Dead Money (11 page)

"That's fine, no, I wasn't going to mention them."

"You just did."

"I mentioned that it was the same Pilkington glass that was in the conservatories."

"Mummy, may I have a biscuit?"

Mummy
. Jesus wept. I kept my mouth shut.

"No, Isaac, you may not."

"Noah has one."

"Well, Noah shouldn't have one." To me, "Sorry, excuse me."

She got up and went through to the living room. Isaac followed her, kept his distance, as if someone else had grassed up poor old Noah. I heard voices, one of which was Mrs Lyon's, then I heard a smaller, weaker voice kick into a whine. More voices. I looked into my cup of Tassimo and thought it tasted like Costa's bins. When I swirled around the coffee, I could see the mud in the bottom of the cup. I turned on my mobile to see if Lucy had called in the meantime.

She hadn't. That was fine. I could wait just as long.

Mrs Lyon came back into the kitchen. She rolled her eyes. "Honestly. Children, who'd have them?"

"Not me," I said, and immediately regretted it. "Look, perhaps we'd better reschedule for some other time—"

"No, that's fine. He's settled now." Mrs Lyon put a chocolate biscuit on the table. "Would you like another coffee?"

"I'm fine, thank you. So were you looking to replace the windows at all? I noticed you had wooden sash."

"Oh, I love them. They're original to the house, you know."

I nodded. "Quite high maintenance, I'd imagine."

"Not really."

"So was it the door?"

"Excuse me?"

"What you arranged the appointment for."

She smiled at me. It was bland and stupid and I wanted to break it with my foot. "I told you, I didn't arrange the appointment. My husband did."

"And he didn't tell you what it was he was interested in?"

"No, he didn't. I thought you'd be able to tell me."

I regarded her for a moment, wondered if she was taking the piss. I mean, I supposed she wasn't, but there was something about the look on her face that made me think she was either having a warm one or else deeply deranged. Either way, I didn't fancy spending much more time in her company.

"Okay, well, I think we should probably reschedule for another time when your husband can tell us both what it was he had in mind."

"I could phone him."

I was all ready to go. I didn't particularly want her to phone him, but I couldn't tell her not to now. So I waved my hand at her and gave her a smile that hurt my cheeks. She picked up a cordless phone and pressed a number, apparently at random. And if my smile was stuck in place, hers was so loose it looked doped up. Was she drunk? High? Maybe a little bit of both? You heard stories about middle-class wives who made it through the day with a bottle of red and a fistful of pills. Mother's little helper and all that.

"Hi, darling, it's me. Yes, he's here now." She winked at me. "Yes, well, we're both kind of wondering what it was you had in mind. You know, why you arranged the appointment." She listened. She smiled some more, showed some teeth this time. "Oh, right! Gosh, well, I'm not sure he'd ... Okay." She held the phone out to me. "He wants to speak to you."

Just like the bad old days when we had to phone pitch from the directory. At least this one wouldn't end with a whistle being blown down the phone.

"Mr Lyon," I said, "how are you?"

"I'm fine. Terribly sorry I couldn't be there. Work called, and I had to answer, I'm afraid." His voice was deep enough to be put on. And part of me still reckoned this was a set-up. It'd all looked too good to be true on paper, and now here we were, a grinning idiot in front of me and a basso profundo bell-end on the phone.

"Completely understandable. I did ask if we needed to reschedule—"

"God, no. No need for that. We've got you now."

"Fine, okay." Mrs Lyon gestured to my coffee cup again. I put a hand over it and shook my head. "So what was it you were looking at?"

"The windows," he said.

"You're looking to replace the sash?"

Mrs Lyon frowned then. "No, we're not."

"No," said Mr Lyon at the same time. "No, not the window, the
glass
."

"The glass," I said.

And the smile came back to Mrs Lyon's lips. I only wish I could've felt the same way.

"Yes, we were looking for a quote for a complete replacement of all the glass in the house."

"But you want to keep the windows."

"That's correct."

I felt Mrs Lyon staring at me now. This would've been easier with the pair of them here. But then it would've been easier if they hadn't been a couple of idiots, too. "I'm afraid that's a little out of our remit. You're asking to replace single-glazing with double, that's fine, but Warmsafe tend to do the whole window rather than just the glass."

"Okay," said Mr Lyon, "so how much for just the glass?"

"We don't do it."

"You do windows."

"Yes."

"So ..."

