Chapter Twenty-five
Fun
The club looked grimly festive. Its blunt brick and concrete were draped with swooping strands of bunting, as if a bony crown roast had been dressed up in paper ruffles. Better than police tape, anyway.
FYLINGTON FAMILY FUN DAY, shouted a banner over the entrance. No mention of a memorial. Presumably that would spoil the family fun. There was a bouncy castle, a tombola stall, a noxious barbecue and any number of balloons floating about and getting in the way. The grass was spattered with silver paper from the Easter egg hunt being held prematurely. At least it was free of goose shit, the geese having presumably all flown away north. As I should be.
I was wearing Sammie’s spare shorts and a Fylington shirt that was too big for me and smelt of Vick. I rolled the sleeves over several times and bounced up and down, hoping this would make me look fit. I felt anything but. I was still stiff and sore from my midnight trek across the freezing moors. More than that, I was stiff and frozen inside too, because now I knew they were still after me.
The rats hadn’t scuttled back to their sewers at all. They’d learnt I wasn’t dead, and the hunt was on again. I should never have let my guard slip. I’d got too happy and careless, and nearly paid the price.
In order to beg a place to sleep, I had had to tell Brendan and Rhoda about Karl and his avengers. I gave them the shortened version, to which Brendan listened with such a poor attempt at surprise that I suspected Niall had already been dropping hints around the place like dollops of horse-shit.
Rhoda tutted sympathetically, although her sympathy didn’t extend to chucking either kid out of their bed for me. I slept on the unfriendly domed padding of the Woolpack’s bench seats, rats rustling in my dreams, until I woke up in a threshing panic and landed on the floor.
Now I was knackered and edgy, and in no mood for family fun or any other type. The only reason I turned up at all was that the rugby club felt less dangerous than anywhere else. Safety in numbers.
Not that there were huge numbers here. The ladies’ match only had an audience of about thirty, mostly children, whose cheers kept threatening to turn to jeers. I wondered what Karl would think of it. Laugh his socks off, probably, the way he had when he’d first seen me trying on my chef’s whites. Those had been a twelve year old’s giggles, with just an edge of mockery: a year or two later they’d turned to full-on derision. I thought the rugby might have impressed him, though: he’d been a mean footballer once.
When Sammie kicked off I came to my senses. Why was I thinking of Karl playing football? Karl was trying to kill me. I slammed him out of my mind and concentrated on the game.
As it turned out, I was fitter than I expected. I think I played on the wing. Nobody told me. Sammie just instructed me to hang on to the ball whenever it got thrown my way – which wasn’t often – and then run as far as I could before I got knocked over. I used to play basketball for school, so I didn’t drop the ball, though I was strongly tempted to bounce it a few times. I even made a couple of tackles, the first entirely by accident when I didn’t get out of the way fast enough.
We won the match, although it had nothing to do with me. I got thumped on the back, which was nice, and realised belatedly that I’d almost enjoyed myself. For a brief while, everything had been forgotten but the game: I’d had no chance to worry about black cars or gangsters.
And, thankfully, I hadn’t disgraced myself in front of the swelling audience and the men’s teams who were waiting to spring or lumber on to the pitch. I saw Hugh on the touchline with Tamara attached to his arm like a graceful parasite. He looked wan and lost. Tamara said something in his ear and stroked his arm possessively. Trying to console him for the loss of rugby. He wasn’t wearing kit.
KK, in the first team strip, gave me a wink and a grin. “Good tackle,” he said, so I didn’t disillusion him. KK’s manner with me hadn’t changed; he’d just stopped scowling so much. I was glad he was casual. That suited me fine. Good bloke, great legs, but I didn’t need a relationship with someone who was still in love with his ex-wife. Whom somebody might just have tried to poison with a toxic snowball...
My mind began to race away again like a train on a bumpy track. Could carpet cleaner kill you? Could someone in the club have been a poisoner? Would a poisoner also be capable of stabbing Becki?
“No, no, no,” I muttered aloud. This was taking me in the wrong direction altogether. The killer was no-one here: I knew that now for sure.
Grimshaw wandered over, also wearing kit. Nice legs, though his calves were a little thin. “You weren’t bad,” he said, sounding surprised. “Where did you learn to tackle?”
“I didn’t.” But I’d learnt to wrestle, years ago, with Karl. “Which side are you playing on?”
“President’s 15. The first team wouldn’t have me.”
The president’s team held a variety of old lags who usually propped up the bar. Niall had been forced to promise the removal of the Old Hayseed to get them to play at all. Brendan’s jumper was looking more stretched than ever over his midriff and Frank had one sock up, one down, shin-pad falling off and tape already detaching itself from his ears.
