How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery (25 page)

He opened the front door, blinking at the sun. Wayne stood there, grinning at him. ‘G’day! Did I wake you up from your grandpa nap?’

‘Yes, actually.’

‘Sorry,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Thought you might like to come down to the club for a couple of beers. Seeing as the girls are off doing their charity stuff.’

Carlene and Jo had gone to help out at the Bookfest at the New Life Mission Church, selling second-hand books to raise more money for Pastor Bryan’s Youth Works mission. Carlene had tried to persuade him to come, but he’d refused point-blank. Spending hours surrounded by dusty piles of books, dodging effusive hugs from Carlene’s church buddies and Pastor Bryan’s overtures, was far from his ideal way to spend a Saturday. Almost anything else would be preferable – except going to the club with Wayne.

‘Thanks for the offer but I’ve got a bit to do this afternoon...’

‘Like what?’

‘Er ... mowing the lawn, for a start.’

Wayne looked around at the tiny strip of straggly front lawn. ‘Looks fine to me.’ He clapped Reuben on the shoulder. ‘Come on, mate it’ll do you good. You look like you could do with a drink.’

It was obvious he wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer. Which was odd, as he’d never sought out Reuben’s company before and Reuben was sure that like the rest of the family, Wayne only tolerated him for Carlene’s sake. He would never have offered Reuben the roof-tiling job if Carlene and Jo hadn’t put the pressure on.

‘Okay, just give me a minute to change.’

Reuben went inside and changed from his shorts to jeans and a collared shirt. Maybe he could have just one drink and plead a headache. God, that sounded so girly and pathetic, he could imagine Wayne’s reaction. Maybe he could sprain his ankle on his way to the Mens – didn’t sound a whole lot manlier. If he left before Wayne, he’d have to find his own way home. He checked his wallet; he had enough money for a cab.

Wayne had arrived in his sparkling white Range Rover. Like many city four-wheel drive vehicles, it had never been near a speck of off-road dirt. He bullied his way through the traffic to the local Services Club, conquered a space in the car park and they went inside.

The clientele were mostly older men who looked as if they were leftovers from the night before. ‘It’s mainly old dudes who hang out here,’ Wayne said out of the corner of his mouth as they fronted the public bar, ‘but I like it because of the snooker tables. Fancy a game?’

Reuben was about to refuse, snooker not being something he excelled at, then decided it would take the pressure off having to make conversation with Wayne.

‘Okay.’

With their beers, they walked up a flight of stairs to the snooker room containing six tables. The only other occupants were two old codgers playing a slow, shuffling game at the far end of the room. Wayne untied the cover from the table closest to them and put a coin in the slot. He set up the balls, picked up a cue from the rack on the wall and chalked it with the air of an expert.

‘You’ve played before? You know the rules?’

‘Yes and yes,’ Reuben said, ‘but it’s a while since I’ve played.’

Years, in fact. The last time he’d played pool was at Paul and Janice Hendry’s mansion in Ascot, a suburb full of ‘old money.’ The Hendrys were clients of All Purpose Financial – Derek had signed them up and they’d invited him and Reuben to a dinner party at their home with several other guests. After dinner they’d played snooker in the huge games room and Derek had flogged them all, boasting he’d majored in it at Oxford University. It wasn’t until Reuben was undergoing a marathon of questioning in a stuffy police interview room that he’d realised that the money the Hendrys had invested with them, was legitimate. And that there were at least a dozen more clients in the same boat, all reeled in by Derek. He’d conned Reuben as well.

Before their trial, he and Derek had been lunching at a city restaurant when he felt someone watching him. He looked over and saw Janice at a table with another woman. Their eyes met and he braced himself for a hostile reaction. But she didn’t look angry – just small and crumpled, as if someone had let the air out of her.

He pushed the image from his mind, took a cue and chalked it to make it look as if he knew what he was doing.

‘Ready?’ Wayne said. He did an exaggerated limber up, positioned himself and then executed the first break off shot. It was a powerful shot, yet purposeful; as balls scattered all over the table, one red ball made its steady way towards the pocket and dropped in. Shortly afterwards a pink ball followed suit.

The pressure was on already. Reuben positioned himself and took a careful shot. A couple of red balls rolled aimlessly, stopping far short of the pocket.

