Murder... Now and Then (13 page)

No. Max wasn't interested, but Charles would try to persuade him. Charles knew what shape his business was in; he and Geraldine had been to visit. A house in Stansfield would hardly cost anything compared to London, the letter said. If you sold yours, you'd have money in the bank, or only need a seventy-five per cent mortgage, it said. But no. No, he didn't fancy Stansfield.

Valerie wouldn't want to move away from London, he told himself.

Yes, she would, said the perverse voice in his head. She would if it meant a steady income and lower outgoings.

All right then,
he
didn't want to leave London.

Why not? Because he liked crawling to work through traffic jams in order to have nothing to do when he got there? Because he wanted to pay through the nose for a partitioned-off corner of someone else's office in an unattractive side street in an already unfashionable and rapidly deteriorating part of the city?

No. Because of Catherine.

Why? Why because of Catherine?

My God, if this was a conscience, he was glad he hadn't developed one before now. Because, he told it, Catherine was a little girl adrift in a big city. She needed him.

Not really, said the voice, as once again Max lifted his eyes from the paper to look at her. Six months had wrought a change in Catherine. Having a job, a flat, responsibilities, having to organize her own affairs, had made her grow up fast. And there had always been something about Catherine, something about the eyes, that had known all there was to know. She could get another job now, without too much trouble. Certainly by the time he actually went, which obviously wouldn't be until at least the end of the year.

He didn't want to go. But it did make economic sense, and he was tired of working for himself, of watching the income dwindle, of not knowing for certain that there would be any income.

So what was stopping him?

He didn't want to leave Catherine, that was the truth of it. And he had known the truth, really, from the moment he had picked her up in the rain. All that stuff about saving her from sin was hogwash. He had fallen in love on the road to London that night. Which was why he had gone looking for her at the hotel, why he had taken her on, not knowing the first thing about her, and why he hadn't looked at another woman since she had been with him.

It had never happened to him before, and it had taken him a long time to recognize the signs. Extra-marital relationships were part and parcel of Max's life, and he had never, in truth, given them a moment's thought. But a roll in the hay was one thing; falling deeply in love with a sixteen-year-old girl was quite another.

It wouldn't do.

Charles was telling him that the job was his, if he wanted it. Zelda remembered him from the wedding; Max didn't remember her, but he, as usual, had made a favourable impression. She was quite happy to go on what she had seen and Charles's character reference. There would be an interview, of course, but Max could be assured that that would be just a formality. It made sense economically; it made even more sense emotionally. He had no option; he had to go. He'd talk to Valerie tonight. But first things first. If Catherine was going to get another job, she had to have an employment record.

‘I think it's time we put your employment on an official basis,' he said.

Her face fell. ‘Why?' she asked. ‘It's working out all right, isn't it?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Of course it is. But it isn't something you can do for ever, not really.' He smiled. ‘Well, I understand that some building-site workers can, but you can't.'

She knew that, really. And she reluctantly nodded agreement. Good. That was one problem solved.

‘And now we'll slow the tempo, with the Commodores …'

The big doors leading on to the car park of the police section house were open to the overcast, humid August night as Sergeant Compton's retirement party got into full swing.

Judy danced with one of the probationers; he had been all right when his gyrations, executed with considerably more enthusiasm than technique, had been at a safe distance, but now that the disc jockey had deemed it time to let the sweating dancers get their breath back, she was being shuffled awkwardly round the floor while he sang to her that she was three times a lady, off key.

Lloyd was there, but he hadn't asked her to dance. He was deep in conversation with the inspector, and seemed to be unaware of her presence. Sid Compton, in whose honour the evening had been arranged, was sitting with a crowd of men, drinking. Not many people were dancing, so her choice of partner was limited.

Valiantly, she made it to the end of whatever dance it was that her partner was doing. They parted company on the dance floor as the disco once again belted out the sort of music that she really liked. No chance of Lloyd liking it, of course, but still he didn't even look at her.