“You all right?” he said, his gaze disconcertingly direct, as if he was looking straight through my muddy shirt to the aching, jumping heart and everything else concealed inside. It was quite unlike Grimshaw’s piercing stare, which I always felt was testing me for flaws.
“I’m fine,” I said. “You look like Just William.”
He smiled. “That must make him Violet Elizabeth Bott,” he said, nodding at Bob who was swinging his arms and eyeing the opposition with a mad, bulging stare.
“Is he all right?”
“Just doing his usual. Sits in the changing room muttering and slowly turning into the creature from the Black Lagoon.”
“Doesn’t take much,” said Brendan. “Where’s Niall? He’s our number eight.”
“Is he? Bugger,” said Frank. “I thought he wasn’t playing.”
“For his own fifteen? Didn’t do us any favours, did he?” said Brendan. “We’re just a glorified vets’ team. Why isn’t Road-runner playing?”
“His bird’s put the mockers on it,” said Frank.
“Poor bastard. Christ, he looks wretched.”
“Where the fuck is Niall?” snarled Bob.
“He’s here now.”
“Jesus fucking wept,” said Bob. “What the fuck is that behind him? Fucking Basil Brush?”
Niall loped out of the clubhouse, followed by a pot-bellied bushy-tailed six-foot fox. Apart from its white stomach, it was as orange as a tangerine. Its beady eyes stared in opposite directions. It galumphed on to the pitch, waving wildly at the gob-smacked crowd, and collided with Brendan.
“Sorry,” said a muffled mumble. “Can’t see too well.”
Niall raised his voice. “Let’s give a warm welcome to our new mascot. It’s Fylington Freddy! Give him a big hand, everybody!”
“Wahey!” cried Taidhgh and Cormac dutifully from the touchline.
“That’s not a fox!” yelled another boy beside them. “That’s a squirrel!”
“Belt up, Ashley,” roared Niall.
“Don’t you shout at him,” said KK warningly.
“Go and get a shirt on,” Niall told the fox. It turned and lumbered back into the clubhouse. It had a limp.
“Let’s get this show on the road!” shouted Niall. “Give us a cheer, boys!” They cheered. The ref whistled. The game was on.
I went to have my shower and check the food. When I came back, the veterans were winning, to general amazement. Grimshaw looked pretty fast, although he didn’t get the ball much. None of the backs did: it spent most of the time being dived on and grabbed at by grunting forwards, like a particularly vicious game of pass the parcel.
I’d never seen Bob or Frank play before, but together with Brendan they made a fairly scary front row. Especially Bob, at tight-head, whose ferocious glare and willingness to knock over anyth
ing that moved made me wonder about him. He was taking the match very seriously indeed.
In the first half the vets didn’t lose a single line-out or a scrum. With every roar of HOO! it was the firsts who got pushed backwards. When I produced the half-time oranges, the vets looked puffed but happy.
“Showing the youngsters how it’s done,” panted Bob. He was bright red and dripping.
“We’re just biding our time,” warned Jamesy.
Freddy the fox was hobbling up and down the sidelines in an XXXL shirt. When I offered him an orange he took his head off. “Thanks, Lannie.”
“Hi, Drop-goal. How come you aren’t playing?”
“Hamstring,” said Drop-Goal despondently.
“Should you be running round inside that thing?”
“No. But Niall insisted.”
“You don’t have to do everything Niall insists on,” I said with some irritation.
Drop-goal shrugged mildly. “I owe Niall. He got me my first job.”
“Oh, yes? Where was that?”
“A logistics company. It was where AnneMarie worked. She was his girlfriend then and she interviewed me, sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“No sane person would have employed me. I was a spotty eighteen year who couldn’t tie his own shoelaces. All I could do was kick goals.”
I grinned. I liked Drop-goal. “Not much change there, then.”
“I can’t do either now,” he said, straight-faced, “not with this hamstring. Totally useless.”
“What was she like at work?” I asked curiously.
“Anne-Marie? Almost as useless as I was,” he said, stroking the fox’s polyester fur. “I think she couldn’t wait to get out.”
“Get that head back on!” yelled Niall, and Drop-goal obediently replaced it and began to shuffle up and down the pitch, diffidently cheer-leading the sceptical crowd before the game restarted.
In the second half it all fell apart. The vets showed an increasing tendency to lie on the ground for longer and longer periods of time, and the first team scored four tries. Bob was steaming, both literally and figuratively. Niall spent more time bellowing insults at his team than running, which set Rhoda off bellowing insults at Niall from the sidelines. She looked like the only one who was enjoying herself.
I retired to the shelter of the kitchen, sorted the pies and laid out rows of bread and salad. No frilly lettuce, as instructed. Brendan plodded in, wet and ripe as a warm Stilton, to down a pint of orange squash and tell me the final score: 32-11 to the first team.
