Pretty Maids All In A Row (23 page)

'Of course I love you,' she answered despairingly. 'Do you think I'd go through all this, if I didn't?'

'Well, carrying on like that's not going to change anything.'

'I never thought it would come to this. I've tried to understand, you know I have. You said you were grateful.' 'It's not as if I can help it.'

She raised her ravaged face. 'But you
can,
love. That part, anyway. We've kept it in check for years now, as long as you—'

'—keep taking the tablets!' he broke in angrily. 'Yes, well, I got tired of that, didn't I? How would you like to spend four days a month doped to the eyeballs?'

Her lips quivered. 'I thought you
wanted
me to help you.' She started to weep again in a series of gulping little moans. 'I couldn't believe it was you. Not this time.'

'Then you were wrong, weren't you? And there's not a thing you can do about it. You're my wife, you can't testify against me.'

'You think I want to?'

'What do you want, then?' She shook her head hopelessly and his face softened. 'Come here.'

Obediently she went to him and his arms closed round her, rocking her as though she were a baby. 'There, there. I'll be a good boy.'

'You'll go back on the pills?'

'I suppose so. Now, dry your eyes and I'll put the kettle on.'

'I made some jam tarts, but—' 'There are biscuits in the tin. They'll be fine.' She moved away from him, wiping her eyes. Perhaps, if he'd really try again, it might still be all right.

Webb signed off early that evening and went home. The florists had drawn a blank, and the toy firm that manufactured the cat had closed down six years ago. This man had the devil's own luck. He felt tired and stale. Usually after this time on a case, things were falling into place. Now, he felt no further on than when he'd started.
Round and round the garden—

He let himself into his flat, and as usual stood for some minutes staring down the hill towards Shillingham. Was Hannah back from school yet? Uneasily, he wondered if the underlying distraction of his personal problems was inhibiting his thinking. Yet he could see no avenue he'd not explored. Turning from the window, he set up his easel with none of his usual anticipation. Far from longing to start on the drawing, it was just one more routine to be followed through.

For an hour he sketched continuously, peopling the sheet with the inhabitants of Westridge: Matthew Selby, still his favourite for the part, with an exaggeratedly high forehead and hollow cheeks; his wide-eyed wife, the Speight sisters, Angie Markham. Some overlooked fact about any of them could point him in the right direction.

The doorbell rang suddenly through the flat, and he swore, looking at his watch. Nearly six-thirty. Resignedly he went and opened the door. Susan stood there, her eyes expectantly on his face. 'Hello, Dave.'

The memory of their parting flared between them, the surge of passion which had shaken them both. 'Who gave you my address?'

She smiled. 'You're not the only detective round here.' She studied his face. 'I reckoned it would be harder for you to walk out on me, from your own flat.'

His stomach tightened. He said curtly, 'I'm busy, Susan.'

'Then you'll need someone to cook supper.' She held up a carrier bag. 'Don't mind me, just get on with your work.'

She stepped past him into the minute hall. 'Where's the kitchen? In here?' She opened the door on her left, nodded with satisfaction and went in. Webb closed the outer door and went back to his easel. He continued working for some minutes until her voice disturbed him.

'Sorry, but I can't find the tin-opener.'

He didn't turn. 'There isn't one.'

'That's bloody silly, isn't it?'

'It's deliberate. It would have provided a soft option.'

'Then how do I open the tomato puree? With my teeth?'

'I'm sorry,' he said, opting out of her problems. Grimly he went on sketching, but his concentration was gone. He needed to channel it to such a degree that he could almost step inside the figures on the sheet, imagining their thoughts and smelling their fear. Now, Susan filled his mind, moving about in his kitchen as she had during eleven years of marriage, her scent clinging to edges of the room.

'I wouldn't mind a drink!' she called.

He got to his feet, poured a large one for each of them. He took hers through to the kitchen, watching in silence as she sliced mushrooms. She'd cut a jagged hole in the puree tin, bending a knife in the process.

'It's kidneys Turbigo,' she said. 'Used to be one of your favourites. What do you live on now, without a tin-opener?'

'I survive.' He was acutely aware of her in the small room.

With a conscious effort he left her and returned yet again to his work. Leo Sandon, whom Ken pronounced nutty as a fruit-cake. Was he dangerous? What of Mr Nice Guy Markham? He smiled wryly at the pun before discarding it. Markham's daughter ruled that out.

Behind him, