The Other Woman (2 page)

Once, there had been a time when not having a car would have been like not having legs; he wouldn't have known how to get from A to B without one. But now he was getting used to it; he rather liked walking. Even in the fog. Perhaps especially in the fog, which folded itself round him, secret and dark, and he could simply disappear.

The hum of conversation in the executive box was soothingly pleasant when Mac finally popped his head round the door, trying to be unobtrusive. It didn't work.

‘Mr McDonald! Glad you made it. I'd just about given up on you – thought the weather had put you off.' Parker snapped his fingers as the girl passed, and Mac was instantly offered hospitality. He took a soft drink, and tried to retire to a safe distance, but once again, it was not to be. He found himself being introduced to Lionel Evans, Parker's solicitor, without whose firm's tireless efforts there would apparently have been nothing to celebrate. There didn't seem to Mac to be much to celebrate anyway; most of the complex still had to be begun, never mind finished.

‘This is Gil McDonald,' Parker was saying. ‘‘We tried to get him to play for the All Stars tonight, but he decided the old legs weren't up to it.'

Evans nodded, unable to shake hands since he was holding both a drink and a plate of food, a stocky figure with what had once been muscle but which was, in early middle-age, running to fat. A frame more suited to the boxing ring than the legal office, it seemed to Mac. He knew a little about Evans; his family had had a practice in the old village of Stansfield since the turn of the century, and the office from which its business had always been conducted was now a listed building. They seemed an odd choice of firm for the brash Mr Parker, but Mac supposed that it lent his operation some credibility that it might just otherwise have lacked.

Parker had been talking for some time; Mac thought that he had better pay attention, but it soon became clear that the sales-pitch was not meant for his ears.
The Chronicle
, for which Mac was covering the opening, had already gone into premature (in Mac's opinion) raptures about Parker's plans, and could really be of no further use to him. Parker's soliloquy was for the ears of potential investors, who had been invited in force.

‘Oh, yes,' Parker was saying. ‘I got some funny looks when I said I was developing this site. But it's perfect. Central, easy access on A-roads – in a town that is beginning to thrive again, and right on the edge of real English countryside.'

Mac chewed and drank, and smiled and nodded. Parker was in his late thirties, a self-professed financial whizz-kid with a dubious past. His short, light-brown wavy hair was held in too-immaculate place with just a touch of hair gel; his skin was tanned, his teeth were white, his clothes had designer labels. If Evans looked like a boxer, which he had never been, Parker looked like a street-fighter, which he was, and sounded like nothing more than a market trader barking his wares. Most of his audience, however, were leaving, trying to beat the weather before it closed in.

‘And Stansfield Town will be playing League football next season, with any luck,' Parker went on, with a nod over to the window overlooking the ground. ‘Once they're in, the sky's the limit. I believe very strongly in our national sport.'

He did indeed, thought Mac. When he had bought the Stansfield Town ground, the planning permission to develop it as a sports and leisure complex had been contingent on maintaining facilities for the football club, against which proviso Parker had fought tooth and nail, but lost.

The result was borrowed surroundings which would hardly have disgraced a First Division club, never mind one struggling to break free of the sort of league that suddenly pops up on football coupons at Cup Final time. The building they were in was so newly finished that he felt he had to be careful not to touch the paint. It was also the only entirely complete building on the site.

‘I'm doing some homework on tennis,' Parker said. ‘A clay court or two would cost money, but if I could swing it, we could quite possibly get sponsorship for a pre-French open tourna—' He broke off as a telephone rang, which was just as well, as Mac felt that even the most gullible of people with more money than sense would not have swallowed that one. One of his few remaining guests apologised in the smug way that portable telephone users do, and answered it.

‘See that?' said Parker, nodding out of the window towards the floodlit pitch. ‘That's an all-weather running track round that pitch. Athletics is big business these days. Not to mention doing laps for the sake of your health.'

Mac fancied his voice had risen a decibel or two so that the merchant banker's friend on the other end of the line could hear what a good deal he was offering. But his unsubtle methods worked; he had already persuaded a great many people and businesses to invest millions in his much-touted dream of the future.