She had moved in with Michael in May – or, to be more exact she had moved in without him while he was off somewhere exciting. It had been nice, being there when he came home. He was nice; she enjoyed being with him. Her parents would have preferred them to have got married, but Judy was fighting shy of that; Michael had asked her more than once. She had known him since she was eighteen; she had wanted to be with him, and now she was. She could be with him now, instead of at this dreary party.

She gathered that Dave Bannister's outstretched hand and jerk of the head was intended as an invitation; her instinct was to refuse, but she wanted to dance. She wanted to show Lloyd she didn't need him to have a good time. So she followed Bannister on to the floor, throwing herself into an energetic interpretation of the disco number that drowned out any chance of conversation. He could really dance; she followed his movements, and they found an unexpected rapport as they moved together. Their few fellow dancers began to watch, hands clapping in time to the music as Bannister postured and hip-swivelled with the best of them, taking her along with him. Without a pause, the Bee Gees turned into John Travolta; by this time they were dancing to an audience. They finished to a cheer and a round of applause, collapsing on to one another.

‘Never knew you had it in you, Jude,' he said.

She smiled, out of breath, perspiration trickling from her hair down her temple. ‘I did,' she replied, wiping away the sweat, glancing across at Lloyd, but he was still talking to the inspector, oblivious to what was going on around him.

‘Well, this is a summer night, so what else should I play but …' said the DJ.

‘I need a beer,' said Bannister as the music started. ‘Can I get you one?'

‘No, thanks,' she said.

‘Right,' he said. ‘Oh – and I've repaid one of the favours. All right?'

Judy frowned. ‘By
dancing
with me?' she said, laughing.

He smiled too. ‘No!' he said. ‘You know what I mean.' And he went off, disappearing into the crush of people round the makeshift bar.

She didn't know what he meant. Judy stood irresolutely in the middle of the floor, half wanting to go after him to find out what he did mean, half wanting to run away. She compromised, and made her way through the drinkers to the window, and out into the slightly fresher air, walking round the building, out of sight. She needed to be alone, to work out why Lloyd's indifference had made her angry enough to do a spot of exhibition disco-dancing with Bannister, of all people. She would let Bannister's enigmatic remark go for the moment. She leant against the bicycle railing, and through the impromptu community singing from inside the building, she heard footsteps coming up behind her. Oh, God, not Dave Bannister, please.

‘If that was to make me jealous, it worked.'

Lloyd. He had been watching. She closed her eyes, and didn't turn round. ‘ Of course it wasn't,' she said. To make him notice her, maybe. It hadn't occurred to her that he would be jealous.

‘Oh, of course not. You thought I'd enjoy seeing you carrying on like that.'

She let out a gasp, half amused, half disbelieving. ‘Carrying on?' she repeated. ‘ I was dancing. I like dancing, and he's a good dancer.'

‘I've never been much of a dancer,' he said.

No. She could have guessed that.

‘You're pretty good, I'd say. She shrugged a little. ‘It depends who you're dancing with,' she

said.
There was a silence before he spoke. ‘Yes,' he said, at last. ‘It

does, doesn't it?'
He was probably the most annoying man she had ever met, she

thought. ‘Don't start all that again, Lloyd,' she implored him, still

with her back to him.
‘You want me to,' he said, as his footsteps came closer. ‘The

floor show was for my benefit. Don't pretend it wasn't.'
She swallowed. Oh God. It hadn't been deliberate, not really.