‘You’re crooked,’ Wayne said. ‘Your arm’s not in alignment with the rest of you.’ He demonstrated the correct way by a potting a red and a yellow, followed by another red.

Reuben corrected his positioning and managed to pot a red. He missed potting the blue, which stopped just short of the hole, ready for Wayne to shoot it in, which he promptly did after potting the obligatory red. At this rate, it would be a mercifully short game.

Wayne picked up his beer from the shelf behind them and took a sip. ‘So, mate,’ he said with elaborate casualness, ‘how are you settling into married life?’

‘Fine, thanks.’

‘Carlene’s a great chick, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, she is.’

Wayne took another shot, missing for once, then stood up, leaning against his cue. ‘Just between you and me, I think I married the wrong sister. But,’ he shrugged, ‘that’s life. You’re the lucky one who won her over.’ He nodded towards the table. ‘Your shot.’

What makes you think Carlene would have you anyway?
Reuben tried not to let his disgust affect his shot, but to no avail. Balls scattered all over the table, everywhere but in the pocket.

‘You haven’t quite got the hand positioning, mate,’ Wayne said, ‘the cue’s pointing too far down. Look, like this.’ He did a slow motion of positioning his hand and the cue, and potted another two balls.

‘Thanks,’ Reuben said through gritted teeth. He took another shot and potted a red.

‘Good shot!’ Wayne said with exaggerated heartiness. He looked over at the old guys in the corner and lowered his voice. ‘It must be hard being locked away from women for so long. You must be really horny when you get out – like you want to root every chick in sight.’

No way would Reuben admit to Wayne that he was right. He shrugged. ‘I’m pretty picky. When you’ve waited so long, you want the best when it finally happens.’

Wayne winked. ‘I get it, mate – why have a hamburger when you can have rump steak?’

If you make any allusions to Carlene being rump steak, I’ll ram that cue right up your arse.

‘It’s your shot.’

Wayne took a shot and sank three balls. The table was looking rather bare. He leaned forward and said in a low voice, ‘I s’pose there are guys inside who take what they can get – you know, desperate measures and all that.’

Suddenly it all clicked into place.
On second thoughts, I don’t want to go anywhere near your arse. I’ll gouge your eyes out instead.

‘No, I don’t know,’ Reuben said, ‘because I was never that desperate. And you can tell your wife I’m not gay, a paedophile or a cross dresser, and just for the record, not that it’s any business of hers, I’m not cheating on Carlene, either.’

He picked up his cue and took a wild shot at the last red ball, not caring where it went. It rolled straight into the pocket, and with the same erratic carelessness, he sank the yellow and the green.

‘Bravo!’ Wayne said and sank the remaining four balls in quick succession. He placed his cue on the snooker table and cleared his throat. ‘Look mate, I’m sorry. I know you’re okay, but Jo’s not convinced. You know what women are like, they get an idea in their head and you can’t talk them out of it.’

She’s basing that idea on one incident of my dressing up as a woman. A few hours in a blouse and skirt hardly makes me a pervert.
He opened his mouth to say as much then thought better of it. He had no desire to talk about dressing up in women’s clothing with Wayne. He had no desire to talk to him about anything.

He made a show of looking at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go. I just remembered I promised to go to the shops for Carlene.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want another game? Or another drink? By the way, it’s your shout.’

‘I’ll buy next time. You stay, I’ll make my own way home.’

***

Carlene arrived home from the Bookfest with an armful of books. ‘Of course I had to buy some, they were so cheap.’

She put them in a pile on the table. The top one was a shabby paperback called
Meditation and Your Guardian Angels.
She gave him a playful punch at the expression on his face. ‘There’s a couple of Harlan Coben books you might like.’

‘I’m giving up crime, remember?’

She giggled and flopped onto the couch. ‘What did you do this afternoon?’

‘I went to the Services Club with Wayne.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Really?’

‘He called around and insisted I go. He flogged me at snooker and gave me the third degree about my sexual preferences.’

He’d wondered if she’d known beforehand, if she and Jo between them had persuaded Wayne to talk to him. Though why they would think he’d confide in Wayne he had no idea. But Carlene’s surprise seemed genuine.

‘What do you mean?’

Reuben recounted the conversation to her. ‘He didn’t deny that Jo had put him up to it.’