‘And that …' He nodded over to the dark bulk of the other, semi-constructed building. ‘That is going to be a leisure centre with every facility you can think of, and more. When that's open, they'll be queuing up to get in. Bars and restaurants – a gymnasium, indoor tennis courts, basketball, squash – maybe even a shopping complex in time – you name it, I've got plans for it.'

‘Yes,' said Lionel, his voice equally carrying. ‘ Simon showed me them. Very impressive.' He turned to Mac. ‘Simon Whitworth,' he said. ‘My partner – he really looks after Mr Parker's business. I'm here for the beer, as they say.'

Mac smiled politely, and thought he had better move around before he actually fell asleep in the smoky atmosphere. He wandered over to the windows, which slid back to enable the executives to wander out into the elements and actually watch the football. He stepped through the open window, where the night air damply kept the temperature at a tolerable level in the room, and looked at the misty figures as they ran through churned-up mud, heard the shouts of the players, and the thud of the ball, watched moisture bead the rail round the balcony. If play moved to the far side of the pitch, he couldn't see it at all. He didn't want to see it anyway.

He went back inside, and wondered how soon he could escape. Parker was seeing some of his guests off; Evans was tucking into the buffet. Mac positioned himself in a darkened corner where air from the window could be breathed, and waited until he was pretty sure that no one was aware of his presence, then slipped away.

Parker returned, and Lionel Evans found himself being led to the open window. Together they went out on to the balcony, and the window was very firmly closed.

Lionel sighed inwardly. It was Simon who ostensibly looked after Parker's dealings in the town; Parker's business had been the sole reason for Lionel's having taken on a partner. Parker really shouldn't be seen conspiring in corners with him.

Simon had declined the invitation to the opening, and had worked late as usual. Lionel had left him dictating to Sharon, who was pleased to have the overtime, he supposed, though he would have thought that a girl of her age should have better things to do on a Friday night. Lionel had received a last-minute invitation, and was there because it had seemed like a pleasant way to spend an evening; he should have known that there was no such thing as a free lunch.

‘You know Sharon came here to speak to me?' Parker asked.

Lionel frowned. ‘Sharon?' he repeated, uncomprehendingly, feeling the vulnerable way one does when one's thoughts are apparently read.

‘Sharon,' repeated Parker. ‘Your secretary.'

‘I know who she is,' said Lionel testily. It had been Parker who had recommended Sharon when Lionel's previous secretary left. Why should a visit to her old boss be newsworthy?

‘She told me something that you ought to hear,' said Parker.

The young man came into the office. ‘ You wanted me, sir?' he asked, his round, almost child-like face belying the commendation for bravery that he had received. His fair hair was curly, and cut short, adding to the impression.

Chief Inspector Lloyd looked up from the report he was reading, and nodded briefly. ‘ Interested in conservation, are you, Detective Sergeant Finch?' he asked, employing what Judy called his RSC Welsh.

‘Yes, sir,' replied Finch, a little uncertainly.

Lloyd wished he hadn't thought of Judy. ‘Sit down,' he said, with an extravagant sigh.

Judy Hill had been a previous sergeant of his; she was a detective inspector in B Division now, based at Malworth. She was also the woman with whom he shared his life and with whom he had shared his flat until six weeks and three days ago.

Finch swallowed a little, and sat down gingerly; rather as though he thought the chair might have a whoopee cushion on it.

‘Preservation of endangered species?' he asked the youth. Detective sergeant, indeed. In his day you had to have had some service before they went about promoting you.

‘Sir,' said Finch, his voice deeply suspicious.

‘Mm,' said Lloyd. ‘I saw the catalogue.'

‘Sorry, sir,' said Finch. ‘I didn't think anyone would mind me bringing it in.'

‘My,' said Lloyd. He didn't mind what he brought in, even if it was a Christmas catalogue in October. He minded the language being misused.

‘Sorry?'

‘
My
bringing it in, Finch.'

The young man frowned. ‘You, sir?' he said, then coloured. ‘Oh – I didn't realise. I'll take mine away.'

