inside, and not out here on the doorstep.’
The houseowner appeared to debate the suggestion mentally, although he gave in with ill grace. ‘Oh, all right. Bloody red tape. Come in.’ As they passed him, he called to someone inside. ‘It’s the police, luvvy. They want to come in.’ Closing the door behind them, he added in a muffled voice: ‘But we’re only wasting time …’
When Toby and Loach reached the doorway of the sitting room, they were met by the houseowner’s short barrel of a wife, obstructing further progress. Bringing up the rear was the houseowner, pinning the Specials between them. There was no way they were going to be allowed to sit down.
‘It’s been two hours … isn’t that right, luvvy?’ His wife agreed, though in stone-faced silence. ‘Two hours of continual din … smashing and crashing … It’s like living next door to Beirut.’
‘Seems quiet enough now, sir,’ Toby suggested.
‘That’s probably because someone’s had their head bashed in. I’m telling you it wasn’t somebody just making noise. This was frightening. Wasn’t it, luvvy?’ The stone-face didn’t move an eyelash. ‘’Course, we’ve been expecting something like this …’
‘Why’s that, sir?’ Toby inquired.
The houseowner was exasperated, perhaps as much by the question as by the answer. ‘It’s the kind of people they are. Young couple … you never know if they’re married these days … he’s some kind of dealer … but I think he was a market trader … acts like one, anyway … I mean, what kind of person cuts down trees? Turns his back garden into concrete? The view from our bedroom is a disgrace, isn’t it, luvvy?’
A gaping maw opened in the great stone-face, as if she were going to be ill. Taking no notice, her husband continued on down the concrete garden path. ‘They had a plum tree … juiciest fruit you ever ate … chopped it down … I mean chopped it down!’ he fairly shouted at them before cooling to a simmer. ‘There really ought to be a law.’
Good grief! Loach brooded, cursing SDO Barker for putting him out on the street: he should be stuck here and have to put up with such nonsense.
This early in the evening, Rob Barker was the only person in the Pub on 4th besides Briggsy the barman. The way he was checking his watch every few minutes, it was obvious he was waiting for someone, impatiently.
‘Another drink, Mr Barker?’
Shaken loose from his thoughts, Barker tried to focus on the barman’s query, but abruptly he was distracted by that someone. Sandra Gibson came in, saw him, and crossed to the bar.
She appeared to be expecting a kiss, but he held back, taking her hand instead. A frown of doubt flickered across her brow for an instant, before her familiar, if somewhat uncertain smile returned.
‘A drink?’ he suggested.
‘Sure. The usual, Briggsy.’
‘One gin and tonic coming up.’
‘I’ll have the same.’ He led Sandra to a table away from the bar and out of earshot for Briggsy. Still, when they were seated next to each other, he spoke to her in a low voice.
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t able to keep our date night before last.’ He looked at her with his little boy eyes and lashes.
‘The last three dates, Rob.’ Already she was having trouble hiding her bitterness. She didn’t know if she could calm down and stay afloat before getting in over her head. Of course, that had always been her problem.
‘Well … yes, I know,’ he conceded. ‘I tried to explain on the phone. That’s why I thought it better we meet.’
Sandra surveyed the empty pub. ‘Isn’t this a bit public for you?’
His nerves belied his words. ‘No. People wouldn’t read anything into it. They know you’re the Admin Secretary for the Specials. It would be natural for you and me to have a get-together here.’
At the bar, Briggsy arranged the drinks on a tray, trying not to listen, or at least not to hear anything specific that could become the next hot gossip if he were, even in a moment of weakness, other than the soul of discretion. Nevertheless, he had their relationship well and truly pegged.
‘Maybe we should come right out and tell them,’ she said in a much too loud voice. ‘Rob Barker and Sandra Gibson are doing it! Isn’t it wonderful?’
He was not amused. ‘For pity’s sake, Sandra …’
Quickly he alerted her with his eyes that Briggsy was coming with the drinks. At least she held her tongue for the time being, so he could cover for them. ‘Thank you, Briggsy. All work and no play, I’ve been telling Sandra.’
‘Oh yes?’ Briggsy asked rhetorically, not waiting for an answer before leaving them alone.
He waited until Briggsy was out of sight, then became serious again. ‘That isn’t the way we planned it.’
‘Oh, that’s right, we had a “plan”, didn’t we?’ So gullible in the past, her cynicism now betrayed her. All she could see behind her was two wasted years of her life waiting for this sorry man to sort himself out. That had been the ‘plan’, hadn’t it? To offload a wife who thought more of herself and her infirmities and less of Rob’s career as a draughtsman and his happiness? What was any different now, other than Sandra’s unhappiness as well?
‘And here we are – two years down the M6 – and I’m still waiting to hear what’s changed in all that time. You had a wife you didn’t love. And she couldn’t care less what you did.’ His eyes didn’t contradict her, but he was helpless to escape her conclusion. ‘Well, you still have the same wife, don’t you, Rob?’
His expression begged her not to burn their bridges behind them. ‘She’s the reason I couldn’t get to see you. She’s ill, Sandra,’ he implored her for the hundredth time. ‘Wants to go back to Scotland.’ By this he seemed to be holding out a ray of hope, despite appearing to withdraw from the spotlight. ‘It’s been very difficult for me.’
‘What do you want, Rob? My sympathy? It’s in short supply right now.’ Her, of all people – known far and wide as the Mother of all Midland Specials, whose entire life had become consumed by a job that demanded sympathy and concern and attention for many, many people – drained of her capacity for loving or caring for anyone by one man. ‘I get the feeling this is some kind of risky adventure for you. A bit on the side that got serious, and you don’t know how to handle it.’ He winced. Touché. ‘Well, I’m sorry. I’ve had enough of backstreet affairs.’
To her their love had been a series of meetings, arranging their future on maps endlessly sketched, redrawn and reconstructed. Alone, he made love to her openly; yet when they were not alone intrigue seemed the compelling force in their relationship, at least on his part.
‘I just need time,’ he sighed, his standard refrain. ‘To sort out the whole mess. It’s bloody hard telling an invalid you want a divorce.’
The same old story, the story of her life, only different. But a sick feeling of impending separation reminiscent of the other one … other ones … who got away. She blew the air out of her cheeks, giving up the ghost.
