5
At ten o’clock Peter put a pizza in the oven as it didn’t look as though Jane would be home. While he was eating it she phoned to tell him not to wait up as she had to go over to the morgue. She sounded tired and depressed.
“Things bad, are they, love?”
“Yeah, you could say that. We found another girl tonight. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”
He knew she must be exhausted, she couldn’t have slept for more than about thirty-six hours, but he couldn’t help feeling slightly irritated as he put the phone down. He was having a tough time at work himself; things were going from bad to worse and he needed someone to sound off at. He had tendered for a major building project that would have put him back on his feet financially; had gone in as low as possible, but had been pipped at the post.
He sat down to finish his pizza, which he’d overcooked and was hard as a rock, but he ate it anyway. Then he ploughed through his accounts, getting more depressed by the minute.
He was on the edge of bankruptcy and there seemed no way out. His share of the proceeds from the house had virtually been swallowed up by maintenance payments and business debts. He slammed the books shut and opened a bottle of Scotch.
A few minutes later the phone rang again. It was his ex-wife, asking if Peter could have their son to stay for the weekend now that he was settled. The thought cheered him up; Marianne had never been keen to allow Joey to stay overnight. His few Saturdays with the boy had left him feeling low.
“If he could maybe stay next weekend? Would that be convenient?”
“Yeah, sure! I mean, I’ll have to sort it out with Jane, she’s very busy at the moment, but I’m sure it’ll be OK.”
“How’s it going with the new woman in your life, then?”
“Going fine, Marianne.”
“Good. Oh… Nearer the time for the baby, early days yet, but later on perhaps Joey could stay longer. It’d help me out, and it’s good for Joey to get to know you.”
“Marianne…”
“Yeah?”
“Marianne… Look, were you trying to tell me something the other day?”
“When?”
“Come off it! When you told me you were pregnant…”
“Oh, that! No… why, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” he replied shortly, “OK, talk to you soon.” He wanted her off the phone, he wanted to think…
“All right, then, bye!”
He put the phone down, absently. He didn’t like her saying that he should get to know his own son, but it was more than that. He was trying hard to remember the date, the time he had gone to the house to pick up some of his things. Yes, it must have been about the time he had moved into Jane’s…
Then it all came back to him; Steve not being there, Marianne a little tipsy… He knew it was madness, but when she wrapped herself round him the way she used to, teasing him, there had been no stopping… It could be. He knew her so well, that look… Or was she just trying to wind him up for some obscure reason? Was she jealous of Jane, angry that he was getting himself together? Could she be that small-minded? He tried to dismiss it, but the thought kept returning.
There were always so many things he should have said, things that should have been said months ago, but he never had. He never mentioned her new husband, who had once been his friend; the pain and humiliation of that betrayal were still too fresh. He found himself wishing that Jane would come home, and wondered how to tell her that his son might be coming to stay, not just for the odd weekend, but perhaps for weeks at a time.
In the Incident Room, Tennison was munching on a sandwich as her tired eyes searched the notice-board. The tickets for Shefford’s benefit night was selling well. Her eyes came to rest on Karen Howard’s face.
She heard a door bang and jumped, then got up to see if Otley had come back after his drink with Eastel. It might be a good time to attempt to iron out the ill feeling between them and to question him further about the other murder, the one “up north.” She went through to the room Otley shared with the two DIs, but there was only the night cleaner emptying the wastepaper baskets.
The only thing on Otley’s desk was a framed photograph of a rather austere-looking woman standing by a cherry tree, a white Yorkshire terrier at her feet. Tennison wondered if Otley had, as he said, put in for a transfer. She wiped the remains of her sandwich from her fingers and opened the top drawer.
There were a few photos of Shefford and his family, which made her feel guilty for snooping, but she continued. In the third drawer was a familiar file; Della Mornay’s Vice record… She knew her copy was on her desk; the cover was almost identical, but a bit more dog-eared and perhaps a shade darker.
As she pulled it out a paper-clip caught onto the sheet beneath it. She took the whole lot out and detached the clip; underneath was a small red 1989 diary with thin cardboard covers. It had been doodled on and covered with cartoon faces, but the remarkable thing about it was the name, ornately decorated in felt-tip pen: Della. She knew there was no record of a diary having been found at Della’s efficiency.
Tennison carried her finds back to her own office and flipped through the little book, slowly. It contained misspelled notes, appointments for hospital checkups, lists of cash against rent and expenditure. One entry read “New dress, new shoes, streaks.” There were a number of pages missing throughout the year; they had been roughly torn out, in some cases leaving chunks of paper behind.
Was there also a diary for 1990? Tennison went back and searched Otley’s desk again, but found nothing apart from a near-empty whisky bottle.
She left everything as she had found it, apart from the file and diary, collected her copy of the file from her desk and returned to the Incident Room. She laid the files side by side on the desk and began to compare them, fighting to keep her eyes focusing.
The box room felt airless. Tennison tossed and turned, got up to open the window. She had decided to sleep there so as not to wake Peter.
She lay down again, but kept seeing Della Mornay’s face and hearing Otley’s voice as he told her that Shefford had believed there was another murder… Going over and over her conversation with Sergeant Otley she dozed off at last.
At five-thirty in the morning Peter shot out of bed. He could smell burning.
He rushed into the kitchen and checked that everything was off, then followed his nose along the hallway. On the radiator near the door was Jane’s raincoat; the back was singed, leaving a large dark brown stain.
He looked into the spare room. The window was wide open and Jane lay sprawled face down, arms spread wide. He felt as if he was intruding and he gently closed the door, afraid to wake her.
At six-thirty Peter brewed coffee. He was due on the building site by seven. He carried a cup into the spare room.
“Jane… Jane!”
“What… What? What?”
“Hey, it’s OK, it’s me. Brought you some coffee. There’s more in the pot, but I’ve got to go.”
“Oh, shit, what time is it?”
“Just after six-thirty.”
“Oh, God, I’ve got to get cracking. I’ve got to… I’ve got…”
She flopped back on the pillow. “I am knackered, completely and utterly knackered…”
“So’s your raincoat. You left it on the radiator in the hall and it’s singed. I’ll have to look at the heating when I get home tonight, shouldn’t get that hot.”
“Oh, I turned it up, my coat was sopping wet.”
“Well, it’s dry now… What time will you be home tonight?”
“Oh God, don’t ask me.”
“Well, I am. I’ve hardly seen you for three days. I was thinking you might like to have dinner somewhere.”
It was the last thing she could think of. Still half-asleep, she gulped her coffee and flopped back on the bed.
“Do you think it would be OK if Joey came over, stayed the weekend? Marianne phoned last night…”