Lloyd unnecessarily smoothed down what was left of his dark, short hair, a gesture that those who knew him recognised only too well. ‘No,' he said, with dangerously exaggerated patience, ‘I was—' He broke off. ‘Forget it,' he said wearily. ‘ In fact – let me see the catalogue some time – I'll buy something from it. I'm very interested in endangered species.'

Finch looked puzzled. ‘ But if you've already got a catalogue—'

Lloyd jumped to his feet and leant over the desk. ‘
I don't have a catalogue, Finch
!' he shouted, making the sergeant jump. ‘All right?'

‘Sir.'

Lloyd sat down again. ‘Endangered species,' he said, his tone well-modulated once more. ‘ There's a little creature that I'm very fond of. Tiny little thing. It's tail's longer than its body.'

Finch looked a touch desperate. ‘To be honest, sir, I don't know too much about animals. I just …' He cleared his throat. ‘ I just think we should hang on to the ones we've got, that's all. Some sort of monkey, is it?'

Lloyd shook his head. ‘It performs two distinct and very useful functions,' he said. ‘And yet it's dying out.'

Finch nodded. ‘Habitat being destroyed?' he suggested, hopefully.

‘Oh, yes.' Lloyd stood up again, and walked over to the table on which he had piled baskets of files and street-maps and his in-tray, on the grounds that that way his desk looked tidier. He perched on the only available corner, and regarded Finch. ‘Yes,' he said again. ‘Its habitat's being destroyed all right. Being eroded further and further every day – every minute of every day.'

The sergeant looked round, as though he thought someone might rescue him.

‘But that's not the worst of it,' continued Lloyd. ‘ Some well-meaning but ill-informed people pick them up and put them where they don't belong at all.'

‘In zoos,' Finch volunteered.

Lloyd beamed. ‘ Yes,' he agreed, enthusiastically. ‘In zoos – very often in zoos. And …' He leant over to his desk, and picked up the open file on the rapes, two in Malworth and one in Stansfield, on which Finch had prepared a report for the incident room which had been set up in Malworth. He reached into his inside pocket for the glasses that he had discovered, much to his chagrin, that he needed for small print. He didn't need them for Finch's large, clear hand, but he had been given a new prop, and that had taken a lot of the sting out of losing his twenty-twenty vision. He took them out of their pouch, cleaning them carefully before putting them on and glancing at the report.

‘In zoos,' he repeated, with a sad shake of the head. He took off his glasses again and looked at Finch. ‘And cafés.'

Finch stared at him. ‘Cafés, sir?' he repeated, his voice incredulous.

Lloyd's eyes widened. ‘I don't know why you look so astonished,' he said. ‘You're the one who puts them there.'

Finch's eyes held something very like alarm.

‘I am very well aware, Finch,' said Lloyd, ‘that you would infinitely prefer to be facing a crazed gunman, but this is part of your job too.' Lloyd was almost enjoying himself, despite his dark mood.

He glanced down at the file again. ‘… ‘‘anywhere that young people can be expected to gather, especially cafe's'',' he quoted, holding his glasses a few inches from the page like a magnifying glass. ‘ It's called an apostrophe, Finch,' he said. ‘And when you add an ‘‘s'' to a word to make it plural, that is all you are doing. Even if the word ends in a vowel, though that does seem to be the bastard rule that has evolved amongst those who were never taught English grammar and punctuation. It is quite, quite wrong – believe me, Finch. It is wrong, and no amount of popular usage will ever make it right, because it conveys an entirely different meaning from the one that you are attempting to convey.'

‘Sorry, sir.'

‘And it can in no way substitute for an acute,' Lloyd continued. ‘But that's another matter. For the moment, it's the rudiments of English punctuation with which I would like you to get to grips. I want you to find out exactly what functions the apostrophe performs for us, and I want you to use it correctly in your paperwork or not at all. I'd rather the poor thing died out altogether than it languished in words where it has no business to be. Off you go,' he concluded, without drawing a breath.

Finch stood up, and walked to the door, doubtless raising his eyes to heaven for the benefit of the cleaner who was carrying a vacuum cleaner along the corridor to the interview rooms, if the sympathetic smile she gave as she looked up at him was anything to go by.