“Young Morse scored our try,” he said. “Not a bad one either.”
“Good for him. I thought he was Plod, though?”
“Plod didn’t work.”
“But he’s a bit young to be Morse, isn’t he?”
“No first name,” explained Brendan. “Not that he’ll admit to.” He wafted pungently away to the changing-room, while I began to dole out food to the slowly-growing queue. There was a choice of chilli or hotpot, in honour of the occasion. The barbecue supplied burnt sausages. Gateaux and cheesecakes were defrosting in the back of the kitchen. I hadn’t done anything special, since I hadn’t felt up to the effort, and Niall wouldn’t know the difference anyway.
“Good hotpot,” commented Grimshaw.
“Thanks. I hear you scored a try.”
“Of course.”
“And got a new name.”
“Quite flattering, really,” said Grimshaw.
“So what is your first name?”
“Not in current use, except by my mother.”
“Why? It’s not Salvation or Fortitude, is it?”
He lowered his voice to a whisper. “It’s Giles.”
“Giles? You’re not a Giles.”
“I should damn well hope not. The main reason I joined the police was so I could nick anyone who said Giles was a poofter’s name.”
“And do you nick them?”
“Nah. I’m too nice.” I doubted that. Not only did I distrust good-looking men on principle (Hugh excepted, of course,) but Grimshaw’s job and infiltration of the rugby club were only reasons to distrust him more.
A bell clanged. Niall leapt on stage, announcing a raffle to be drawn shortly by Fylington Freddy. As Grimshaw went off to do his duty and buy a ticket, AnneMarie came sidling up.
“Hotpot?” I offered.
She shook her head. She looked a bit dazed.
“It’s going well,” I said. “The place is packed. Niall should be pleased.”
“Yes.” Monotone. Her voice was dead.
“You all right, AnneMarie? What’s up? The kids are enjoying themselves.” I hoped she wasn’t going to ask me for drugs again. She had that pale, tight-stretched look. But she said,
“That copper. You know what he’s here for, don’t you?”
“To play rugby. Show support. Remember Becki.” It seemed to me that there wasn’t a whole lot of that last one going on.
But AnneMarie said, “Don’t be stupid! To play rugby? He’s a detective. He’s got a warrant. He’s here to arrest someone.”
I wondered if she was drunk again. “You don’t know that, AnneMarie.”
“I do!” she hissed. “I overheard him on his phone. You know how thin the door of the ladies is? Well, I was just about to come out of there when I heard him in the corridor. Muttering about a search warrant – and an arrest. Lannie, he’s come to arrest someone!”
“Well, he hasn’t done it yet,” I said. “He’d have done it by now.”
“He said See you later, then. Somebody else is bringing the search warrant.”
I looked across the room at Grimshaw, who was glumly studying his raffle ticket and realising that all the prizes were various quantities of Old Hayseed (first prize a pint, Bob had commented acidly. Second prize a gallon. Third prize a year’s supply.)
“Well, as long as it’s not me,” I said flippantly, although a ball of apprehension was forming in my throat. I’d been right not to trust Grimshaw.
“Christ, Lannie, I’m in deep shit.”
I turned to study AnneMarie. She looked even more miserable than usual. “Why? You don’t think he’s come to arrest you?”
She shook her head, swallowing visibly. “KK,” she said. Her voice was barely audible, the haunted creak of a door.
I stared at her. “KK? How do you know? Is that what he said?”
“He didn’t say a name. But why else would they bring a search warrant here, to the club? Nobody else lives here. Except KK.” She gestured upwards with her elegantly manicured finger. Her hand was shaking.
I pulled her round the counter into the kitchen and ushered her behind the fridge, where no-one could see. She let herself be ushered. I put a hand against the wall on either side of her.
“AnneMarie, are you on something?”
She shook her head continually. “Oh Christ, oh Christ, I’m in deep shit,” she moaned.
“Sounds like it’s KK who’s in the shit, not you.”
“Me too. Me too. Once they search his room – once they find–” She broke off abruptly, her glance sliding sideways across last year’s Real Milk calendar.
“Find what?”
Another head shake, small and uncertain.
“AnneMarie, what are they going to find in KK’s room?” I decided that she was drunk or popped-up and fabricating this from some remark she’d overheard. “They’ve got no reason to arrest KK. Where are you getting your supplies from now? Because whatever you’re on, it’s turning you paranoid.”
She flared up. “I’m having to buy Dexies off a crappy spotty teenager in Macc, and he’s charging me three times what Becki did and he’s a nasty little prick and I don’t feel right, I don’t think it’s the real stuff, but the hell do you expect me to do? You won’t help me.” She burst into tears, covering her face, shoulders shaking. Acting it.
