Otley downed his whisky and stood up. “That an order?” he asked through clenched teeth.
Kernan didn’t reply and he walked to the door, stopped with his back to the Super. “John Shefford was the best friend I ever ’ad. When my wife died, he pulled me through. I miss him.”
Kernan said gently, “We all do, Bill.”
Otley’s back was rigid as he replied, “Good night, sir, an’ thanks for the drink.”
Outside the office, Otley stopped and shook out his old mackintosh, folded it neatly over his arm. Jesus Christ, Otley, where the fuck did you get that raincoat, when you were demobbed? I’ll start a whip-round, get you a decent one, fancy one of those Aussie draped jobs? He could hear Shefford’s voice as if it were yesterday and he ached with grief. He missed his friend more than he could ever put into words, especially to men like Kernan.
Maureen Havers tumbled through the double doors, carrying a vast stack of files, and gave him a glum smile.
“You seen what’s coming in? We need a new trestle table for this lot… I thought you were on nine to three, Skipper? Haven’t you got a home to go to?”
After a moment’s hesitation, he offered to give her a hand, and as they walked along the corridor he said casually, “Do me a favor, would you, Maureen? If anything comes in from Oldham, let me have a shufti first, OK?”
“Sure! You got relatives up there? You know, I was almost transferred to Manchester, but I failed my driving test…”
They passed through the second set of swing doors and suddenly Otley felt better, because he had something to do. He was off-duty, but had nowhere to go, not now John Shefford was gone.
It was a struggle for Jane Tennison to open the front door. The files she carried were slipping out of her arms, and she dropped her briefcase to save them. When she finally made it into the hall she shut the door behind her and leaned against it, exhausted but glad to be home.
Joey’s voice wailed from the spare bedroom, “Nooo-o-o-o! Daddy, don’t go!”
“OK, Joe, just one more story,” Peter replied patiently.
Grateful that the door was closed, Jane tip-toed past it and into her own bedroom. She was in bed before Peter had finished the last story.
“And then, what do you suppose he did then?”
Silence. Peter peered at his son in the dim light of the Anglepoise l & he was asleep at last. He tucked the duvet around Joey’s shoulders and sat for a moment, staring at the gleam of his ash blond hair and the long blond lashes lying on his pale cheeks. He loved the boy so much, if only Marianne… But he mustn’t think like that, the past was done, buried.
Sitting in the semi-darkness, he was unable to stop himself going over and over it in his mind; the anger and hatred, the terrible things that were said, the dragging sense of loss… and the last time he had seen Marianne alone. She was so flippant, sometimes he could strangle her… He knew he could never let it rest until she told him the truth. She was pregnant again and, from Peter’s calculations, he knew that he could be the baby’s father.
Jane was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. When Peter came to bed, needing her, needing someone, he found her flat out, snoring lightly. Suddenly angry, he threw his dressing-gown off, climbed in beside her and thumped his pillow.
She shot up, blinking in panic, then collapsed with a moan. With her eyes still closed, she mumbled, “Whassa-matter with you?”
“Every night’s the same. You’re exhausted, asleep before I’ve even cleaned my teeth…”
She rolled towards him and opened her eyes. “I’m sorry, Pete.”
“You make me feel guilty if I so much as touch you. We haven’t made love for… I dunno how long, I hardly see you. And when I do see you, you’re always knackered. Our relationship stinks!”
Tentatively, Jane put out a hand and stroked his chest. “I love you.”
“You do? But if this-” he lifted her pillow and brought out her beeper-“If this goes off, I don’t exist! You’re always either giving someone a bollocking on the phone or buried in files.”
He switched off his bedside light, plunging them into darkness, and lay down, not touching her. Jane giggled, “You’re right! I’m sorry, I will make more time for us…”
He felt her moving beside him. A moment later, her nightdress flew across the room.
“There! Just to prove I’m not a frigid old bag…”
Peter smiled and propped himself on one elbow, reached for her.
“Daddy?” said a little voice. Framed in the light from the hall, Joey peered into the room. “Daddy…?”
Pulling the duvet over her head, Jane cracked up, with laughter. “Ignore him, he’ll go away… Go back to bed, Joey!”
Thinking it was a game, Joey snorted with laughter and jumped on the bed, trying to pull the quilt away from her.
“Don’t, Joey! Go back to bed! Joey!”
He tried to climb into the bed, but Jane hung on. “Joey, will you pass me my nightdress?”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t have any clothes on, that’s why.”
Peter lifted the duvet on his side. “Come on, get in…”
As he snuggled down, Joey demanded in his piped voice, “Tell me a story, about bums and titties!”
“Where did you learn those words?” Peter tried to sound angry, but Jane’s sniggers didn’t help.
“At school. My mummy goes to bed without any clothes on, sometimes, but sometimes she…”
He fell asleep mid-sentence. Peter lifted him into his arms. “I’ll just carry him back to his own bed. Jane? Jane…?”
All he could see was the top of her head, but he knew she was asleep. He sighed; the pair of them were out cold, but he was wide awake… Wide awake and thinking about Marianne, naked, in bed with his ex-best friend.
8
Maureen Havers was complaining bitterly to Sergeant Otley. It was the third Sunday she had worked in a row, and she didn’t like it. She dumped a pile of boxes on the desk.
“These are unsolved murders from the entire Manchester area, every location visited by George Marlow since nineteen eighty-bloody-four!”
Otley was unraveling a huge computer print-out from the paint factory. Its end trailed in a heap on the floor.
“Ma’am needs her rest, Maureen! You got anythin’ from Oldham?”
She pointed across the room. “It’s on your desk, Skipper. Want some coffee?”
Otley grinned. “Do I! And keep it comin’, it looks like we got a real workload.”
The rest of the team began to appear in dribs and drabs, looking pretty unenthusiastic about being there. Then Burkin came racing in, the only one who seemed to have any life in him. Grinning, he waved a copy of the News of the World under Otley’s nose.
“Wait till you see this! All is avenged!”
The two sisters didn’t resemble each other in any way. Jane, older by three years, was a nightmare in the kitchen. She had chosen woodwork at school instead of domestic science, and actually preferred M&S ready-to-serve dinners to anything she attempted herself.
Pam, on the other hand, loved cooking. She had done a brief stint behind the counter at Boots the Chemist, then married and produced two children. Her third baby was due within the month. She was easygoing, sweet-natured and boringly happy squashed into Jane’s tiny kitchen. Sunday mornings in her household were reserved for preparing the big lunch, but she had managed to send Tony and the kids off to Hampstead Heath so she could come round and help. Yet it was Jane who was brewing the coffee, Jane who set out the cups and saucers, who had brought out the well-thumbed cookery books and was frantically searching for a suitable dish for Peter’s big dinner party. Everything Pam had so far suggested had been greeted by groans from Jane; she couldn’t attempt a roast, she’d never get the joint ready at the same time as all the vegetables, and she’d never made proper gravy in her life.