Cold Shoulder (10 page)

She slipped into Rosie’s old dress, and inched open the screen door. The need consumed her; she could think of nothing else. She got as far as the bottom step before she saw the patrol car moving slowly up the road, the two officers inside staring at the buildings as they cruised along. She watched for a few moments before returning to the apartment, where she looked out from the window as they passed on down the road. By the time they had disappeared she didn’t feel so desperate. Still fully dressed, she got back on the sofa.

She had been expecting them. They must have contacted the cab ranks by now, but because she had seen no sign of police interest, she had been too wrapped up in herself to give it a second thought. Now she remembered… but instead of focusing on the present, Lorraine recalled her own days in uniform.

The only female in the precinct, she hadn’t even had a place to piss in privacy until they designated a toilet for her. She would do anything rather than go into the john and even when she had her own there was always a cop leering, presenting his dick for her appraisal. Her partner would throw fits because she was always asking him to pull over at public conveniences. It got so she wouldn’t drink during the day so she didn’t have to piss. They nicknamed her the Golden Camel, because no matter what temperature blistered the paint off the car, rookie Lorraine Page never accepted a drink. Later, she sure as hell made up for it, and when she had moved on, and upwards, she could drink most of her colleagues under the table. It had started as an act of bravado, to show she was as good as any man on or off duty. She could hold it. And then she got a new nickname: ‘Hollow Legs Page’.

Half dreaming, half awake, Lorraine recollected times she had not thought of for years. In these sequences she was always in uniform, and what hit her hardest was the persistent humiliation to which she had been subjected. A woman in a man’s world, a woman none of them wanted or encouraged to become part of their close-knit group. She had clawed every inch up the ladder — she had always had to prove herself tougher than any man. She was not better educated, she had no special qualifications, and if her father had not been a police officer she doubted that she would ever have joined up. She’d enrolled almost as an act of perversity.

Lorraine had hated her father because he had no time for her while he had doted on her brother, Kit. Whatever Kit had wanted Daddy made sure his precious son got. Kit was the pride of the family.

Lorraine’s mother had been an alcoholic, a frightened, pathetic woman who drank in secret, who remained inside the house, afraid of her own shadow until she had drunk enough confidence to go out. To everyone’s embarrassment, she would be picked up and brought home in a squad car by one of her husband’s colleagues. She was never charged with being drunk and disorderly, whatever she did. If she stole money or became abusive, it was quietly glossed over, and she would be locked in her bedroom to get over yet another binge. Poor Ellen Page, sober and regretful, apologetic and weepy. Lorraine used to hide from the sound of her sobs by covering her ears with her pillow. When her mother was sober, the house would return to order and routine — until the next time.

Lately Lorraine had not given her mother much thought. Now, she could picture her pale face, her white hands always twisting the thin gold wedding ring. Her red-rimmed eyes, her lank blonde hair. Lorraine was the image of her mother: perhaps that was why her father had so little time or love left for her.

She never discovered what had started her mother’s drinking. She used to search for the hidden bottles and, under instruction from her father, pour the contents down the sink. At first she always told him when she found the tell-tale bottles, but it seemed to Lorraine that the awful fights that followed were always directed at her — as if the blame was somehow partly hers. In the end, the pale, thin look-alike daughter protected her mother, and simply poured away the booze without saying anything.

Lorraine’s mother died quietly in her sleep. She was only forty-two, and Lorraine thirteen, but from then Lorraine ran the house. She cooked and cleaned up, waited on her father and brother. She would watch them leave for ball games, always together, like pals rather than father and son.

Kit was killed in a car accident. Two kids joy-riding in a stolen car mounted the pavement and ran him down. She could see him clearly, it was strange, she hadn’t given him a thought in she couldn’t remember how many years. Now she could even hear his voice, the way he always called out when he came into the house: ‘Hi, I’m home, anythin’ to eat?’ He had never talked about their mother’s ‘problem’ — if anything he refused to acknowledge there was one. When Lorraine was forced to clear up her vomit, wash her like a child, he shut himself in his room and played his records. Loud, louder than ever if Ellen was weeping, or if she was stumbling around the kitchen trying to get supper ready.

