Gold Digger (29 page)

I
t was a nice, calm day. What a terrible and useless word,
nice.

You’re getting blurred round the edges, Thomas,
Di wrote
. Don’t go away.

Today’s the anniversary. Ten years ago. I don’t regret a minute of it.

There was one thing I wanted to ask you. Was there a favoured child? Was it Beatrice, or was it Gayle? Which of them did you love the most? It was Gayle you talked about most. Gayle made you laugh, like I did.

‘W
e’re having a party tonight, Jones said to Peg at breakfast. ‘Fresh fish.’

‘Yuk,’ Peg said.

‘All right,’ Jones said. ‘Burgers and chips, if you like. It’s my birthday.’

‘Fuck off, Jones.’

‘No, not really, but it’s about time to celebrate. Been working hard.’

‘Can we have real music?’

‘OK. You teach me to boogie and I’ll teach you to waltz,’ Jones said.

‘“Boogie”?’

There was music from the radio in the snug, noises in the cellar, with Saul down there, doing things. He wasn’t coming to the party. He was going away soon.

Peg said, ‘You all keep going into huddles and I don’t like it. How do I know what to do if you don’t give me any idea? OK, I’ve done a bit of listening, so I know half what’s going down, and Di’s told me stuff, but I want it from
you,
and I know it’s not just a bloody party.’

Jones put down the coffee down in front of her, patted her shoulder in a condescending way meant to be reassuring.

‘’Cos it’s like this,’ he said. ‘This evening we are going to eat, drink and make merry. Bottle of vodka, anything you like. Matter of fact it might be better if we all got a bit tiddly, not too much, and then went deaf.’

‘Suits me,’ she said. ‘And then someone’s going to come along and do something we aren’t suppose to notice. Like stealing something. Like them proper thieves you talked about. Is that it? Why can’t you tell me exactly?’

Jones was serious, trying not to patronise.

‘Because it’s better for you that you don’t know the details so you can’t ever tell anyone else even if someone asks. And we’ve got to be very careful because these aren’t
proper
thieves. Fucking amateurs and although they know what they want, being amateurs makes them unreliable and they don’t like Di, not much they don’t and we don’t want them getting frustrated, do we? Di doesn’t like them either and she’s got a temper, too. So we’ve got to keep her upstairs and guard her. Close the doors and take no notice. Keep the music
loud. Don’t want no violence, and there won’t be as long as she doesn’t see them and they don’t see her.’

‘You mean you think it’s Di might get violent?’

‘Don’t know, love, don’t know. What they’ll expect to hear,’ Jones said, ‘is a party upstairs, and nothing downstairs. It won’t be till late on. So we eat well and drink up. You up for it?’

‘There won’t be no police, will there?’

‘Only me,’ he said, and got serious. ‘No question of that, Peg. No question of that.’

‘Not like the other time, then,’ she said, ‘like when you arrested Di. And what about them coming back for her, and all? Isn’t she still in the frame because of her old man?’

Him and his big mouth. Jones slapped his head.

‘Yeah, she is, too, but they’re only thinking about it. It won’t be like any other time at all, oh no. Pity Saul won’t be here. Come on, girl, move yourself, this is going to be fun.’

A lot more fun than a walk with Di.
Got to clear my head
, Di said.
Come with me, Peg.
So she walked with Di, wearing Di’s boots. It was nice, at first, walking with someone who knew what a pickle she was really in and still wanted to walk with her, but when Di said a walk, she meant a hike, right round the corner of the coast and into the bay. To see what? Birds, only bloody birds, I ask you. Peg preferred boats and dreams. If she stayed here, she was going to have to learn to ride a bike. They talked about Patrick; they talked about spring and Peg’s future and they looked at the sky.
Plenty of time
, Di said. They didn’t turn back until Peg begged and the light began to go. The geese flew over their heads, cackling like mad things.
That’s the last of them for this year
, Di said sadly, and whatever she was looking at, she kept on looking around, Di did, as if she was watching out for somebody, and
Peg thought she was looking out for her, and then she made them both jog home.

Peg was exhausted. Not used to moving fast, and on that last run home, with Di almost skipping, Peg guessed that what Di intended to do was to wear them both out and she was right about that; you couldn’t think of anything else when you were knackered. Maybe that was why she liked work.

