Audrey nudged her further into the room. ‘Go in, go in.’
Shirley and Ray stood looking at each other.
‘Ray, this is Shirley. Shirley, this is Ray, Raymond Bates.’
‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Shirley, love.’ Ray smiled.
Shirley didn’t say anything. She obviously hadn’t heard a word about Ray.
‘I’ll put the kettle on; you must be gasping for a cuppa,’ he said, trying to ease the tension.
‘Come on, love, sit down, sit down,’ Audrey said as he left the room. ‘Ooh, you look lovely. I wanna hear all about your trip.’
Shirley remained standing. ‘Has Dolly Rawlins called?’
Audrey shrugged. ‘Why would she? I thought she was on holiday with you.’
She was starting to worry that something was wrong, but still couldn’t help eyeing the pile of presents. Shirley finally sat down and handed them over. Audrey started ripping off the tissue paper with a lot of oohs and aahs — her favorite perfume, a couple of boxes of chocolates, and then she took out the beautiful silk nightdress.
Ray came back in. ‘Kettle’s on.’ Then he looked at Shirley and back to Audrey.
‘Photos don’t do her justice, Aud.’
Shirley said nothing. Audrey held up the nightdress, trying to cover the embarrassment. ‘Oh Ray, look, it’s silk, isn’t it, Shirley?’
‘You got your fags down ’ere, gel?’ he asked.
Audrey began undoing her second parcel. ‘A dressing gown. Oh, Shirley, you shouldn’t... Look at this!’ She took out a necklace. It was all bananas and cherries in bright plastic. ‘Oh, this is lovely, really lovely. You get this in Los Angeles, did you? Ohh, it’s beautiful!’
Shirley jerked her head toward the door. ‘He seems to be making himself at home. Permanent fixture, is he, Mum?’
Audrey dropped the necklace. ‘Now don’t you start, you only just got ’ere.’
They could hear Ray whistling in the kitchen. He popped his head round the door. ‘I can’t find the fags, Aud.’
Audrey gave him a look. ‘Come and sit down, Ray, and talk to Shirley.’
Ray remained standing in the doorway. ‘Better not sit down,’ he said with an awkward grin, nodding at the cushions. ‘She’ll have a fit if I put a dent in them.’
Shirley took a carton of cigarettes out of her vanity case. She didn’t look at Ray as she started unwrapping them. ‘So, you’re living with my mother, are you?’
Vic Morgan sat in a rickety chair in Trudie Nunn’s scruffy lounge and listened to the baby’s cries coming from the bedroom. The smell of baby sick hung over the room. Toys lay on the floor, dirty crockery on the table. He wondered what on earth Mrs. Marsh’s so-called sister’s husband was doing getting himself involved in this situation.
The baby carried on crying. How long was she going to be in there? He drummed his foot on the floor. It had taken him a while to get her confidence. At first she didn’t want to let him in at all. But then he said that he’d got something for her. He handed her the briefcase and the note, and the plane tickets, and she’d taken them into the bedroom.
He got up and tapped on the bedroom door. ‘Mrs. Nunn, if you wanna get your passport sorted out we really should make a move. Mrs. Nunn?’
There was no reply.
He wandered round the room again. He stared at the photograph of a young, smiling boy on the mantelshelf. He wondered if that was her husband. There must be a Mr. Nunn somewhere round the place.
Trudie Nunn sat in the bedroom, the open briefcase in front of her. She kept touching the money, not quite believing her eyes. Then she picked up the single sheet of notepaper. It said simply, Trudie, get over to Australia. Sydney. Hilton Hotel. I am waiting. Ask the messenger no questions, just be on that plane. Harry.
Again Trudie touched the money. It was almost as if he was in the room with her.
She whispered over and over to herself, ‘Harry, I’m coming... I’m coming, Harry.’
He hadn’t let her down after all. He’d said he would send for her, and now he had, and nothing was going to stop Trudie from joining him.
Shirley could hear Audrey shouting ‘Ta-ra’ to Ray from the hallway. The front door slammed. The remains of the tea was still on the coffee table. Audrey came back into the room, blabbing on about Shirley’s lovely suitcases in the hall, how she always loved matching suitcases, that it was the height of fashion to have everything matching, that one day she’d always have everything matching — shoes, handbag, luggage, the lot — it showed good taste. On and on she prattled. Shirley waited for her to run out of steam.
Eventually Audrey came out with it. ‘Well, what d’ye think of him? Good-looking, isn’t he?’
Shirley snorted.
‘Well, he might not be your type...’ Audrey said in a hurt voice.
Shirley sighed. ‘No, he isn’t, and you know why? He’s got “small-time villain” stamped right across his forehead, Mum, just like all the others you’ve dragged back ’ere. When will you ever learn?’
‘What about your Terry?’ Audrey snapped back. ‘He wasn’t exactly Prince Charles, was ’e?’
Shirley ignored her. ‘’E’s married, isn’t ’e? You don’t have to tell me — you’ve gone an’ done it again, ’aven’t you?’
Audrey stood up with an angry expression on her face. ‘You watch your mouth, my girl!’
Neither of them said anything for a minute. Audrey busied herself clearing the tea table. Then Shirley picked up the large parcel on the sofa.
‘Can you give this to Greg?’ It was a tracksuit she’d got her brother in Los Angeles.
Audrey didn’t look up. ‘You can give it to Greg yourself — he’s living at your place.’
‘My place? Greg’s living at my place?’
With the cutlery still in her hand, Audrey turned to face her daughter. ‘I don’t know what’s come over you. You’ve changed, you know that? You’ve changed.’
Shirley picked up her vanity bag and walked out, pausing at the door to say, ‘Well, I’m glad one of us has, Mum.’
She slammed the door behind her.
After a moment’s trouble with the sticky door handle, Morgan entered his office and played back the messages on his answering machine. The first call was the mechanic from the garage, regretfully informing him his beloved old Rover needed a lot of work if it was going to pass its MOT. The second call, at 8:30, was from Mrs. Marsh, asking if Trudie Nunn had made the plane. The third call was also from Mrs. Marsh, with the same question only in a slightly tenser tone of voice. Morgan was just about to see if the rest of his messages were from Mrs. Marsh, when he heard the doorknob rattling.
‘Push, Mrs. Marsh!’ he called out.
The door opened and Dolly walked in. ‘How did you know it was me?’
‘She’s on the plane, Mrs. Marsh, with the kid. I have a couple of receipts for you — and a dry-cleaning bill. The little nipper was sick down me twice.’
Dolly smiled. ‘I’m sure that never happened to Humphrey Bogart.’
Morgan laughed. ‘No, and I don’t come when people whistle, either.’ He looked at her. ‘So you just wanted to make sure I’d done my job?’
‘No, not just that.’ She handed him a photograph. ‘This is my sister’s husband. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to bring it to you, but now I want you to keep watching Trudie Nunn’s house to see if he turns up, and, if he does, to follow him and find out where he goes.’
‘Ha-ha!’ said Morgan. He looked at the photograph, then at Dolly. ‘So now you’ve paid off the girlfriend, you think lover-boy will want to find out where she’s gone?’
Dolly nodded.
‘How long do you want me to watch Mrs. Nunn’s place? Couple of days?’