That night Kit hadn’t come home for supper, and her father got the phone call, just as she was about to serve him steak. She could smell it, all these years later, the steak, the mashed potatoes, and the mint peas. She knew it was something terrible because of her father’s expression and the way he let the phone slip from his hand as he pressed his face into the old flowered wallpaper. Then he punched the wall twice before he walked back and collected his jacket.

‘There’s been an accident. It’s Kit.’

Lorraine was left alone with a father who never came to terms with his grief. He hadn’t been affectionate before the accident, but afterwards he showed her no warmth whatsoever. If he felt any pride in her being accepted into the police academy, he kept it to himself, and he was dead three weeks before she graduated.

Lorraine sold the house and prepared to move into an apartment. It had been while sorting through his belongings that she had found pictures of her mother. She had once been so beautiful, with a fragility that took Lorraine’s breath away, but the sweet smile, even in her youth, was a little frightened. She also found albums of photographs of her brother, every achievement recorded for posterity. But there were few pictures of herself, and those she did find had been left in an envelope.

Lorraine burned most of the memorabilia, and sold all the furniture along with the house. She kept a photograph of her brother and one of her parents on their wedding day. She would have liked one of them all together, as a family, but there hadn’t been one — there hadn’t really been a family. Now she had nothing — not even a photograph of Mike or the girls. She pictured them in her mind, little Julia and sweet-faced Sally… and Mike. The feeling of loss swamped her. She forced their faces from her mind and found solace in counting the specks of dirt on the wallpaper — anything rather than think of the past.

She woke up as Rosie thumped into the kitchen. She felt stiff from the cramped position in which she’d finally fallen asleep.

‘I’m going to be late,’ Rosie muttered, in her usual bad — tempered early-morning mood. She stood to shovel in her cereal, milk trickling down her chin. Lorraine stretched.

‘Will you feed the cat?’ Rosie barked.

Lorraine joined her in the kitchen. ‘Do you think alcoholism is hereditary?’

Rosie rammed her cereal bowl into the sink. ‘If you came to a few more meetings you’d know, wouldn’t you? But they say it is. Why don’t you read the leaflets I gave you?’ She continued spouting as she returned to the bedroom, and Lorraine uttered a silent prayer that she had not gone out for that beer. Another day over, sober.

Rosie plodded down the road and turned the corner, just as the squad car drew up. Two officers checked the address and glanced up the rickety wooden stairs. The cab driver had not been sure of the number he had driven the woman to, but he had known the street and the date his fare had flagged him down. His description of her matched that of the other two witnesses, and he had picked up the fare a short distance from the shopping mall car park. He was able to add one more detail: the woman had a front tooth missing.

Lorraine examined herself: the suit jacket was a fraction too large, the skirt band a couple of inches too wide, but she bloused up the jacket, a safari-style fawn cotton, and with the cream silk shirt beneath, it looked good. She borrowed a pair of pearl stud earrings from Rosie’s jewel box, and used her mascara, a little rouge and powder and, as the lipsticks were all a violent orange, rubbed on lip balm instead. When she heard a rap on the door she hesitated: maybe she should have asked Rosie about the earrings. If she was back, she might get into one of her moods. She heard a second rap; knew it couldn’t be Rosie, who would have used her key, and assumed it was Jake.

She stepped back in shock as the two officers lolled at the door. One remained outside while the second came in to ‘ask a few questions…’ She lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the sofa, thankful she had cleared away the blankets and pillows.

‘Do you live here?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Laura Bradley. Actually I’m just staying here, I don’t own this apartment.’

‘Who does?’

Lorraine gave Rosie’s name. He asked for a description, and she said Rosie was dark-haired and in her late thirties.

‘Is she fat?’