A milky sky as the day faded. The house smelled sweet on every floor with fresh washing and Peg embraced the deep interior, knowing she was all right as long as she had hiding places, the linen room, the laundry, her favourite places, anywhere but the cellar: she could never hide there. She soaked in a bath and changed her clothes, enjoying the ozone aftermath of the cold air and deciding she just might do it again, because it really did fog up your head and make you want a drink, and yeah, there really was time for everything, and it was going to be a party, and whatever else happened was nothing to do with her. There was a slight celebratory air around the place downstairs; someone even mentioned Christmas. Only six weeks away; better plan for it and she reckoned she was safe until then and she started feeling good. She and Jones started cooking.

H
e left out the fresh fish. No fine-looking mackerel straight from the sea, grilled for a minute, and left on the plate with wide, staring eyes, that was what Peg had dreaded. Chili con carne, with oven chips, salads for the grown ups but not for her, followed by an old fashioned apple crumble Di got out of the freezer and put into the microwave. Vodka and coke, wine, and at the end she was feeling full and happy and it all took so long, it was already late. Jones was loading a tray
with drinks to take up, went with the first consignment and came back for the rest, humming to himself, turning on the music, which she could hear from upstairs. They were all going to get lathered, and Jones was going to listen to her. Then all other sound was drowned out by the noise of the front door bell.

There was a bell pull on the outside, connected to the row of bells in the kitchen Peg had never noticed before.
Clang, clang
,
clang
, from that grand front door that was rarely used. Jones knew the door: it was how he had once come in to school at the beginning of term via the sea-side door, with grand steps and railings leading up to it. The ringing of the ancient bell on the wall was as loud as a fire siren. All of them stood and stared, not quite believing it. Jones put down the tray. Then the knocking began.

‘Shit,’ Jones said.

He went down the corridor from the snug to the door, peered out through the side window, and then went through the stained glass. The view was distorted but the colour of uniforms instantly recognisable.

‘Police,’ he shouted back. ‘How do you open this fucking door?’

He knew he couldn’t tell them to come round the back. He had to let them in. Jones followed instinct even when badly shaken. Like if any policeman knocked at the door like that, best let them in soonest; otherwise they’d bash the door down and he had done it often enough himself to know. It was difficult to turn the key and open the winter-damp door. Doors swelled here in winter, you wrenched them open, and slammed them shut, until they shrank again in summer. He pulled and they kicked, and the thing opened with a loud noise. There were two large men on the doorstep.

‘Evening,’ Jones said. ‘You’d better come through. And you’d better have a fucking good reason for being here at this time of night. A very good fucking reason indeed. Otherwise you’re right in the shit.’

It was an empty threat. Jones was in a state of shock. No one had told him about this. Di was getting in the clear, second post mortem refused, he knew; they were looking at nothing, even if they were still looking. He’d checked with his contact, it was all sweet, that end. His man had told him. Mrs P had fucking questions to answer still, always would have, but nothing yet and his man had lied. Fuck. They had come for Di,
again.

Jones yelled his way back to the snug by shouting ahead of himself all the way, announcing the two uniformed men. Once he had led them back into the snug, he recognised one of them, the older one who had been there on the afternoon when Thomas had died in that chair over there. He watched as the man looked around, puzzled by uncertain remembrance and a touch of wariness. Been here before
.
Old man dead in chair, with a shabby girl, not nice, looked dodgy, didn’t like her then or now. He fixed his eyes on Di. Must be her, all dressed up, it was her who had to be the one they wanted. He continued to fix his eyes on Di, who stood, supporting herself on a chair, looking back, challenging them. Jones looked too. He could see the door to the cellar was open. He felt the presence of Peg, lurking on the top of the stairs, hiding.
No police.
He’d promised.

The bigger, older man in uniform advanced a step towards Di and held out a piece of paper.

‘Got a warrant for your arrest,’ he said. ‘For—’

‘No, you fucking haven’t!’ Jones screamed. ‘No, you fucking haven’t. That’s all been cleared up. Fucking warrant for
fucking what? She didn’t fucking poison him, she didn’t. She might have waited, but she didn’t kill him, she
fed him
, for God’s sake. You can’t fucking do this. You can’t come arresting her NOW. No one told me. You’ve got it wrong, mate, wrong, fucking wrong.’ He swung round to Di. ‘Unless you really have found something new. Could they?’

