‘Feeling left out, were you?’ she chided, pulling at his cheek.
His smile faded and he caught her face in his hand, holding her there, gazing
into her eyes.
‘I miss you when I can’t see you’ Cross said, quietly. ‘I like being around you, Cath.’
He ran his hand through her hair, then gently stroked the back of her neck, kneading the flesh there between his thumb and forefinger.
‘I don’t want to talk about work tonight’ she said, softly, sliding closer to him.
‘Good, that makes a change. What do you want to talk about?’
She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. ‘I don’t want to talk’ she murmured, leaning forward, kissing him hard on the lips, one hand fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.
He felt her slim fingers gliding across his chest, his own hand slipping down to her thigh, stroking gently, pushing up beneath the material of her skirt, moving higher.
His fingers brushed something smooth, soft.
Cross realised with delight that it was her gently curled pubic hair.
He pulled back slightly, smiling.
Cath grinned at his reaction.
‘So,’ he said, his breathing now more rapid. ‘What time are you leaving me tonight?’
She leaned back, fumbling inside her handbag, pulling something free that she held up before him.
They both began to laugh.
Cath was brandishing a toothbrush between her fingers.
Talbot slumped wearily in the chair, head back, eyes closed.
The silence inside the house was, as usual, oppressive, and he thought about switching on the television just to shatter the solitude but, finally, he decided against it.
The DI poured himself a whiskey, then sat back down, rolling the tumbler between his palms, gazing down into the soothing fluid as if seeking some answers in the bottom of the glass.
Fucking bitch.
He’d tried the Grosvenor House, The Dorchester and the Hilton. He’d even wandered around to the Park Lane Hotel, taking a drink in each of their bars before driving to number 23 Queens Gardens.
There had been no answer there either from Flat 5b.
Gina Bishop was nowhere to be found.
Bitch.
He snatched up the phone and tried her number.
It rang twice, then the metallic whine of her answering machine began: ‘Hi.
I’m not here now, but if…’
Talbot pressed down on the cradle, waited a moment then dialled another number.
Her mobile.
Ringing.
‘Come on,’ he whispered.
Then a voice.
‘The Vodaphone number you have dialled is not in use …’
‘Fuck!’ he snarled and slammed the receiver down.
Mind you, if she was with a client she wouldn’t have the bloody thing turned on, would she?
Fucking bitch.
He took a hefty swallow from the glass, then dialled again, her home number this time, waiting for the message to end, for the long beep to signal he should start talking.
He heard it and tried to speak but found he couldn’t say the words.
The tape was recording silence at the other end.
He pressed the receiver hard to his ear, his eyes closed.
Say something.
Tell her to call you. Tell her you’ll meet her somewhere.
He gripped the handset more tightly.
‘Gina,’ he said, finally then he heard another long beep.
Time up.
‘Fucking bastard!’ he roared at the phone, at the answering machine.
At himself?
He dropped the phone back onto its cradle and got to his feet, refilling his glass.
And if she’d answered, what would you have said to her?
He glared at the phone.
He needed to talk to her.
To anyone.
Talbot walked back to the phone and dialled again.
PART TWO
.. . Let me show you how I love you. It’s our secret, you and me. Let me show you how I love you, But keep it in the family…
Megadeth
.. . The sleeping and the dead
Are but as pictures; ‘tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted Devil.
Macbeth, Scene II, Act II
Forty-nine
He thought he’d wet himself.
Doug O’Brian rolled over in bed and slid a hand down towards his groin, his eyes half open, his head still clouded.
He felt no moisture, just the wrinkled skin of his scrotum. O’Brian also touched his penis.
Checking.
He must have been dreaming.
Only then did he become aware of the pressure inside his bladder.
No wonder he’d dreamed he’d pissed himself.
He swung himself quickly out of bed, pulled the cord of his pyjama bottoms tighter and headed for the bedroom door.
Half-way across he tripped on one of his own discarded shoes and almost overbalanced.
He muttered something under his breath and kicked the offending article out of the way, tugging open the bedroom door, his haste to reach the toilet now increased.
The floorboards on the landing creaked protestingly as he crossed, past two other closed doors and another to his right which was slightly ajar.
He peered in and saw two of his children sleeping, one of them hanging precariously close to the edge of the top bunk.
O’Brian thought about tiptoeing in and pushing the child back, but his desire to empty his bursting bladder proved too strong.
The window on the landing was letting in the first, dirty rays of dawn and O’Brian squinted, as if the dull, greyish-blue light was too much for him.
Another day.
A day just like all the rest. They had become indistinguishable from one another, or so it seemed to O’Brian. Get up, work, go to bed.
Sandwiched between were worries about his job (he’d heard that fifty were to be laid off from the Bankside Power station in Southwark where he’d worked for the last fifteen years), his family and his car, which looked like packing up on him again. Bloody thing. It hadn’t run right for more than a week since he’d bought it from his brother-in-law three years ago.
But, at the moment, the only thing which concerned Doug O’Brian was relieving himself.
He pushed open the bathroom door, flipped up the seat and began urinating.
The relief.
He smiled to himself, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His black hair was sticking up at one side like a wayward punk rocker, his eyes looked puffy and he needed a shave.
Otherwise he didn’t look too bad for such an early hour.
He finished urinating but chose not to flush the toilet, not wanting to wake anyone, least of all any of the children. Especially the youngest. She’d be in their bedroom like a shot if he disturbed her. O’Brian wondered if he might just get another hour’s sleep before the alarm woke him. If the youngest heard him moving about he had no chance.
He tiptoed back onto the landing, glancing out of the window, pausing a moment.
There were two police vans parked in the road outside.
He could see uniformed men moving about, pointing to various houses. They were talking to a couple of smartly dressed civilians, one of them a woman.
O’Brian rubbed his eyes.
What the hell were the law doing out there at this time in the morning?
He glanced at his watch.
5.16 a.m.
More uniformed men climbed from the back of a third van, which pulled up and parked on the other side of Luke Street.
The men paired up and O’Brian watched as they headed off in different directions, some towards the front doors of houses.
He blinked hard, as if the uniformed men might disappear.
Perhaps they were part of his dream, too.