Bannister had just been there – how was she to know that they

would hit it off on a dance floor in a way that they never had

anywhere else, nor were ever likely to? But she had hoped that

Lloyd had been watching, and he had.
He joined her at the railing, as though they were passengers on

a cruise, looking out at the Caribbean rather than the car park.
She turned to him. ‘I didn't mean to make you—'
He was kissing her; she was kissing him. She pulled away, shaking

her head. ‘This is silly,' she said.
He smiled. ‘What's wrong with being silly now and again?' he

asked.
‘Because it wouldn't stop at kissing,' she said.
‘I should hope not.'
‘I've told you,' she said. ‘Twice.'
‘I'm married. I know. I don't need to be told.'
‘Well then.'
He looked at her. ‘I had to be here tonight,' he said. ‘I work

with the man. I've worked with him for five years. You didn't have

to come. You hardly know him.'
‘Oh – I'm supposed to arrange my social engagements round

yours, is that it?' she asked indignantly.
‘You did arrange your social engagements round mine,' he pointed

out. ‘And I tried to behave as though you weren't there,' he went

on. ‘But you didn't like that did you?'
Her face flushed. ‘So I'm making all the running? It has nothing

to do with you?'

‘No,' he said. ‘You feel exactly the same way that I do, only you won't admit it.'

She gave a reluctant smile. ‘ You're a good actor,' she said. ‘I really thought you hadn't even noticed me.'

‘I'd notice you in Wembley Stadium on Cup Final day,' he said.

She sighed. There was a long silence, which Lloyd eventually broke.

‘
Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime …
'

‘What?'

‘Andrew Marvell,' he said.

‘Who?'

‘Who? What did they teach you at school?'

She smiled at his mock horror. ‘Do you know the rest?' she asked.

‘Oh yes.' He put his arms round her waist and began the poem again. From inside a muffled cacophony of sound rose as the community singers tried to hit the high note at the end of the song, drowning out the music. Another ballad drifted soulfully through the night air and then faded into nothingness as Judy heard only Lloyd's voice.

‘
… And you should if you please refuse Till the conversion of the Jews …
'

She rested her head on his shoulder; his lips brushed her ear as he spoke. It was a nice feeling. She loved his voice. She had never heard him speaking verse; right now, she never wanted him to stop. Even if he did probably have a poem for every occasion. Even if he was enjoying the sound of his own voice as much as she was.

‘
… then worms shall try That long preserved virginity: And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust
.' He lifted her head from his shoulder, and smiled. ‘
The grave's a fine and private place, But none I think do there embrace
.' He kissed her.

But she couldn't let this go on. She broke away from him. ‘I haven't preserved my virginity,' she smiled. ‘And barring accidents, we're a long way from the grave.'

‘You have no soul,' he said.

‘I like it,' she assured him.

‘Oh, good. I'll tell Andrew when I see him.' He smiled again. ‘It's not finished,' he said.

‘Yes it is.' She turned away, her back to him, looking over at the vehicles in the car park.

‘No, Judy.' He came closer, his voice low. ‘It isn't. And we both know it isn't. It's only beginning. You know that, too.'

‘It mustn't happen, Lloyd,' she said.

‘But that's just it. It must. One day. So why not sooner rather than later?'

She closed her eyes and gave a short sigh. ‘There's no must about it,' she said, reminding herself of her mother.

‘Oh, but there is. Because we've both wanted it for a very long time.'

‘I know,' she said, her voice small.

‘At least you're not denying it' he said.

She shook her head. ‘But I'm denying that we're under some sort of obligation,' she said.

‘I think we are,' he said.

She turned her head to give him a disbelieving look.

He smiled. ‘Don't look like that!' he said. ‘ I
do
think we are. I think we owe it to one another.'

‘What about your wife? Don't you owe her anything?'

He nodded. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘Don't you think I've tried to tell myself it's wrong? But it doesn't feel wrong. It just doesn't. It seems right, and inevitable, and … I love you,' he said. ‘It's as simple as that, really.'

Simple. That was the whole problem. Love was anything but simple. ‘That doesn't make it right,' she said, turning her back on him again.

His arms came round her waist, his lips touching the back of her neck. ‘ It's the natural step to take,' he said. ‘That's what Marvell was talking about.'