aspirin, I’ve no food in the house, and I’m not going out looking like this.” She raised bruised and suspiciously bright eyes.
“So I thought of the least shock able and the most egocentric person I know and I telephoned her. You’ll have to go out shopping for me, Iris. I need enough to last me a week.”
Iris was amused.
“I would never deny that I’m egocentric but why is that important?”
Roz bared her teeth.
“Because you’re so wrapped up in yourself you’ll have forgotten all about this by the time you get home. Plus, you’re not going to pressure me into doing the right thing and nailing the little bastard.
It wouldn’t reflect well on your agency if one of your authors was in the habit of bringing home pick-ups from wine bars.” She clenched both hands over the telephone and Iris watched her knuckles whiten under the strain.
“True,” she agreed calmly.
Roz relaxed a little.
“I really couldn’t bear it, you know, if this got out, and it will if doctors or the police are involved.
You know the bloody press as well as I do. Any excuse, and they’ll plaster their front pages all over again with pictures of Alice in the wreckage.” Poor little Alice. Malign providence had put a freelance photographer beside the dual carriage way when she was tossed like a rag doll from Rupert’s car. His dramatic shots published, according to the tabloid editors, as a tragic reminder to other families of the importance of wearing seat belts had been Alice’s most lasting memorial.
“You can imagine the sordid parallels they’ll draw. MOTHER DISFIGURED LIKE DAUGHTER. I couldn’t survive it a second time.” She fished in her pocket and produced a shopping list.
“I’ll write you a cheque when you come back. And whatever you do, don’t forget the aspirin. I’m in agony.”
Iris tucked the shopping list into her bag.
“Keys,” she said, holding out her hand.
“You can go to bed while I’m out. I’ll let myself back in.”
Roz pointed to her keys on a shelf by the door.
“Thank you,” she said, ‘and, Iris-‘ She didn’t finish.
“And, Iris, what?”
She made an attempt at a wry grimace but abandoned it because it was too painful.
“And, Iris, I’m sorry.”
“So am I, old thing.” She gave an airy wave and let herself out of the flat.
For reasons best known to herself, Iris returned a couple of hours later with the shopping and a suitcase.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said severely, administering aspirin in a glass of water.
“I intend to keep an eye on you for a day or two. For entirely mercenary purposes, of course. I like to guard my investments closely.
And anyway,” she scratched under Mrs. Antrobus’s chin, ‘someone’s got to feed this revolting moggy for you. You’ll only start howling if it dies of starvation.”
Roz, depressed and very lonely, was touched.
Detective Sergeant Geof Wyatt toyed unhappily with his wine glass. His stomach was playing up, he was very tired, it was Saturday, he would rather have been at a Saints’ football match, and the sight of Hal tucking into a plateful of rare steak needled him.
“Look,” he said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice, “I hear what you’re saying but evidence is evidence.
What are you expecting me to do? Tamper with it?”
“It’s hardly evidence if it was tampered with at the outset,” Hal snapped.
“It was a frame, for Christ’s sake.” He pushed his plate away.
“You should have had some,” he said acidly.
“It might have improved your temper.”
Wyatt looked away.
“There’s nothing wrong with my temper and I ate before I got here.” He lit a cigarette and glanced towards the door into the restaurant.
“I’ve never felt comfortable in kitchens, not since seeing those women on Olive’s floor. Too many murder weapons and too much bloody meat about the place. Couldn’t we go next door?”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Hal curtly.
“Damn it, Geof, you owe me a few one way and another.”
Wyatt sighed.
“How’s it going to help you if I get suspended for doing dodgy favours for an ex-copper?”
