The Footballer's Wife (15 page)

The nurse made some notes on the clipboard at the end of the bed. When she had finished she looked at Charly. ‘There's a police officer here to see you. She's been waiting a while.'

Charly's heart sank. There was no way she was pressing charges; it would be all over the papers and Joel would never forgive her if she did that. The nurse smiled sadly at Charly and left the room.
Charly had had enough of her sympathy. She could send in the police; she wasn't saying anything until she'd spoken to Joel. There was a knock on the door and the policewoman came into the room. ‘Mrs Baldy . . .' she said somberly, in a voice that Charly was certain only coppers could muster. She was just about to say that she had nothing to say to her but the officer continued. ‘Your husband Joel is dead.' She paused for a moment as if that was all that was required for the enormity of such news to sink in. ‘He was found in the early hours of this morning in a hotel in Manchester city centre.'

Charly felt her body shake with angry convulsions but she wasn't crying, she couldn't cry. The nurse re-entered the room just in time to see her begin to shudder and ran over to Charly's bedside, checking her pulse and looking desperately at the policewoman. She took a needle and administered a sedative to Charly's arm. Charly felt the shuddering come to an abrupt halt and she fell back against her pillow. She looked at the nurse as if trying to work out what she had just done, then she looked back at the policewoman and said simply, ‘But he can't be dead. I saw him last night.'

*

Len's day hadn't got any better, or any less surreal. Shirley's appearance would have been something in its own right on any other day of the year, but today it was just another bizarre occurrence in a day packed full of them.

After Shirley and Len had had their preliminary talks he had gone to bed for a few hours. He needed to see Charly, but knew he would have to have his wits about him. He didn't think that anyone would tell his daughter about Joel until she was well enough to leave hospital, so he assumed he had a few hours' grace. How was she going to cope with this? Charly was going to fall apart, he knew that much, and seeing her feel so deeply for a piece of scum like Joel was going to hurt Len. He was trying to push his own feelings towards his deceased son-in-law to one side. They shouldn't matter, but they did. Len was glad he was dead. His type usually cruised through life hurting people, not caring about how their actions affected others and then, in the end, died a natural death, oblivious to their ruinous ways. Well, not this time. Joel Baldy had got exactly what he deserved and Len, for one, was glad. He was going to have to put a mask on his feelings, he decided, as hard as it was. He was going to have to
pretend to Charly that he was deeply sorry about Joel's death.

As for Shirley and her story, he really didn't know what to believe. She had told him that she had been living in Tooting in London with some bloke called Mike Newall. Len didn't know him even though he was from Bradington. She said that she'd stayed away because she just felt like a total failure and knew that he could do a better job on his own. A little bit of Len wanted desperately to believe her flattery. Yes, he was a good dad, and yes, she was a failure. But something at the back of his mind wasn't quite buying it. Shirley hadn't been perfect but she'd been a good enough mum. Why would she leave it all behind?

Len had asked her to give him the day to himself. Shirley had decided to go round to her cousin's, which Len knew was going to cause ructions as they hadn't seen her for years. But he had left her feeling that she was big enough and ugly enough to take care of herself. Her family seemed to have their own code when it came to behaviour; you only had to look at the way that Shirley had acted to realise that. They could all fight one another to the death, end up in prison, keep houses that looked like skips with windows, but run away and not tell them where you
were going? That was tantamount to family death and that was what Shirley had done. Len had been convinced for years that one of them must know where she was, but it had become increasingly apparent to him – or so it seemed at least – that none of her family knew where she was. He had even grilled the twins but they didn't know where their aunt was. They were the only ones out of that clan who knew where their loyalties lay. Len had taken them in when the rest of their family had turned their backs on them. They'd made concerned noises but no one other than Len was willing to take them in and see that they weren't taken into care by Social Services.

Len had a quick wash, shaved and dressed and then headed downstairs. He knew he had to go to the hospital. Pulling back the curtains in the front room, Len was confronted with at least six photographers snapping his picture. He quickly pulled the curtains shut. His blood ran cold. He didn't need to ask what they were doing there. He knew that Joel's death would be big news; he just hadn't thought that he'd be implicated and subjected to any press attention.

