Until You're Mine (23 page)

‘Do you think they have green tea?’ Adam asked with a smirk.

‘Let’s find out,’ Lorraine said, surprising herself by briefly touching Adam’s arm as they wandered over to the kiosk. ‘Then you can come with me to visit Russ Goodall again. I have a few questions for him. With any luck he’ll have done a spot of housework.’

*

There was no reply when Lorraine knocked. She peeked through the grimy plastic letterbox. A putrid smell billowed out in a waft of warm air. ‘Jesus Christ,’ she said, recoiling. ‘Did someone die in there?’ She and Adam looked at each other, both sincerely hoping that wasn’t the case.

Adam stuck his nose close to the flap. ‘Not death,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘The rubbish needs taking out.’

‘Disgusting bugger,’ Lorraine said, banging her fist on the door then stepping back to peer up the tall building when they heard a window above them open. ‘Hello?’ she called out. ‘Police. Will you come down, please?’

There was a brief expletive and then moments later they heard thumping behind the door as someone came down the stairs. The door was unlocked and opened and they were faced with Russ Goodall in a vest and boxer shorts, shivering as if he’d been out in the snow for three days.

‘I was in bed,’ he said apologetically.

‘May we come in and talk to you?’ Lorraine asked. She could almost feel Adam’s disgust.

‘Yeah, s’pose,’ Russ replied, standing aside. He stumbled on a bag of rubbish that had been left by the door.

‘Couldn’t we have brought him in to the station?’ Adam whispered as they went up the stairs. Lorraine strode past him into the tiny bedsit and nudged him on the shoulder for being stupid. She often wondered if it was a good idea for them to work together any more. More so at work than anywhere, their behaviour was likely to deteriorate into that of squabbling children. God knows what would happen if she went for divorce. A transfer for one of them would be inevitable, but why should she be the one to move?

‘Sit down if you like,’ Russ offered in a voice whose high pitch betrayed fear and surprise.

There were only two options: a dirty plastic stacking chair beside a small table or the messed-up bed that appeared to double as a sofa. Adam darted for the chair, leaving Lorraine no option but to sink onto the mattress and release a fug of warm, stale body odour. She would thank him for that later.

‘I just wanted to run over a few things about your relationship with Sally-Ann, Russell. It’s nothing to be worried about, we just have to be clear in our minds about everything. Why don’t you pop some trousers on, eh?’

The cotton of his boxers was so thin that Lorraine was convinced she’d see more than she wanted to if her eyes strayed any further down than his chest. As it was, she could make out most of his skinny, undernourished torso through the worn, greying material of his baggy vest. He nodded and pulled on some ripped jeans. A nasty smell exuded from them as he battled them up his legs, hopping around the worn rug as he did so. Finally, he sat on the bed next to Lorraine. She moved to her left.

‘Did you and Sally-Ann ever argue, Russell?’ It was Adam who spoke first. Lorraine had been about to ask the same question. They just wanted to warm him up a little, have him almost relieved to spill the truth about anything he might now regret.

She took the interview baton that Adam hadn’t exactly held out. ‘And by that, we don’t simply mean the usual bickering that all couples do.’ She looked at Adam. He didn’t reciprocate but she noticed his jaw clench. ‘We’re more interested in knowing if things ever got, well, a bit hot under the collar, if you know what I mean.’

‘I never hit her, if that’s what you’re implying.’ Russell was fidgeting.

‘We understand how these things go: petty little disagreements escalating beyond all proportion . . .’ Adam said, offering a quick glance back at Lorraine.

‘And we also understand that sometimes these little disagreements aren’t quite so little; that maybe one of you might have had a very good reason to get upset.’ Lorraine emphasised the words ‘very good reason’.

‘Although sometimes these
very good reasons
can be misunderstood by one party entirely,’ Adam added, glaring at Lorraine.

‘But assuming they weren’t
misunderstood
at all,’ Lorraine continued, talking directly at Adam, ‘assuming one party was completely certain they were in the right, then we’d understand if you felt as if you might become
violent
towards that other person.’ Lorraine felt a sweat break out on her forehead. She steeled herself against the ridiculous emotions brewing and turned back to Russell.