Lorraine half smiled. ‘No. Why? Has something happened to her?’

‘No. Were you here early evening on the seventeenth of last month?’

Lorraine nodded.

‘Did someone else come here? Did a taxi cab bring someone else to these premises?’

‘No. Not that I can recall…’

The officer stood up, walked towards the bedroom, and pushed open the door.

‘Just the two of you live here? Nobody else? Short, dark-haired man?’

Lorraine laughed. ‘No. It’s a small place. Why are you so interested?’

The photograph was not the same as the one in the wallet but much larger. Yet Lorraine knew at a glance that it was the owner of the vehicle licence — the owner of the wallet.

‘Do you know this man?’

‘No, I’m sorry. What has he done?’

‘He was murdered, ma’am. Haven’t you read about it? Local man.’

Lorraine looked suitably shocked, then stood up. ‘Maybe he lived here before I came to stay — I can ask my friend.’

The officer slipped the photograph back into his jacket. ‘Thanks. Truth is, we’re only interested in tracing the woman — cabbie reckoned she was dropped off around here.’ He relaxed, smiled at Lorraine. ‘As you don’t fit the description we must have got the wrong place, but thanks for your help, been nice talkin’ to you.’

Lorraine followed the young officer to the door. ‘Was she murdered as well?’ she asked innocently.

‘No, but we think she may have known the man driving the deceased’s vehicle. We have two witnesses.’

‘They saw her coming here?’ asked Lorraine.

‘No. In the local shopping mall car park, and we were told she may have been brought here by cab. We’re asking everyone in the street if they saw her. She must have been hard to miss — she was covered in blood.’

Lorraine opened the front door. ‘I’ll ask Rosie when she comes home if she saw her. Do you have a number? Somebody I can call?’

The officer told her to contact her local station or sheriffs office and they would pass on any information to the department handling the homicide.

After they had gone, Lorraine leaned against the door. Her heart was beating so rapidly that she felt dizzy. She began to talk herself down for being so stupid. She was not involved in any murder. All she had done was tip off the cops with the description of the man who picked her up. There was nothing to be afraid of — except that she had taken the wallet. But she’d got rid of it and nearly all the money was gone. They had not been new notes so she doubted they could be traced. Why was she worrying about something so inconsequential when the officers hadn’t even recognized her as the woman they wanted for questioning? She ran her tongue over her newly capped teeth. She had come a long way since that attack, physically and mentally, and she congratulated herself on the way she had handled the cop.

She even mentally castigated the police for being so slow in finding the cab driver who had driven her home that afternoon. If she had been on the case it would have been the first thing she’d have checked.

Self-satisfied, she left the apartment, her pace quickening as she walked towards the bus stop. Nothing in her appearance resembled the woman the police had described: her hair was well cut. She looked elegant, though the shoes were a bit tight and she was without a purse, but she was more confident than she had been for years. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the grocery store window as she passed and didn’t even notice the rows of liquor bottles, so intent was she on admiring herself. It was another day, and she had moved on faster than she could ever have anticipated or believed possible.

C
APTAIN ROONEY looked over the reports and statements from the various officers. They were, as he had half expected, of little use. The cab driver had given them a bum address and nobody had located the bloodstained woman with only one shoe. She had disappeared — could even be dead. The Summerses had been questioned again to see if they could match the description from the anonymous caller. He was similar, they said, but they were not too clear about the driver of the vehicle. When shown a photograph of Norman Hastings, they were sure that it was not him. Rooney doodled over his notebook.

He wondered again if they were looking for two killers, the man and the blonde woman working together. They had killed Hastings and then had an argument — maybe they had come to blows inside the car at the shopping mall. The woman subsequently made the anonymous phone call describing her partner, husband or lover… But if that was so, she would have known the killer’s height and could even have given his name, although that might have incriminated her, too. Rooney concluded that the woman was probably not involved in the murder and did not know the killer’s name or height because she was, as he had first thought, a prostitute the driver had picked up.