Len didn't have a clue what to do. He couldn't sit there all afternoon watching whatever he'd
forgotten to Sky +. There was something about a murder and having a good portion of the nation's press camped on your doorstep that made an otherwise appealing luxury leave a bad taste in your mouth. He wasn't about to ring the police either. It wasn't something he would have ever entertained, especially today. But he needed to brave it out. He was going to have to brave it out. He had to get to the hospital.

With his coat on and a cap that said ‘Bradington's Bouncing Back' on it – which he'd found at the back of the wardrobe and had no idea where it had come from – Len deftly exited his side door with his key in hand. He quickly locked the door and walked head down through the awaiting press as a barrage of questions were fired at him.

‘Did you have anything to do with the suspected murder of Joel Baldy?'

‘Did your daughter know that you wanted Joel Baldy dead?'

‘Have the police charged you with anything, Mr Metcalfe?'

‘Len, over here. You're a violent man, Len, bet you enjoyed it, didn't you?'

Len powered through the crowd. He wasn't about to react to accusations like this. But as Len
walked along the street something that should have been startlingly obvious to him struck him: he'd lent Shirley the car. What was he thinking? Aside from the fact that she could be in Aberdeen by now living under an assumed name and he'd never see his Allegro again, he was now walking along the street being tailed by the paparazzi. The thought of standing at the bus stop waiting for the 640 to arrive was more than he could bear. He looked up and down the street like a rabbit in the headlights, and a rabbit wearing a stupid cap at that. Len thought about those pictures he'd often seen that the tabloids managed to snap of probably fairly ordinary-looking men, but that made them look like the monsters that their crime should indicate they were, and he had visions of himself joining those ranks and being hung, drawn and quartered by the red-top-reading population before he'd had a chance to defend himself. He knew he needed to keep quiet at the moment. If a passing journalist asked him the right probing question he was at risk of saying exactly what he thought and how he felt. Len was glad Joel was dead. He couldn't think of a nicer lad for it to happen to.

Suddenly a car swung around the corner and
powered towards him. The passenger door flew open and Jimmy shouted, ‘Get in.' Len had never been so glad to see his son.

‘Switch your bloody phone on,' Jimmy said tersely as he pressed his foot hard on the accelerator and screeched away from the crowd of press. Len felt in his pocket and brought his phone out, looking at it feebly.

‘Sorry. It was on silent.'

‘Jesus, Dad. If there was one day to use your bloody mobile, today's it. Isn't it?'

Len wasn't great with technology but he knew that Jimmy was absolutely right.

‘What the bloody hell's gone on?' Jimmy asked.

Len took a deep breath; this morning was going to take some explaining.

*

Tracy wasn't in the mood for Elvis today. She'd had just about enough of him for one lifetime. When Kent went to press play on his twenty-five-year-old Walkman, Tracy grabbed his wrist. ‘No more Elvis.'

‘You what?' Kent exclaimed as if his ears were deceiving him.

‘You heard. It's doing my fucking nut in.'

Kent let his hand drop and Tracy ejected the tape. She rummaged in her bag and handed him a tape. Kent reluctantly put it into his Walkman and pressed play. ‘Sweet Caroline' began to play. ‘Thank the Lord for Neil Diamond,' she said.

Kent pulled his ear plugs out. ‘Neil Diamond's not just got you a free ticket to Memphis, has he?' Kent snapped. Tracy looked at Kent. What was this? Dissention in the ranks? she wondered. Kent never said anything that could lead to an argument. Tracy usually had to scrabble around for tidbits of things that Kent had allegedly said or done in order to have a go at him. Yet here he was genuinely standing up for himself.

‘No, maybe he hasn't but at least he can sing,' Tracy said, knowing that this was a classic example of her swearing that black was white. If Kent had any sense he would laugh at this preposterous assertion that Elvis couldn't sing, but he obviously wasn't in the mood.

‘That's it,' Kent said angrily.

Tracy looked at him, gobsmacked. ‘What?'