‘Although I must stress that we’d never condone violence.’ Adam jutted out his jaw, and Lorraine could almost see the pressure building up inside him.

‘I’ll remember that, Detective,’ Lorraine said tersely through a forced smile.
Before I thump you
,
she added in her head.

‘I never hit her, I swear,’ Russ said, completely oblivious to the subtext passing right under his nose. ‘She got into these awful moods.’

‘Go on,’ Lorraine said.

‘I reckon being pregnant made it worse.’ Russ hung his head and picked at a rip on the thigh of his jeans. A patch of white, hairy skin showed through. ‘One minute she was happy – I mean, like,
really
happy. The next she wanted to end it all.’

‘Was she depressed?’ Adam asked.

‘Maybe. I dunno. She used to go to the GP a lot.’ Russ looked utterly miserable. ‘It all started when
he
came on the scene.’

‘Liam?’

Russ nodded. ‘He ruined everything between us. I reckon we’d have got married if it weren’t for him sticking his nose in. He used Sally-Ann, he did. Used her for casual sex, like he did that other poor woman.’

‘We know for certain that he was the baby’s biological father,’ Adam said, causing Lorraine to sigh. She’d been going to wait before telling Russ this news, but it was said now.

Russ’s face took a moment to react, but when it did, it was clear that he’d been convinced he was the father. ‘Oh, no,’ he said flatly. ‘That’s really sad.’

‘Is it true that all the uncertainty caused a lot of friction between you and Sally-Ann?’

Floored by the truth, Russ nodded. ‘Yeah. But I was going to do the right thing. I’d have stood by her. I wanted that baby.’

‘Did Sally-Ann?’ Lorraine asked.

Russ dragged his head up. After a few seconds he said, ‘No. No, I don’t think she ever really did.’

‘So why didn’t she have a termination?’ Adam said. ‘Women have choices.’

‘There was this one time I really thought she was going to, to actually get rid of it, but she changed her mind.’

‘And when was that?’

‘She’d only just found out she was pregnant. After the initial shock had worn off, she got really excited. We were in the Bullring looking at baby stuff in a department store. All these little soft pink and blue things. But then she suddenly got really stressed about coping, about being a good mother, about the cost of everything. It was as if someone had flicked a switch.’

‘In the department store?’ Adam said.

‘Yeah. One minute she was fondling Babygros and the next she was swiping at displays and pulling tiny clothes off racks. She was yelling and everything. Making a right spectacle of herself. She nearly destroyed the shop.’ Russ was clearly troubled by the memory.

‘That sounds terrible. What happened?’ Lorraine said.

‘I tried to calm her down. Her arms were swiping and flailing and she was kicking stuff. She was screaming that she didn’t want the baby, that she wanted to get rid of it right there and then, that she’d do it herself if she had to. She yelled that she hated it, that it would ruin her life.’ Russ was whispering now, clearly traumatised by the memory. ‘People were staring, gathering round. One lady came to help her, said she understood, that she needed to calm down. Sally-Ann slumped to the floor and then the manager came and took her round the back for a cup of tea. Then we went home.’

‘Powerful things, those hormones.’

Lorraine glared at Adam. He was a prize idiot sometimes. ‘That must have been very distressing for you, Russell,’ she said. ‘Did anything like that ever happen again?’

‘She still got moody, but she never said she wanted an abortion after that. I asked her to marry me.’ Russ managed a small smile at the thought.

‘I’m so sorry for you, Russ.’ Lorraine meant it. ‘Can you give me the name of the other woman Liam Rider was apparently seeing?’

Russ scratched his head. ‘I only found out by accident,’ he said. ‘I went to the college to have it out with him, to warn him off my Sal. I found him . . . well, you know, doing stuff with this other woman. It was disgusting.’

‘Her name?’ Adam reminded him.

Russ thought hard. ‘She ran an evening course at the college. Jewellery-making or something. She was a right weird-looking woman, I remember thinking.’

‘Name?’ Adam persisted.

Russ shrugged. ‘She had an odd name, too. Like Delia or Celia. I dunno. Ask the college. She had this frizzy red hair, all tangled up.’

