Melvyn stood stiffly in the sitting room, mesmerised by Derek’s hostile stare. “Now then,” said Lois. “I think we owe Melvyn an apology.”
“If you believe any of it, which I don’t,” cut in Derek, angrily. “I’m off to bed, Lois, and I suggest you do the same. Make sure he’s well on his way out before you come up.” Without another look at Melvyn, he disappeared, leaving the two of them staring uncomfortably after him. Lois was the first to speak. “Well, I believe you, Melvyn, because if I don’t then Josie is a liar, too. I know all kids lie, especially to their parents, but she’s only half a kid now and that goes for you, too. I just hope the grown-up bit is telling the truth. Better be off now.”
Melvyn nodded. “It
“OK,” said Lois. “Then thanks for looking after them. Don’t worry about Derek. His bark’s worse than his bite,” she added, and ushered Melvyn out of the back door. As she locked up and put out the lights she wished things were more straightforward. After all, there was only that story of the factory assignation against him. Josie could have exaggerated it, or made it up. She wouldn’t put it past her. Perhaps Melvyn was the pleasant, polite lad he seemed to be on the surface. She was sure things were not absolutely right at home for him, otherwise he wouldn’t have turned up like that on Christmas Day. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t suitable for Josie. It was the age difference that worried Derek, she knew. Nothing would persuade him that Josie wasn’t the complete innocent, or that Melvyn wasn’t devious, streetwise and dangerous. Until tonight, he’d allowed Lois to convince him that it would blow over and Melvyn would find another girl who’d be easier to corrupt. But it looked as though that wasn’t going to be the case.
He grunted as Lois got into bed. “Get to sleep now, gel,” he said. “Talk some more in the morning.” But Lois found it impossible to sleep and late into the night she was still juggling worries around in her head: fears about Josie, the message from Janice Britton, and Long Farnden in general. When the same worries came round for the third time she cuddled up against Derek’s broad back and finally fell into a troubled sleep.
? Murder on Monday ?
Twenty-One
Rachel Barratt sat up in bed. The little gilt bedside clock told her she’d overslept. It was nine o’clock and a grey light seeped in from behind the thick, drawn curtains. The girls! She rushed out of bed, clutching her dressing gown, and tried to ignore the pounding in her head. She’d really have to try and cut out the nightcap, but it helped her to sleep and was better than pills.
Downstairs it was quiet. There were traces of a hasty breakfast, with cereal bowls and toast crusts left on jammy plates. So they’d got themselves up and off to school again and she was a lousy mother and not fit to have such good kids. Rachel sat down heavily at the cluttered table and put her head in her hands. What was she going to do? That inspector kept coming back, though she’d told him all she knew. She’d heard nothing from Malcolm, not a word, and was beginning to wonder if she would ever see him again. The only way she could cope, she told herself, was by helping the days go by with an occasional glass or two.
Nothing wrong with that, surely? She got up to put on the kettle, then abandoned the idea and went to the fridge. A nice glass of cold orange juice, that’s what she needed. Her eye was caught by a tall bottle, still half-full of white wine. There you are, she told herself, I can still leave some in the bottle. Don’t have to finish it up every time, like some old soak. Still…She glanced at the kitchen clock. It was nearly ten o’clock. Time for a mid-morning snifter, she thought, her father’s old word coming involuntarily into her mind. She poured a full glass of wine, thought how nice it looked in the frosted glass, and sat down again at the table.
She stared at the crusts scattered across the abandoned breakfast plates. They’d always left their crusts, ever since they were toddlers. Malcolm had tried all ways of persuading the children to finish them up: offers of extra jam, songs of crusty soldiers marching into barracks…The wine filled her mouth, cold and acidic. She swallowed and waited for the lift. Suddenly she was crying. It was the crusts and thoughts of little girls and happy families. Sodding Malcolm! She was angry now and stood up. All of this was his fault; her drinking and staying in bed and never washing or combing her hair from one day’s end to the next.
“Bloody Malcolm!” she yelled and threw the glass into the sink, where it smashed into tiny shards.
“Did you call, dear?” said a voice. Rachel swung round to see a figure at the open door, a silhouette against the bright winter sun. He moved into the kitchen and she could see what she already knew. He’d come back. She stood up shakily and then her knees buckled and she descended with relief into an all-embracing blackness.
¦
By the time the girls came back from school, walking in wearily from the bus, they found a tidy, clean kitchen. There were flowers in the hall and when they came into the high-ceilinged sitting room, they saw a leaping fire, either side of which sat their parents. Their mother was smartly dressed, her hair washed and brushed into the old, neat style, their father relaxed and smiling at them.
“Hi, girls!” he said.
“Say hello to your father,” said Rachel. But the girls were dumb. Malcolm stood up and went across to them, putting his arms around both.
“Come on,” he said, “let’s have some tea and talk. I’ve got some explaining to do, I know, and you’re sure to have lots of questions. Mother and I have spent all day in serious discussion – ”
“Here we go,” muttered one of the girls.
“…and resolved all our problems, haven’t we, darling?” continued Malcolm with a persuasive look at his wife.
Rachel nodded, and with a reassuring, happy smile she said, “Take your things off, girls, and I’ll bring some tea in here. We can sit by the fire and relax.” She looked at them, and there was desperate pleading in her eyes.
“Got some homework,” said one girl.
“I’d rather watch the telly,” said the other.
They went, leaving Rachel looking at Malcolm, troubled that their careful plan had gone awry. Malcolm had indeed spent all day explaining his absence to Rachel, slowly convincing her that it was a teaching assignment in Newcastle to which he could have taken her, but was too angry to explain. He suggested their marriage had become stale, that they were too used to one another, and that perhaps this ‘little break’ might prove to have been a good thing. Such was the power he had over her, that by mid-afternoon he had convinced her. She had forgotten the panic and disbelief, the fear and loneliness. Her desperate retreat into the comfort of alcohol, which she had known all along would destroy everything she had left, had been put to one side. All her attempts at recrimination and blame had been answered and smoothed away.
Now she saw that Malcolm’s manipulative charm had no effect on the girls. They’ve dismissed him, she realized. He betrayed them and they will not forgive him. They are strong and I am weak. She felt glad for them, but knew that she could only ever react the way she had done. I need him. I cannot live without him and so I have capitulated. She looked across at Malcolm, who had subsided once more into the big armchair.
He smiled at her. “They’ll come round,” he said, and stretched out his arms. “Come and give us a kiss,” he said.
¦
“Hello? Is that Inspector Cowgill? Ah yes, well, this is Malcolm Barratt here. I believe you have been trying to get hold of me?” Malcolm smiled at himself in the mirror by the telephone, and ran his fingers through his hair. “Yes, been away on business. The wife? Ah. Just a spot of marital friction…A domestic I believe you call it?” Malcolm laughed lightly, and turned to wink at Rachel. “Of course. Be glad to talk to you. About ten o’clock tomorrow? Fine. Look forward to seeing you.”
Malcolm put down the receiver and turned smiling to Rachel. “There,” he said. “All settled. We shall soon put all that nonsense behind us, and make a new beginning. Dear old Rachel…would you like us to go away for a weekend? Sort of a second honeymoon? There’s this really super hotel in Eastbourne…”
Rachel nodded and smiled weakly. No matter that she had seen on his desk a special offer on his credit card for much-reduced weekend breaks at a choice of mid-price hotels around the country, one of them being in Eastbourne. No matter that she hated Eastbourne, with its echoes of wheelchairs and retirement. She’d go anywhere as long as he was there. She knew that now. “That would be lovely, Male,” she said. “Just what I need. Oh, I