‘You heard me. You've no respect. That's it. Once we're off this bus, me and you . . .' He pulled his hand across his throat in a cutting motion.
‘Finito.' Kent looked straight ahead, gripping the back of the headrest angrily.

‘You can't be serious.' Tracy began to laugh. Kent turned his head, his body resolutely facing forward; giving the manoeuvre an eerie
The Exorcist
look.

‘Deadly,' he said, eyes flinty.

Tracy was taken aback. She'd never seen Kent like this and if she was honest, there was a part of her that quite liked it. One of her biggest bugbears with Kent – and there were many – was that he was far too soft. Well, this wasn't him being soft, this was him finally sticking up for something he believed in. She now had a choice: argue with him, which would undoubtedly see her getting off at the next stop and thumbing a lift back, wishing she'd kept her trap shut, or not argue with him, which would be new and refreshing pastures for Tracy. She chose the latter.

‘Fine, stroppy knickers, have it your way,' she said, handing Kent back his Elvis tape to play. Tracy looked out of the corner of her eye to see if Kent was happy to have won the battle, but he was just staring straight ahead, simmering. Tracy took a deep breath. What she was about to say was going to be extremely hard and not something she even considered to be part of her vocabulary, but her free
holiday was riding on this. ‘Sorry,' she said, almost inaudible. The air shifted in the coach.

‘Good,' Kent said, obviously thrilled with his small victory.

*

A few moments later the coach pulled into the services. Tracy needed to stretch her legs and have a cigarette. Kent wandered off to the shop with a swagger about him that Tracy hadn't witnessed before. She couldn't say that she had a new grudging respect for him; that would be going too far. And she knew that if he pulled the answering-back trick once too often she'd fight fire with fire and they'd end up having the sort of rows she used to have with her ex, Paul. But for that moment Tracy was just glad that Kent had, for once, stuck up for himself.

Kent came out of the garage armed with newspapers, walking purposefully towards Tracy. ‘You're not going to believe it.' Tracy looked down at the headlines: Joel Baldy Murdered.

‘Fuck me,' Tracy said slowly as the information sunk in. She quickly scanned the print. All that Tracy could think was that Scott, her son, might be somehow incriminated. But there was no mention
of him. She knew that Scott wasn't capable of harming a fly but as Charly's ex he would without doubt be questioned over this. But it was Jodie's name that leapt out at her, not Scott's. ‘What the bloody hell was she doing there?' Tracy wondered out loud.

‘That's what I was thinking.'

‘And why didn't she call me and tell me? You get some juicy gossip like this and you keep it to yourself?'

Kent looked at Tracy; she knew as soon as the words were out of her mouth that she'd overstepped the mark.

‘You'd have thought that she'd have called me to put my mind at ease that she was alright.' Kent shook his head at Tracy's obvious backtracking. ‘What?' Tracy asked innocently, turning her attentions back to the paper. She read on. ‘Bloody hell! Len was arrested.'

‘Len?'

‘Charly's useless fat lump waste-of-space dad. Runs the club.'

‘That Len?' Kent asked, getting caught up in the gossip.

Tracy cackled with glee. ‘Be a right shame to see that fat twat behind bars again.'

‘What's he ever done to you?'

Tracy looked at Kent. She was about to tell him exactly what she thought of Len but didn't. She didn't want to share things with Kent. There was no little story or any dark information from her past that she ever felt like divulging to him. It was a shame really. At the beginning she'd wanted to tell him everything but now she couldn't even be bothered to tell him anything any more. Not like Mac: Tracy could sit and chat to Mac all day long. ‘Nothing,' she said finally. ‘He's just hurt my Scotty in the past, that's all,' Tracy added, glancing at Kent to see if she'd got away with her white lie. He didn't flinch. Good, she thought. It seemed she had.

*

Charly was sitting in her hospital room with her bags packed, her dad and Jimmy by her side. She had declined a lift from Jimmy, knowing that most paparazzi could run faster than his rust-bucket. She was waiting for Terry, her driver, to pick her up. She felt numb. She had listened to her voicemail messages from Joel over and over. Not that any of them said anything loving or out of the
ordinary – it was enough that it was his voice; a voice that she'd never hear again. Charly couldn't believe it.