Last Rites (18 page)

What was that game they used to play as kids? O’Grady Says? Well, their marriage, Lorraine’s and Derek’s, that’s what it was like. O’Grady says clap your hands, all clap your hands. O’Grady says sleep downstairs on the sofa, Derek sleeps downstairs on the sofa.

Maureen stretched her lips back from her teeth to make sure there were no telltale bits of last night’s spinach lasagna, this morning’s wholewheat toast. The last thing one of her customers wanted to see was a résumé of what she’d been eating the last twelve hours.

Lorraine’s brother, though, Maureen was thinking, Michael, that was a whole different ball game. Him and Derek, chalk and cheese. She couldn’t see Michael running around at some woman’s beck and call, any woman, wife or no wife, it didn’t matter how upset she was. And it wasn’t as though she didn’t understand what Lorraine had been going through, her mother dying like that, all the memories it must have brought flooding back. But Michael, he was different. Well, he’d proved it, hadn’t he? She couldn’t see Michael being any other way than what he was: hard.

Stepping back, she cupped both hands beneath her breasts and looked at their reflection admiringly. Okay, so they might not pass the pencil test, but at forty, well, what could you expect? At least, for the time being, they were all hers: nothing beyond the occasional dab of hormone cream, no silicone, no nips and tucks. Three mornings down at the gym and a couple of spells in the pool, that was what it was. Facials. The occasional sauna. Sensible diet—all right, more sensible than some. Elizabeth Arden Eight-Hour Cream and multivitamins. It was the only body she was going to get, so she might as well look after it.

Back in the bedroom, she pulled open several drawers, lifting things out and either discarding them immediately, or holding them up in front of herself before the full-length mirror. Saturday. Work day. So much to convey: good sense, practicality, style. Finally, she opted for a blue silk-chiffon strapless body and a black, calf-length pencil skirt. How many women her age could wear that and get away with it? She slipped a long cotton jacket, also black, from its hanger.

The watch on her wrist told her she should have left five minutes ago. On Saturdays she employed two girls to help in the shop and she always liked to be there well before them; promptness, the right attitude, so important. She hadn’t got where she was by loafing around half the day, missing appointments, being late. From the plastic container inside the wardrobe door, she took a pair of ankle-strap shoes with a two-inch heel. The Nikes she used when she drove were on the back seat of the car.

Bridlesmith Gate and the narrow streets leading off it were the Fashion District of the city. Birdcage, Limey’s, Ted Baker, the first ever Paul Smith. Maureen’s shop was midway along King John’s Arcade, between Bottle Lane and Token House Yard. By Design. The arcade had been revamped in recent years, a tiled floor and covered roof leading past the café where Maureen frequently went for morning coffee, along to the decorated steps leading up to King John’s Chambers and the Fletcher Gate car park where she normally left her car.

Maureen had gained experience in just about every clothing store of note in the region, spending eighteen months as manager of the local branch of Warehouse before setting up on her own. She’d picked up the shop lease cheaply enough when a shoe store went into liquidation. A year to prove herself, convince the city’s shoppers of the virtues of second-hand designer clothes, two at most. Now, with the shop’s third birthday celebrations almost at the planning stage, she was beginning to relax. Just a little. If business carried on like this, she might even talk to the bank about expansion. Derby. Leicester. Even as far south as Milton Keynes.

The bulk of By Design’s stock comprised Suits from Hobbs and Jigsaw, outfits for her more mature ladies from Alexon or Jaeger, spangly little dresses from Karen Millen. Shoppers who ventured as far afield as Manchester or London sold her their last season specialties from Armani or Agnes b, Anna Sui.

Today she was particularly excited because one of her regulars had promised her a silver size 8 dress from Miu Miu and another, a woman closer to Maureen’s own size, was bringing in a pinstripe halterneck jumpsuit from DKNY. Maureen thought she might have to try that on herself.

