Bye Bye Baby (15 page)

‘Lisa and I were hoping to have a baby together next year,’ he had slurred through his sobs. ‘I’m sorry, Anne. I’m sorry about your baby.’

‘Me too, Clive,’ she recalled saying, ‘Now hurry up and go to sleep.’

‘He looked like him,’ he said suddenly.

‘Who did,’ she had murmured, disinterested in his waffling.

‘The baby. More like him than you.’ The lids of his eyes lowered. ‘You look amazing now though . . .’ His voice trailed off.

Anne stared at him. ‘You saw the baby?’ She shook Clive. ‘The baby, Clive, What do you know?’

‘What baby?’ he had slurred. He had reacted swiftly to the Rohypnol; time had been so short and she’d certainly given him a huge dose.

‘
My
baby! I was pregnant. Is that too poetic, Clive? The child you forced on me when you raped me. The child you let him kill.’ Her voice had broken on the final word.

But there was no more time. Perhaps she’d miscalculated for Clive had suddenly slumped; headed into the safe, dark escape of oblivion.

Anne had let go of his jacket, thrown open the back door of her van and retched. Hot, acid vomit gushed past her throat and splattered the bushes on the fringe of the park. She had planned to drag Clive’s body into the wheelie bin she had in the van with them and then push his corpse to the toilet block where she had planned to dump it . . . just as they had left her thirty years ago.

She had sucked in the cold February night air, wiped her lips with a tissue and let the breeze dry her eyes momentarily. It was too late now. She couldn’t wait for him to wake up and then re-start her interrogation. She decided that either she killed him and moved onto her third victim or she would give up on this trail of revenge altogether.

She had to keep going. She had to find Billy now and learn what he knew about Peter. What had they done with his body? Clive was no use to her any more. And Clive had never cared. It made no difference to her now that he was sorry. Anyone can apologise when their life is in the balance. Anne had coldly reached for the knife and, choosing the spot she knew from her research would ensure death, she had pressed it slowly, calmly into her prey’s quivering flesh, burying it to the hilt.

* * *

Anne shook herself out of her trancelike state and back to the present. She had to find Billy and Phil and through them, her main tormentor, Pierrot. She’d savour his death last. She hoped with all her heart that he was alive, well, and watching the news with increasing fear.

Billy wasn’t to be found on the ‘Schooldays’ website that had led her so easily to Mikey, and she’d already worked through the Fletchers in the Brighton and Hove phone book. None were connected with Billy. Where else to look? The school could be an option. She knew it had changed its name to Blatchington Mill at some point, but surely they’d still have records of past students stored somewhere. Or perhaps she could track down some of the teachers. She and Billy had both had Mrs Truro for English — one of the few classes Billy had actually worked in. Anne reached for the phone books again.

‘Oh, what a coincidence,’ Mrs Truro said when Anne had explained the reason for her call, and given the old lady a false name. ‘You’re the second person to ask me about that lad in as many days.’

‘Really?’ She felt her stomach clench.

‘A reunion, how lovely. Have you found many of the others from the class of ‘76?’

‘I’m getting there, Mrs Truro.’

‘Funny that I don’t remember you, Debra. I never forget a name and I don’t recall you in my English class.’

‘Well, I remember you, Mrs Truro,’ Anne said. ‘I used to sit at the back; I was very quiet, rather forgettable I’m sure.’ She gave a soft laugh. ‘Um, so is someone else organising a reunion then?’

‘Oh, not at all,’ came the reply. ‘I’m helping the police with some inquiries.’

‘Police?’ The first tentacles of fear wrapped around her body. They were moving faster than she’d anticipated.

‘You probably recall that Billy was friends with Clive Farrow?’ Mrs Truro went on. ‘And with Clive being murdered in that terrible way, the police are looking for people who might have some connection with him from the past.’

‘Clive Farrow always frightened me a bit,’ Anne said, her voice apologetic. She could hear in the pause that her old teacher believed her memory must be failing. Mrs Truro knew that Debra had known Clive just by that comment.

‘Did those boys pick on you?’

‘No, Mrs Truro. I escaped their notice for the same reason I did yours, but most of the people in our year were scared of them — not Billy so much, but Clive was unpredictable.’