‘I’m sorry, honey.’ She got up and put her arms around him. ‘Jo’s just jumped to the wrong conclusion, that’s all. I know it’s upsetting, it’s upset me too.’

That’s not a jump, that’s a massive leap.
But it wasn’t worth starting an argument over. And though it made his stomach roil thinking about it, there was nothing he could do to change Jo’s mind.

‘Wayne also asked me in a roundabout way whether I was having an affair. You know I’m not, don’t you?’

She tightened her arms around him and pressed her body into his. ‘Of course I do, honey.’

As he pressed his face into her soft, sweet-smelling hair, he wondered if she were as good a liar as he was.

CHAPTER 21

Reuben felt in his jeans pocket for the mobile phone Frank had given him, although he’d checked at least fifty times since he’d left home. He flicked through a
Woman’s Day
and looked at his watch again. Two fifty-six. One minute after he’d last looked.

He took a deep breath to calm himself. He hadn’t alerted the police – his hand had hovered over the phone numerous times but he couldn’t make it dial the number. Somehow he would convince Frank that this failed operation was due to a run of bad luck and that it was third time lucky. And meanwhile a brilliant idea would come to him, he was sure of it. It always had before when he was in a tight spot.

A few seats away, a pudgy woman with dyed red hair was having a heated conversation on her mobile phone. ‘Well, fuck you, Jason, you can just go and get fucked.’ She threw the phone into her handbag, got up and marched over to the receptionist. She wore a singlet top and on her left shoulder was tattooed a heart with an arrow through it and the words ‘Jason’ inscribed inside. ‘I’m going outside to have a smoke.’

The other occupants of the waiting room exchanged furtive smiles.

‘Jason’s fucked then,’ observed one youth.

‘I reckon he’d be out celebrating,’ said his mate.

The middle-aged woman sitting next to Reuben leaned over. ‘Looks like another visit to the tattoo parlour,’ she whispered.

Reuben forced himself to smile. ‘Unless she meets someone else called Jason.’

Five minutes after three. What was Lucy doing? She was usually on time. Bomber would be waiting for Reuben’s signal, and Thommo would be waiting for Dan the Detailer to appear. Reuben hoped Thommo had positioned himself somewhere discreetly as Reuben had instructed him. He had to walk through the car park at just the right moment, as if he were on his way somewhere else and stop to engage Bomber in conversation. When Reuben had phoned him in the morning to confirm he was still okay to go ahead, Thommo said, ‘Mate, I’ve been up all night on the internet studying cars and their inner workings. Still a mystery to me, but I’m sure I can fudge it.’

A door opened and Lucy poked her head out. ‘Come in, Reuben.’

He pulled out his mobile phone and dialled Bomber’s number. He waited for it to ring three times, pressed the end button then followed Lucy into the interview room.

Lucy nodded at his phone. ‘Was that important? I don’t mind if you need to make a call.’

‘No, it’s fine.’

Reuben shoved the phone back in his pocket. ‘It was just to my wife, to let her know I’ll be home soon. That’s my signal, I ring three times and hang up.’

Stop garbling, for fuck’s sake.

Lucy clasped her hands on the desk. ‘So what exciting adventures have you had since I last saw you?’

There was that funny feeling again, the tickle he always got in the back of his throat when Lucy looked at him. He diverted his mind from what was happening in the car park and took a deep breath.

‘Er...’

The only exciting adventures he’d had, had been with her in his fantasies. Thank God she couldn’t read his mind.

‘I went for an audition for a beer commercial the other day.’

‘Really? Does that mean we’ll see you on TV sometime soon?’

‘I haven’t got the part yet.’

He told her about the audition, including the bit about his supposed fantasies of Brigitte Bardot, which made her laugh - a delicious, full-throated laugh.

‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you, Reuben.’

She reached for her appointment pad. ‘We’ll keep this short today. I have a meeting to go to in a few minutes.’

Reuben looked at his watch. He’d only been in there five minutes; he had to keep her occupied for at least another five.

‘I don’t think I told you about my swimwear modelling,’ he blurted out.

Lucy’s pen poised over the pad. ‘No, I don’t believe you have.’

Reuben related the saga of his photography session, spinning it out for as long as he could. He was just at the part where he was going blue with cold in the water when Lucy said, ‘Wait a minute. Did you say mini board shorts?’