Keys in hand, she tapped on the window of the café and waved as she went past. It was still only a quarter to nine and neither Kelly nor Samantha would put in an appearance until half past at the earliest. The shop itself didn’t open till ten.

Inside, she switched on the lights and looked around. The interior was quite long and narrow. Coats and suits hung in the dark wood unit she had had built along the rear wall, finishing at the door to her small office. Two changing cubicles took up the right-hand wall, boxed shelves of shoes and accessories filled the left. Dresses and skirts were on free-standing rails; knitwear, arranged by color, on a mahogany table. Catching a glimpse of herself in one of the mirrors, Maureen smiled. Everything was perfect.

She went back outside to unlock and remove the grille from the front window. Checked her watch. Plenty of time to nip back along the arcade for a coffee and a croissant, fetch them back to the shop.

Minutes later, she was back. As she was straightening a sweater sleeve she’d brushed on the way past, she noticed that one of the suit jackets seemed to have slipped a fraction lopsidedly from its hanger. Set it right now while you can. When she reached inside, a hand caught hold of her wrist. She screamed, but no sound came out because the other hand was tight across her mouth. She struggled and her assailant pushed her back, then flung her round, hard against the wall beside the office door. Old clothes that didn’t fit and stank with sweat, sour breath, a smile that played around the corners of his tightly drawn mouth; a warning, unmistakable, in the flecked gray of Michael Preston’s eyes.

They sat in the office, so small that from any point you could touch all four walls. Michael had pushed aside a pile of loose papers and was perching on the desk, catalogs and ring binders on the shelf close by his head. Maureen sat on the only chair. Michael had been sleeping rough, his hair was matted and his face unshaven; he could have been dossing down on the benches in the bus station or along the canal and no one would have looked twice. It was a quarter past nine. Their legs were touching. Both office and shop doors were locked.

“You’re not supposed …” Maureen stopped and began again. “It said you’d left the country, the news, it …”

“Good.”

“But why … ?”

He was shaking his head. No questions other than his own. “You alone here today, or what?”

“No.” Instinctively, she glanced round toward the door. “My two girls, they’ll be here any minute.”

“When?”

“Half past nine.”

Michael nodded. “Send them home.”

“I can’t.”

“I thought you were the boss?”

“Why would I? There’s no reason. I don’t know what I’d tell them and anyway, they’d just hang around. All their friends, they work nearby, the other shops.”

“Then tell them you’re leaving ’em to it. Not feeling too great. Hangover, whatever.”

“I can’t. It’s my busiest day, I …”

He leaned in toward her, not much, just a little, the smile back at the edges of his mouth. “Is that what you think this is about? Whether you’re going to have a busy day? Sell a lot of poncey frocks?”

“No.”

His leg was pressing hard against her knees.

“Right, here’s what you do. Give me the keys to your car.”

“I …”

“Where is it? Up the top?”

Maureen nodded.

“Good. I’ll wait for you there. Go buy me some clothes, nothing fancy, nothing that’ll stand out. Shoes, size ten. You got a razor at home? A proper one, I mean?”

Again, she shook her head.

“Okay, get that sorted, too. And food. If you haven’t got much in, pick something up. I haven’t eaten a decent meal in days.”

“There’s that croissant …”

“I said
food.”

For a moment, Maureen closed her eyes. Then, because Preston had got to his feet she did the same. When she moved, she could feel the dampness of her body, the dry hollow inside her mouth. As well as Preston, she could smell herself, rancid through her perfume. It was like a room in which they had just made love, a sweated bed.

“You know better,” he said, “than to try and tell anyone about this? The police. Anyone.”

“Yes.”

He could scarcely hear the word. “What?”

“Yes. I said, yes. I …”

His hand was at her throat, the pressure from the bone at the base of his forefinger just enough to stop her breath. “If you do, I’ll kill you.”

Maureen’s legs went beneath her and to stop herself falling she pushed out both arms sideways against opposite walls.