‘You’re right, and that’s what I told that DI Carter who rang last night. At least Billy Fletcher seemed to pull himself together. He actually did quite well in his English exams.’

‘Of course. So you have no idea where I might hunt him down to send an invitation to the reunion?’

‘No, Debra, I don’t. Although after the police called last night it got me thinking about Billy again and I do seem to remember something about him applying to Canterbury. What about you, dear?’

‘I did a business diploma at Brighton Tech and then ended up working in Manchester,’ Anne lied. She didn’t want to prolong the call any further than
necessary. ‘Well, I’m sorry for disturbing you but thank you for your time. It’s been nice talking.’

‘I’m sorry I can’t help you.’

‘Don’t worry about it. And would you mind not mentioning my call to anyone?’

‘Why ever not?’

‘Well, I’d like to keep it as a bit of a surprise when I call — a blast from the past sort of thing.’ Anne knew she was clutching at a very thin straw.

‘Debra, until last night I’ve had nothing to do with anyone from Russell Secondary in almost twenty years. I’m hardly likely to suddenly be talking to your peers, am I?’

It was said frostily, but not unkindly. Anne remembered Mrs Truro’s wintry gaze all too well and would have liked to tell her how much those English Literature lessons had meant to her. They were a life raft on an ocean of misery during her school years. But that would really set the old girl’s mind working. Better that she believed she simply couldn’t remember this girl called Debra.

Instead she simply said, ‘No, you’re right. Thanks again.’

‘My pleasure.’

Anne put the phone down and bit her lip. No time to think — it was already ten-twenty. She probably only had hours to hunt Billy down before the police got to him. She reached for the phone again and, after checking with directory enquiries, connected to Canterbury University. More lies later she had established that a William Fletcher, ex-Russell Secondary, had studied English and psychology there. With a bit of arm-twisting, she had managed to ease
from the man in records Fletcher’s parents’ address in the 1980s. He wouldn’t give her the full details, but said it was a home on the Hangleton Council Estate.

Anne pulled out the Brighton phone book and rang the Brighton and Hove Council, using her earlier story of tracking down Billy Fletcher for a school reunion.

‘Let me put you through to someone who might be able to help,’ the receptionist said.

There was a click and a ringing tone, then a new voice answered. ‘Jenny Newton.’

‘Hello, Jenny, it’s Catherine here, I’m hoping you might be able to help me with an unusual request.’ Anne worked hard to load a big smile into her tone. ‘I’m really sorry to lump this on to you but the receptionist said if anyone can help me with this, you can. Apologies — you drew the short straw.’ She laughed.

‘I’ll do my best,’ Jenny offered cautiously but Anne sensed the woman was flattered.

‘Well, I’m originally from Brighton . . . Hove actually. I lived in Hangleton but I’ve spent a large chunk of my recent life overseas.’

‘Yes.’

‘And I think my mid-life crisis is wanting to reunite the class I graduated with after A levels.’

‘Oh, that’s nice,’ Jenny said, her tone warm. ‘My midlife crisis was far more selfish. I wanted to have a totally indulgent holiday in Paris at the George V Hotel.’

Anne leapt in enthusiastically. ‘I lived in Paris,’ she lied. ‘And I dined once or twice at Le Cinq.’ This part wasn’t a lie. Kim had treated her to a few days in Paris and an exquisite dinner at the celebrated dining room to mark one of their wedding anniversaries.

‘Oh, you lucky thing. I adore the place,’ Jenny said wistfully. ‘So, how can I actually help?’

‘Thanks, Jenny, you see I’ve got one more person on the list to tick off but do you think I can find him? The thing is, Billy was the class clown who kept us all laughing. Everyone loved him. I really want him to be there. I’ve tried his old address — he used to live on the Hangleton Council Estate — but I just can’t seem to track him down.’

‘Right, well, he would have been a minor then. It’s unlikely he’s still in a council house in Hangleton himself. I’m not sure how I can assist you.’

‘I just thought if I could find the family — hopefully his parents are still around — then they might be able to help me get in touch with Billy.’

‘Oh, I see.’ She paused and Anne could hear her reluctance. ‘Um, well, that is a bit unusual. We don’t give out personal details.’

Anne moved back to safer territory. ‘How long did you have in Paris, by the way?’