"But not
just
the glass. You'll need to talk to a specialist glazier for that."

"Oh."

He said it; she did the face.

"Okay," said Mr Lyon. "I wonder if you would pass me back over to my wife, please?"

I did as I was told. She took the phone. I heard him talking. Sounded loud. Her face crinkled in the middle. She opened her mouth to speak on a few occasions, but was automatically silenced by her husband's voice. I couldn't help but wonder how he did it, because when Mrs Lyon hung up, she was utterly contrite, and quiet with it.

"I'm sorry we wasted your time, Mr Slater," she said.

"Not at all."

"No, I am. We should have researched a little more before calling you out here."

"Not a problem," I said. "I hope you find someone who can do the work for you."

"Yes," she said. "I hope we do, too."

I held out my hand to shake, but she didn't accept. If anything, she appeared to recoil a little. She led me back to the large, hardwood door in an apparent daze.

"You ever change your mind, you know where to get me."

She looked at me as if she didn't understand, then closed the door.

As soon as she did, my phone rang. I took the call as I marched back to my car. "Alan Slater."

"Ponce." It was Beale.

"What do you want, Les?"

"Want to know if you've changed your mind?"

"About what? Tomorrow night? No, I haven't."

"You should. You're missing out on an earner."

"I'd be missing out on another night's sleep. Can't afford to do that, Les."

"I forgot you were a company man now. You been to the seminar yet?"

"No. I'm down for Wednesday. With you."

Beale laughed. "Fuck that."

"Come on, man, you've got to turn up." I got into the car, shut the door. "You don't turn up, they'll put you out on your arse."

"Fuck them."

"Les, you can't afford—"

"I'm serious. I've got bigger fish to fry, my old son. Fuck Jimmy Henderson, fuck Warmsafe. I'm better than that. You are an' all, you know. You should come in with me on this thing—"

"Hey, look, good luck with it and everything, but it's not me, I told you."

"You'll be crying Saturday night when you're stuck watching fuckin'
X Factor
instead of making money."

"I'm sure I will."

I was sure I wouldn't. Beale signed off. I tried Lucy's number again. She had her mobile turned off. I turned off mine as well. Two could play at that game.

11

It was Cath's idea to eat out, which I should have taken as a warning. Whenever we ate out, we argued. But for a good long part of the meal, it was eating and suffering through her anecdotes about her silly middle-class mates, one of whom had taken to volunteering at Barnardos, but who couldn't stand the old women who essentially ran the place. I'd never met the woman, didn't give a shit if the bitchy biddies nailed her to the floor and burned her alive, so I nodded in the right places and kept my attention firmly fixed on the meal in front of me.

"Alan?"

I looked up to see a semi-pulped curl of paper in the middle of the table. It took me a moment to read the writing. The receipt from the off-licence, almost papier maché thanks to the rain, but clearly for a bottle of Jim Beam and from a place in Hulme. I looked at it, then her with the same practised and slightly confused expression.

"I found it in your jacket the other night."

I raised my eyebrows. She was going through my clothes now?

"You left it on the sofa, I was going to have it dry-cleaned so I had to go through the pockets."

"Okay."

"Do you know what it is?"

"It's a receipt."

"You want to tell me anything, Alan?"

"About what? It's a receipt for a bottle of Jim Beam. Beale likes Jim Beam. I bought him a bottle."

"I did think that it wasn't your drink."

"Then you were right, weren't you?" I looked around the restaurant. We'd done our mains but the desserts would still be a while coming yet. Cath was picky with her order. Meant they'd have to make it special for her. Nobody was paying us any attention, but I got the feeling Cath was building up to something, so I nipped it in the bud. "What's this about?"

"Beale lives in Chorlton, doesn't he?"

"That's right. Well remembered."

"So what were you doing in Hulme?"

"I was on a sit."

"You bought this when you were supposed to be at work?"

I nodded, pointed to the receipt. "You can see the time there."

"Did you and him drink it at work?"

"No. He's still got it."

"Because I didn't know you went round his house."

I looked at her through narrowed eyes. "What you digging for, Cath?"

It came out in a semi-apologetic rush: "Why'd you buy him a bottle when you two go out all the time? And if you were going to buy him a bottle, why'd you buy off the shelf? If it was a special occasion, why didn't you get him something special?"

I laughed. Seemed to be the best thing to do at the time.

"Don't laugh, Alan. Please."