The older one hesitated and then took one step further forward. The younger one hesitated, also, sensing trouble because there was this mad old geezer in front of him, talking shit. He had never been here before, found himself in a smallish, snug room full of good food smells that seemed so innocent. Got to get it right. He consulted his phone screen, verifying details better than a piece of paper.

‘Hang on. We got a warrant for Elisabeth Smith. Other -wise known as Peg. For burglary, in London. She’s here, isn’t she?’

‘Fuck me,’ Jones said. ‘For fucking
Peg
?’

Di stepped forward.

‘You’re in the wrong place,’ she said. ‘No one of that name here.’

The younger man looked at her and saw a young woman with awful hair, with a fierce, defensive voice, who looked as if she might spring to attack. She had to be the one. There was no other female in the room. He took another step towards her.

‘No,’ Jones said. ‘It ain’t her, fuckwit.’

He looked towards the open door to the cellar. That was where Peg had vanished. The door had been firmly closed before he left the room. Peg had panicked and taken the nearest exit and Christ, if she wanted to hide, that was the worst place tonight. Couldn’t let her stay down there.

‘She’s not the one,’ the older man said, his memory clearing.
‘She’s that widow Porteous. Come on, Di, where’s the other one? We know she’s here. Peg, she’s called Peg. Wanted for theft and criminal damage.’

There was a horrible pause, in which Di said, ‘No one of that name here. Some mistake, surely. Would you like a drink?’

‘Shuttit, Di.’ Jones went to the cellar door, shouted. ‘You’d better come out, Peg.’

She was already halfway there. She had gone no further than a few steps down because the cellar frightened her as much as what she was going to meet upstairs, what shit, there was nothing frightened her as much as that. She had a fleeting, longing thought of the laundry room: should have run up, not down, then Di would have hid her, like she knew Di would have done. Di would have hid her until they could sort it, she knew she would, only she couldn’t now, could she? Fucking Jones.

Peg came out from behind the door and Di saw in her face the unbearable terror of being locked away, the reality of punishment, and oh God, there were better ways of learning than this. Diana Porteous felt like the biggest traitor under the moon.
Traitor; one who betrays others.
Peg was shaking so much she could scarcely stand, and all the same, she was fighting tears. The question was in her eyes.
Who told on me
?

She looked at Di, pleadingly, then at Jones.

‘What did you do, Peg?’ He asked so softly.

‘Warrant’s for a dozen shop burglaries, criminal damage. I wouldn’t say anything if I was you, Miss. Not yet.’

Peg opened her mouth, facing Jones, forcing the words out. She had so wanted to tell him. Di didn’t make her feel ashamed; Jones did.

‘All right, I tried to tell you, only you wouldn’t listen. I
trashed some places, right? Not houses, shops. And I’m fucking ashamed of it. I didn’t steal stuff, I just trashed it.’

Jones laughed, a great big bellow of grating laughter. It went on and on.

‘Is that all? Jesus, Love, I thought you’d fucking murdered somebody.’

He turned to the first officer, calmer now.

‘Can’t quote what she said,’ he said. ‘Not without a caution, so don’t even fucking try it.’

The man nodded. Jones looked at Peg.

‘I’m sorry love, if you’ve done it, you’ve got to face the music. Otherwise you’ll be on the run for the rest of your life. Look, mate,’ he appealed to the older one, ‘can’t it wait until tomorrow? I’ll bring her in.’ And even as he spoke, he knew he’d blown any chance of that, ’cos he’d pissed them off and so had Di.

‘No, it’s got to be now. Got to get her inside. Skipped bail last time.’

Peg began to cry. ‘I can’t go now. I’ve got to be here … I’ve got a
job.
I gotta be here, right now.’

Her terror was all-consuming. Everything else was forgotten, such as it being half past ten in the evening, thieves coming in soon.

‘If you’ve got to go, you’re not going alone,’ Di said. ‘Jones’ll go with you. Stay with you until you get bail. You’re not going alone. Jones, tell them I’ll stand bail.’

‘And what relation are you, madam?’ the younger one said, trying to keep the sneer out of his voice. ‘Looks like you’ve been harbouring a fugitive.’