‘Oh, it was two magnificent weeks in the end. It rained for a few days of it but it didn’t really matter.’

‘I know, Paris is very beautiful in any season. I particularly liked it in winter when all the crowds had gone. So, are you able to just see if you’ve got any Fletchers?’ Anne held her breath.

‘Alright, give me a moment.’

Jenny returned after several long minutes. ‘Sorry to have kept you.’

‘That’s fine. I really appreciate anything you can do.’

‘There were some Fletchers on that estate, but they left some time ago. I don’t know what happened to
Mrs Fletcher, but it says that Mr Fletcher is now in a council nursing home.

‘Okay, so I’m still no closer,’ Anne said, deliberately sounding crestfallen. ‘Look, thanks, Jenny —’

‘Wait,’ Jenny said in a conspiratorial tone. ‘I can give you the name of the nursing home if you think that might help? I can’t see how it can do any harm, really. Just don’t tell anyone where you got it, okay? Hopefully Mr Fletcher can direct you to his son.’

‘Oh, that’s brilliant, thanks. Billy was everyone’s favourite and I would hate for him not to share in the fun after all this trouble I’ve gone to to set up a reunion.’

‘I understand.’ Jenny read out an address in Hove and a phone number. ‘Well, good luck with hunting down your old school chum and I hope the party is a great success.’

‘Thanks, Jenny, you’ve been so kind. I won’t tell a soul, and I hope you get back to Paris soon. Why don’t you take a romantic weekend every year?’

The woman laughed. ‘I’ll tell my husband that idea.’

‘You do that. Take care.’

‘Bye.’

Anne put the phone down and grinned. Should she go and see old Mr Fletcher? Yes. But first she needed to do some training. She needed to stay strong and fit. Lugging the near-dead weight of Mike and Clive had almost killed her — the irony of that thought amused her. She drained the cooling cup of brewed coffee. But the van made all the difference and she’d taken a lot of care in planning the two drops of the corpses. The wheelie bin and council worker clothes had been an inspired disguise and although getting Clive’s body
into and out of the bin had left her perspiring, the council bin did most of the work.

Michael Sheriff had been easier. She had simply rolled the body out of her van on that freezing Thursday morning in one of Lincoln’s loneliest places, the covered laneway she had observed for a week. This twitten held special significance for her, but it was hardly noticed by the residents on the fringe of Lincoln’s old quarter except for occasional use as a shortcut. A few stones had taken care of the streetlights the previous night and so Anne’s ugly deed was over in moments and the van had gone.

As for the London drop, she knew the pattern of use for the public toilet facilities in Hackney, including the preferred days for the regulars who went trolling for action. The very early hours of a wintry Monday morning was always best and so Clive was laid out in his fetid morgue without interruption.

She’d need to do the same level of intense planning for Billy, once she knew where he lived and worked these days. Anne got up from her computer screen and stretched, heard her bones grumble and click. It was fortunate she was still so fit — that’s what nearly thirty years of regular training did for a body. She could do fifty one-armed press-ups without blinking but all the same, she had worked even harder on maintaining a sleek look to those muscles or people could notice all that bristling upper strength.

It had taken a lot of pain and determination to create the body she had now and she had no intention of ever returning to the overweight, unhealthy girl she’d been in her teenage years. Whenever she felt like skipping a training session, Anne remembered her old
school photograhs, saw herself fat, scowling and plain. Cosmetic surgery had helped — as did the strict eating regime she kept to — but the hardest yards were on the bike, treadmill, rowing machine, cross-trainer and other pieces of equipment that kept her strong, lean and sculpted.

She stood up and stretched, felt her shoulders click and promised herself a massage sometime soon. She put on her running clothes and trainers, pulled her hair back into a ponytail and went to the door.

16

Kate, still stinging from Hawksworth’s rebuke, had grabbed the pool car keys and was already waiting in the unmarked Ford for Sarah, who arrived two minutes later, juggling anorak, files, and the sensible backpack that passed for a handbag.

‘You don’t mind me driving?’ Kate said, as she turned the ignition. She had no intention of relinquishing the driver’s seat anyway — it was simply something to say to prevent an awkward silence.

‘No, I can look over my notes.’

Kate reversed. ‘Hope you like U2?’ She pushed a disc into the CD slot.

‘Don’t know them.’

‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘No.’ Sarah shrugged.

‘So after a long day, what do you tune out to?’

‘Mozart would be my first choice,’ came the reply, the tone superior.

Kate didn’t react. ‘And if not Mozart? How about your choice in contemporary music? The Carpenters?’

Sarah frowned, suggesting to Kate she didn’t know
who The Carpenters were. Kate grimaced — even her sarcasm was lost on the DS.

‘I like Simply Red,’ Sarah offered.

‘Okay,’ Kate said, surprised. ‘I like Mick too.’

‘I like the old stuff best. These days he seems to just churn out covers of other old rockers.’

‘Yeah, what a rip-off,’ Kate said in spite of herself. ‘Harold Melvin and The Bluenotes, then The Stylistics.’

‘Not nearly as bad as stealing Bob Dylan’s song.’

Kate nodded. ‘Not that I’m a Dylan fan, mind you. Aren’t you too young for such miserable music?’

‘No, I love Dylan, and I’ll admit Mick sang it well, but there are some songs that are sacred.’

Kate grinned. ‘Like “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree”?’

Sarah winced as she laughed. ‘Where did you drag that up from?’

Ah, so she did have a sense of humour. Taking advantage of the lighter mood, Kate attempted to clear the air. ‘Look, I was embarrassed upstairs by what the chief said to us both. I hope you don’t think I’d ever undermine anything you do.’

‘No, I wouldn’t think that, and he was suggesting I’m as much at fault, so I should be apologising too.’

‘I know you’re ambitious, and I know you’re damn good at your job, so . . .’ Kate shrugged, not sure what she was trying to say. ‘So if I can help, just ask, okay?’

Sarah nodded. ‘I will. Thanks.’

Kate hummed to the soundtrack as she negotiated her way through the London traffic, searching for every opening that would get her a moment faster onto the A23 to Brighton.

‘I don’t listen to Mozart and I do know who U2 is, by the way,’ Sarah admitted. ‘Sometimes it helps to play dumb. People expect less of you, pigeonhole you.’

Kate glanced at her, surprised. ‘And that’s good?’

‘Yep, especially when you surprise them.’

‘Very cunning.’

‘We’re still very much in a man’s world, don’t you think, Kate?’

‘At the Yard, you mean?’ Sarah nodded. ‘I want to be the youngest female DCI at NSY.’

‘After me, you mean?’

Sarah grinned. ‘After me, you can go first.’

Kate replayed it in her mind, frowning, then nodded. ‘Clever.’

‘That was my Uncle Cecil’s favourite saying.’

‘I like Uncle Cec.’

The traffic thinned as they got closer to the feeders that would take them on to the road to Brighton.

‘Truce?’ Kate said into the silence.

‘We were never at war, but yes, of course.’

Kate relaxed. She’d done what Jack expected of her.

‘So what’s the plan?’ Sarah asked after a few minutes of far more comfortable silence between them.

‘I’m seeing Clive Farrow’s old schoolteacher at twelve. Fingers crossed, she’s going to identify Billy Fletcher in our foursome photo. Perhaps even give us the name of the fourth boy.’

‘Is Fletcher our next victim, do you think?’

‘It’s still too early to say, and certainly too soon to alarm him until we know more, but yes, I think it’s likely that within the next forty-eight hours we’ll be putting Fletcher under close security. What time’s your appointment?’

‘Sergeant Moss said I could come any time, that he’d be in all day.’ She looked at her watch. ‘We’re cutting it a bit fine to drop me in Brighton and for you to get back to Hurstpierpoint, wherever that is.’

‘It’s in rural Sussex.’

‘How long will it take to get there?’

‘From Brighton about half an hour or so.’

‘Just drop me near a station. Really. The Brighton line is direct and I can hop into a taxi at the other end.’

Kate thought about it. It was very tempting. She really didn’t want to be late for the prickly Mrs Truro. ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you come with me to Hurstpierpoint? I’ll only need five minutes with the old schoolmarm, I promise. Then I can drive you to Brighton for your appointment.’

‘That sounds very workable . . . it’s also kind.’

‘I’m not all bad, you know.’

An awkward pause ensued and it was Sarah, surprisingly, who broke it. ‘I think I’m jealous of you. There, I’ve said it.’ She looked down, fiddled nervously with the coat in her lap.

