no telltale bits of last night’s spinach lasagna, this morning’s wholewheat toast. The last thing one of her customers wanted to see was a résumé of what she’d been eating the last twelve hours.
Lorraine’s brother, though, Maureen was thinking, Michael, that was a whole different ball game. Him and Derek, chalk and cheese. She couldn’t see Michael running around at some woman’s beck and call, any woman, wife or no wife, it didn’t matter how upset she was. And it wasn’t as though she didn’t understand what Lorraine had been going through, her mother dying like that, all the memories it must have brought flooding back. But Michael, he was different. Well, he’d proved it, hadn’t he? She couldn’t see Michael being any other way than what he was: hard.
Stepping back, she cupped both hands beneath her breasts and looked at their reflection admiringly. Okay, so they might not pass the pencil test, but at forty, well, what could you expect? At least, for the time being, they were all hers: nothing beyond the occasional dab of hormone cream, no silicone, no nips and tucks. Three mornings down at the gym and a couple of spells in the pool, that was what it was. Facials. The occasional sauna. Sensible diet-all right, more sensible than some. Elizabeth Arden Eight-Hour Cream and multivitamins. It was the only body she was going to get, so she might as well look after it.
Back in the bedroom, she pulled open several drawers, lifting things out and either discarding them immediately, or holding them up in front of herself before the full-length mirror. Saturday. Work day. So much to convey: good sense, practicality, style. Finally, she opted for a blue silk-chiffon strapless body and a black, calf-length pencil skirt. How many women her age could wear that and get away with it? She slipped a long cotton jacket, also black, from its hanger.
The watch on her wrist told her she should have left five minutes ago. On Saturdays she employed two girls to help in the shop and she always liked to be there well before them; promptness, the right attitude, so important. She hadn’t got where she was by loafing around half the day, missing appointments, being late. From the plastic container inside the wardrobe door, she took a pair of ankle-strap shoes with a two-inch heel. The Nikes she used when she drove were on the back seat of the car.
Bridlesmith Gate and the narrow streets leading off it were the Fashion District of the city. Birdcage, Limey’s, Ted Baker, the first ever Paul Smith. Maureen’s shop was midway along King John’s Arcade, between Bottle Lane and Token House Yard. By Design. The arcade had been revamped in recent years, a tiled floor and covered roof leading past the café where Maureen frequently went for morning coffee, along to the decorated steps leading up to King John’s Chambers and the Fletcher Gate car park where she normally left her car.
Maureen had gained experience in just about every clothing store of note in the region, spending eighteen months as manager of the local branch of Warehouse before setting up on her own. She’d picked up the shop lease cheaply enough when a shoe store went into liquidation. A year to prove herself, convince the city’s shoppers of the virtues of second-hand designer clothes, two at most. Now, with the shop’s third birthday celebrations almost at the planning stage, she was beginning to relax. Just a little. If business carried on like this, she might even talk to the bank about expansion. Derby. Leicester. Even as far south as Milton Keynes.
The bulk of By Design’s stock comprised Suits from Hobbs and Jigsaw, outfits for her more mature ladies from Alexon or Jaeger, spangly little dresses from Karen Millen. Shoppers who ventured as far afield as Manchester or London sold her their last season specialties from Armani or Agnes b, Anna Sui.
Today she was particularly excited because one of her regulars had promised her a silver size 8 dress from Miu Miu and another, a woman closer to Maureen’s own size, was bringing in a pinstripe halterneck jumpsuit from DKNY. Maureen thought she might have to try that on herself.
Keys in hand, she tapped on the window of the café and waved as she went past. It was still only a quarter to nine and neither Kelly nor Samantha would put in an appearance until half past at the earliest. The shop itself didn’t open till ten.
Inside, she switched on the lights and looked around. The interior was quite long and narrow. Coats and suits hung in the dark wood unit she had had built along the rear wall, finishing at the door to her small office. Two changing cubicles took up the right-hand wall, boxed shelves of shoes and accessories filled the left. Dresses and skirts were on free-standing rails; knitwear, arranged by color, on a mahogany table. Catching a glimpse of herself in one of the mirrors, Maureen smiled. Everything was perfect.
She went back outside to unlock and remove the grille from the front window. Checked her watch. Plenty of time to nip back along the arcade for a coffee and a croissant, fetch them back to the shop.
Minutes later, she was back. As she was straightening a sweater sleeve she’d brushed on the way past, she noticed that one of the suit jackets seemed to have slipped a fraction lopsidedly from its hanger. Set it right now while you can. When she reached inside, a hand caught hold of her wrist. She screamed, but no sound came out because the other hand was tight across her mouth. She struggled and her assailant pushed her back, then flung her round, hard against the wall beside the office door. Old clothes that didn’t fit and stank with sweat, sour breath, a smile that played around the corners of his tightly drawn mouth; a warning, unmistakable, in the flecked gray of Michael Preston’s eyes.
They sat in the office, so small that from any point you could touch all four walls. Michael had pushed aside a pile of loose papers and was perching on the desk, catalogs and ring binders on the shelf close by his head. Maureen sat on the only chair. Michael had been sleeping rough, his hair was matted and his face unshaven; he could have been dossing down on the benches in the bus station or along the canal and no one would have looked twice. It was a quarter past nine. Their legs were touching. Both office and shop doors were locked.