I NEARLY DON’T
bother to answer the door but if it gets back to Claudia that I missed a delivery or failed to greet a friend then that’ll make her wonder what I was up to. I promised her I’d sort out the linen cupboard and finish the pile of sewing that looks as if it’s built up over a lifetime. Various items have been bagged up in the utility room with a sticky note saying ‘needs mending’ attached.

It’s jobs like these, Claudia told me when I started, that will make all the difference around the house. She smiled as if it – as if
I
– was the most important thing in the world.

How very trivial
, I remember thinking when I told her that I liked sewing, that I had an eye for detail. Perhaps I have, I think as I reluctantly approach the front door. Maybe I got it from Cecelia as I watched her work through the long winter evenings. She’d hunch over the table in our tiny flat, an angled light shining above her as if she had a private mini sun in her own little world. Sometimes she’d work peering through a giant magnifying glass on a stand. I once looked at her through it. Her body morphed as if she were in the hall of mirrors at the fairground. She was huge and distorted like a great pregnant animal. I didn’t say anything. It would have killed her, especially as she wasn’t pregnant.

Whoever it is has rung the bell three times now.

I unlock the door and open it wide.

‘Is Claudia Morgan-Brown at home?’ a woman in a suit asks.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Not until tonight.’ I try to remember what time she said she’d be back.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Lorraine Fisher,’ she says.

I stare at her. I feel faint. The floor falls away from my feet.

Shit.

‘Are you OK, love? You look a bit pale.’ She takes a step forward.

‘I’m fine,’ I say, steadying myself on the doorframe.

‘Any idea what time tonight exactly?’ she continues, stamping her feet as if she’s both cold and impatient. She shoves her hands into her coat pockets.

‘I . . . I’m not sure.’ I pray she’s only come about the accident yesterday.

‘And you are?’ she asks.

My mouth won’t work. What should I tell her? I wasn’t expecting this. ‘I’m Zoe,’ I manage to say pleasantly. ‘Claudia’s nanny.’ Why would they send a detective for a road traffic incident? I can hardly stand to think of the answer to this.

‘Ah,’ she says, clearly believing me. ‘But you have no idea what time Mrs Morgan-Brown will be back?’

‘I suppose it’ll be about six or seven,’ I say vaguely, glancing at my watch. I force my mind back to earlier. Claudia said she felt better, that she wanted to go to her antenatal class and then on to the office.

The detective looks exasperated by my imprecise answer.

‘Look,’ I say, ‘if it’s about the accident, she’s fine. It was all sorted at the scene. I decided not to take it any further.’

‘Accident?’ she says.

‘Someone rammed the back of our car yesterday. What with Claudia being pregnant and . . . well, there was thankfully no harm done.’ I even manage a little laugh.

‘That’s not why I’m here,’ she continues. ‘Give this to Mrs Morgan-Brown, will you? Tell her to get in touch if I haven’t located her in the meantime.’

I take the card from her gloved hand and watch her leave. When I’ve shut the door, locked and bolted it, I lean back against the wall. It takes all my willpower not to slide down to the floor. I stare at the card. The words Major Investigations Unit are printed across the middle. I rush to the toilet and throw up.

*

It’s no good. I need to see her again. I tap out a text but can’t bring myself to hit send. Instead, I walk around the garden in bare feet, allowing the cold wet grass to poke between my toes and the mud to slip beneath my nails. Back inside, I turn on my computer and log into one of my email accounts – the one reserved for communicating with her – and swiftly type a message she can’t ignore.

I want to tell her that I will always love and care for her. I don’t know what else I can do.

Dear Cecelia
 . . . I scrub that. It sounds too formal.

Anything to keep her going, to keep the hope alive.

I laugh to myself and delete the email. I can’t send this. It could be viewed or intercepted by anyone. It’s all too traceable. I’m not stupid. I might well be breaking all the rules by communicating with Cecelia but leaving an electronic trail, pretty much stating my intentions, is not how things should be done. I delete the draft text also.

I glance at my watch. There’s still time. The boys are playing at Pip’s house until six. Impulsively, I pull on my coat, my boots, my scarf, and grab the keys to the car. If I go to the flat, no one can ever prove what was said between us.

*