Kate politely feigned surprise. ‘Jealous?’

‘Don’t ask why, Kate, you already know.’

Kate did. She would be treating Sarah badly if she pretended not to. ‘Sarah, I can’t help the way I look. Well, that’s a lie. I do help the way I look — I work on it — but I can’t help what the cards dealt me, if you get my drift.’

‘I know. My feelings are irrational and pointless.’

‘Not pointless,’ Kate said, turning her head hard right to see oncoming traffic. ‘Bugger, hang on.’ She held her nerve and swung out into it. ‘Sorry, they’re not pointless — why don’t you do something about it?’

‘Like what?’

Kate wanted to say, ‘Like everything’, but instead she said, ‘Whatever you want to improve. You can change anything. Start with clothes. It’s easy and painless, other than to your wallet.’

‘I wouldn’t know where to begin,’ Sarah said, huffing theatrically.

Kate smiled. Sarah was showing a decidedly different side. ‘You’re funny when you want to be.’

‘It’s a defence mechanism.’

‘It’s good. Use it more. Let the guys around the office hear it — they’ll appreciate it. It’s a really handy weapon. And it shows you have personality, whether or not you want them to explore that. Blokes hate wishy-washy women. And wit can cut as well as amuse. It’ll stop them using you as a doormat.’

‘DCI Hawksworth never makes me feel like a doormat.’

‘No, but he’s something of an exception. So, no man in your life?’ Kate asked brightly.

‘No. Don’t need one.’

Her comment was met by a look of incredulity. ‘You don’t have to need one to want one,’ Kate said.

‘And I don’t have to want one because you think I need one.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I mean that having a man simply to make me feel like I’m normal is unnecessary. I don’t need someone to take out the rubbish, fight off spiders or keep me warm at night.’

Kate shook her head in wonder. ‘And what about love, Sarah?’

‘Well, that’s different. I’ve never experienced it. Have you?’

Now Kate flicked her a sharp glance. ‘I’m engaged, or hadn’t you noticed?’

‘Do you love him though? Really love him?’

Kate hesitated as the other night’s cutting words from Dan returned. ‘I . . . I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Well, I believe in heart-stopping love at first sight. If I can’t find the man that does that to me, I’m not prepared to settle for second best. Listening to your hesitation, apparently you can.’

‘Fuck you!’ Kate said, shocked at her colleague’s bluntness. ‘What would you know about it?’

Sarah shrugged again. ‘Nothing. I know nothing about love, as I said. Until it happens I won’t know the joy or pain of it. I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have said what I did. I’m not very good in conversation as you can see. I’m far too honest. That’s why I work hard to keep my mouth shut at work, only speak when I’m spoken to.’

‘No! Sorry won’t do. That was really vicious.’

‘Well, you never talk about your fiance, Kate. It strikes me that someone who’s in love and about to be married usually talks about little else.’

‘So what if I don’t want to be boring?’ Kate realised her voice was raised and brought it under control. ‘What if I want to be professional and separate my private life from work?’

‘It’s just that you
never
mention him. And when I asked you if you loved him, you struggled to answer.’

‘I didn’t struggle.’ Kate hated to hear herself sound so defensive.

‘You didn’t answer.’

‘What is this — the third sodding degree?’

Sarah didn’t reply, but undid the window to let in some freezing air.

‘Blimey!’ Kate said ‘You try and help someone, try and do the right thing, and you —’

Sarah swung back. ‘This has got nothing to do with helping me, Kate. This has everything to do with being seen to be doing the right thing. DCI Hawksworth said jump and that’s what you’re doing.’

‘He is our boss, or hadn’t you noticed?’

Sarah wound the window back up. ‘I just don’t want you kidding yourself that you’re extending the hand of friendship. You’re simply following orders.’

Her words stung. ‘It’s what I do, Sarah. I follow orders. He wants us to get on and I want to be able to look him in the eye and say I did my best. Pity about DS Jones and the chip on her shoulder, though.’

‘What chip?’ It was Sarah’s turn to be defensive.

‘I don’t want to talk about this any more. I’ll drop you off at Hassocks Station and you can find your own way to Brighton.’

‘The DCI said to drop me in Brighton.’

‘I don’t care what he said.’