“I can’t help you,” I said.
“And KK wouldn’t bloody help me. All that stuff of Becki’s he’s g
ot stashed upstairs in his flat.”
Now I wasn’t sure I was hearing her right. I took hold of her wrists and pulled her hands away from her contorted face. No tears. “What stuff?”
“The stuff he took out of her bag. I saw him.”
“When?”
“After you found her dead. Before the police came.” She was getting hysterical.
“Why? What would he do that for?”
“Because drugs is money,” cried AnneMarie.
“Not to KK it isn’t.”
“Because he’s stupid then, I don’t know, what the hell! He wouldn’t give any to me, that’s all I know. Bloody selfish pompous git.”
“You should go back to your doctor.”
“Oh, fuck off.” She pushed me aside with such vicious force that I let her go. “You don’t care,” she said, in tears again, and ran out of the kitchen.
I stared at the desserts defrosting on the table, checking for ice crystals and wondering what the hell was going on. Then I took up a bin bag and went round on a hunt for dirty plates and guilty faces.
Grimshaw was eating hotpot jovially with a large group that included Brendan, KK and Frank. Joviality didn’t sit well on Grimshaw’s sharp features. His laughter was fake. While I watched, it seemed to me that he, in his turn, was watching KK. The ball of apprehension in my throat began to hurt again.
“I’ll lend a hand,” said Rhoda. “No need for you to do it all.” She began to bustle round with her own binbag, chatting amiably to the diners.
“Nice to see you back to yourself, Rhoda,” said Bob. “Everything going well, is it?”
“Everything’s good,” answered Rhoda, a smile spreading across her face like a crescent of pie. “For now. It could all change, of course, but for now they’re very pleased.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Mrs Bob warmly. She got up and embraced Rhoda. There were real tears in both their eyes. I stood by with my black bin liner in one hand, grinning as if I already knew all this, which I didn’t. But I should have. AnneMarie was right. I didn’t care.
“You’re feeling better?” said Mrs Bob. “Your colour’s good.”
“Much better. I had a bad patch with the last chemo session, but I’m feeling much better now. Only thing is, my hair’s started to go! Disappearing down the plughole in handfuls!” She laughed. Mrs Bob laughed. Bob looked aghast.
“Have to look out for a nice wig,” said Mrs Bob.
“Red and curly,” said Rhoda. “Think I’ll turn into Nicole Kidman.”
I whisked all their paper plates off the table into my bag and went to serve up puddings. Grimshaw was still watching KK. AnneMarie sat huddled in a corner, head down, smoking like an advert for nicotine patches.
Poor AnneMarie, I thought, in pity and exasperation. Lost in a maze of discontent. Never happy, not at work, not at home. No wonder she’d got herself addicted.
But what else had she got herself into? If by any remote chance she was right and Grimshaw did search KK’s room, what would he find? If by any remoter chance he found drugs – maybe even Becki’s drugs – what was the problem for AnneMarie?
I stood stock-still, clutching a cheesecake. Suppose that AnneMarie was right. Suppose KK had taken something from Becki’s bag after her death. Perfectly innocently. Even though I couldn’t think of a good reason for that right now, I knew KK wasn’t guilty of murder, because the real murderer had just chased me across the moors.
Still – KK hadn’t approved of Becki taking drugs any more than I had. He’d told her so, and she’d got angry with him. He didn’t like Becki twining herself around Niall, either. And Becki had resented him, called him an animal. It was fair to say that they had not got on.
But KK wasn’t violent, I told myself, not really. All right, so he hit players in the line-out now and then, but that was rugby. He hit Niall on several occasions, but that was Niall.
Re-visualising that fight, though, I was worried. I remembered the alarming force of his last punch, how Niall’s head had been thrown back. How Grimshaw had watched it with that devouring shark’s stare of his. But that was under provocation; it didn’t mean that KK would ever hit a woman, or stab one, or poison one, especially his wife, even if she had been carrying on with his brother. Even if she had borne his brother’s baby and pretended it was his.
“Oh, dear God,” I breathed, watching KK tip back his head and laugh at something Frank had said. No, it was all rubbish. KK was a good man. He had to be: I’d slept with him.
You like ’em rough and tough, though, don’t you? mocked Becki. You like that edge. Must be the upbringing. I shut her out: too late. The sneaking thought had crept in that she was right. And KK was a big, fit man who could run up a hill with ease...
No. I couldn’t have slept with a murderer. It wasn’t possible. I would have known, and I knew KK was innocent.
They all were. None of this lot were guilty of anything, because the murderer, as I kept trying to drum into Grimshaw, was definitely someone else.
But Grimshaw didn’t believe me. Grimshaw needed an arrest. And maybe any old evidence would do.
Chapter Twenty-six
Flush