“Why?” she asked, recovering, catching her breath. “Why me?”

Slowly, Michael ran his hand down her neck and across the thin covering of her chest until it touched her breast.

Hurrying out of Blazer with a cotton sweater and chambray shirt, Maureen nearly bumped into a young policewoman turning the corner on to the Poultry. Two of the several bags she was carrying were jolted from her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said hastily.

“No problem.”

“I just wasn’t looking …”

“You’re all right, don’t worry.”

The officer was half a head shorter than Maureen, ten, fifteen years younger; a roundish face, ends of dark hair poking out from beneath her uniform cap.

“Here.” She retrieved the sweater, gray marl, safe in its plastic wrapper. “Nice,” she said. “For you?”

Maureen shook her head. “A friend.” She slid the package down into its bag.

“Not always easy, is it?”

“Sorry?”

“Buying for other people.” The officer laughed. “Men, especially. Know what they want, at least they like to think they do; only problem, they can never get it into words.”

“Most of them, yes, I know what you mean.”

“Well, if you’ve got one as can, hang on to him, that’s my advice. And watch out when you’re stepping out on to the pavement.”

How easy, Maureen thought, to say it now, tell her about Michael waiting up there in Fletcher Gate car park, hunched down in the back seat of her car. An escaped prisoner; a convicted murderer.
I’ll kill you.
“Thanks,” she said, moving toward the curb.

“Right,” the officer smiled, turning to walk away. “Take care.”

Ahead of Maureen, the corner bookstore, the fly-posted wall of Bottle Lane, splintered in a jagged blur.

“I thought maybe you weren’t coming,” Michael said, minutes later, when she got into the front seat of the car. “Thought you’d run off to the police instead.”

And he laughed.

I’ll kill you.
She believed him utterly.

Twenty-five

Saturdays, for Resnick, especially once the soccer season had ground to a close, tended toward limbo. Though, truth to tell, even the prospect of watching his once-beloved County, perched for ninety minutes on a plastic seat designed for lesser backsides than his own, no longer filled him with the anticipations of pleasure it once had. Indeed, it was the seats, he thought, that were the problem, more so than the decline of the team. To watch those toilers in black and white plying their decidedly average skills among the trappings of a newly renovated all-seater stadium simply wasn’t right. This was neither Old Trafford nor the San Siro, not even nearby Derby’s optimistically named Pride Park. This was the wrong side of the Trent, nestling close against the old cattle market, the abattoir, and Incinerator Road.

What he wanted was the jostle and caustic wit of the terraces; Bovril on sale at the kiosks, Wagon Wheels and sausage rolls; urinals where you stood elbow to elbow in the wash of everyone else’s piss.

Romanticizing, Resnick knew, and as dangerous as the efforts to dress up the past and sell it sanitized that drew tourists to the Lace Museum and Tales of Robin Hood and even the Galleries of Justice, where for a few pounds you could inspect the old police cells and the tunnel along which deported prisoners were shepherded into canal boats on the first part of their plague-ridden journey to the colonies.

From where he was leaning on the railing overlooking the Emmett clock, he spotted Hannah, with a bag from the new Tesco Metro in each hand, and called her name.

For a while, they wandered around the upstairs market, Hannah, having deposited her first batch of shopping in her car, buying fillets of trout, scallops, and squid, Resnick half a pound of pale herring roe tinged with pink and two thick slabs of cod, which he would share, inevitably, with the cats. Hannah bought green vegetables, fruit; Resnick, Polish sausage, bacon, smoked ham, gherkins pickled in spiced vinegar and dill. They both bought cheese.

“Coffee?” Hannah said.

Her own choice, Resnick knew, would have meant a brief walk to the Dome or Café Rouge, one of those other places where, within moments of entering, he felt too fat, too old, too entirely in the wrong clothes. But today Hannah led him back to the Italian coffee stall, where, she guessed correctly, he had been less than an hour before.