‘So you don’t follow orders then? You’re selective about what you do and don’t do, depending on how it makes you look. I’ve heard that termed as shallow.’

Kate wasn’t going to take this any more. She checked her mirrors, screeched into the left lane and pulled in at the next lay-by. ‘Look, what is your problem, Detective Sergeant?’ she demanded, glaring at her passenger.

The wind seemed to go out of Sarah’s sails.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m very much out of my comfort zone. I’m probably best left behind the computer, digging through data. DCI Hawksworth’s got me all wound up, making me believe I’m capable of anything, but I’m really a behind-the-scenes person.’

‘How does that justify attacking me?’

‘You attack me every day.’

‘What?’

‘I’m plain and I accept it, but I’m not stupid. I see your sneers and glances. I miss very little because, you see, what I don’t have in looks, I make up for in brains.’

‘Modest too,’ Kate snapped.

Sarah pulled an expression suggesting she didn’t care. ‘I’m clever and I’m also honest. I’ve never much worried about being popular.’

‘That’s obvious.’

‘You, on the other hand, desperately want to be noticed . . . especially by DCI Hawksworth.’

Kate sneered, horrified that she was so transparent. ‘I think your radar is off beam and I resent what you’re implying.’

‘I’m not implying anything. I’m saying it. I told you, I’m always honest.’

Kate wanted to pull rank but was too unnerved by the DS’s accuracy regarding her own attitude to Jack. Instead, she looked at Sarah with a wounded expression. ‘What do you hope to gain by this? You reckon it looks good to be arguing with a senior officer?’

‘I didn’t start an argument. I simply asked you a question and then answered a few. It’s not my fault if I’ve hit an artery and you’re haemorrhaging.’

‘Alright!’ Kate shouted, derailed by her colleague’s far cooler demeanour. ‘I don’t know how I feel about Dan. Okay? We’re getting married in a few months and suddenly I don’t know if I want to go ahead but I feel like I’m in too deep. I have to marry him because I don’t know what to say that could stop it without causing too much pain. Dan and I have been together for years. My family loves him and his family loves me. Dan’s sweet, he’s kind, he’s . . .’ She shook her head miserably, searching for what to say next.

‘Not Jack Hawksworth?’ Sarah offered carefully.

Kate’s voice sounded like ice when it came. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

Sarah didn’t flinch. ‘Your problem with Dan is DCI Hawksworth.’

Kate prided herself on being strong emotionally, but tears came now. No sobbing or heaving, just heavy tears rolling down her cheeks as she desperately tried to find something biting to say to Sarah. But nothing came because nothing ever hurt more than the truth. And Sarah’s barb had gone straight to the heart of the matter.

Sarah looked mortified. ‘Oh, DI Carter . . . Kate, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’

‘No, you’re not, and don’t be,’ Kate said grabbing hopefully for tissues from her pocket. She found none and reached for her bag instead. ‘This whole wedding thing is making me emotional.’

Sarah gave a soft sigh. ‘I didn’t mean it.’

‘Yeah, you did.’ Kate gave a mirthless laugh. ‘And the worst part is, you’re right. Well, not completely, but you’re on the right track. I don’t feel that Dan and I are good together any longer. DCI Hawksworth, if
you must know, is more the type I think would suit me.’

‘What type is that?’

‘Oh, you know . . .’

‘Tall, dark and handsome?’

‘Shut up.’ Sarah apologised with a shrug. ‘Hawksworth’s character,’ Kate went on, ‘his whole persona highlights for me what I’m looking for in a man.’

‘So the chief ‘s inadvertently done you a favour — preventing you from a marriage that’s bound to fail because you’re not going into it wholeheartedly. There’s nothing wrong in that. It’s honest.’

Kate stared out at the road, unable to respond for a few moments.

‘Until this moment, I hadn’t been able to crystallise my thoughts,’ she said eventually, ‘but thank you, Sarah, for being a total bitch and helping me to see my way more clearly.’

‘Don’t mention it. I told you: blogsy but bright.’

Kate sniffed. ‘Well, it’s up to you. You can change the blogsy bit. Go out and buy yourself something that smacks vaguely of slutty — something low cut, red perhaps.’

‘I could never wear anything that vulgar.’

‘Well, you wear that anorak.’

And both of them burst into laughter.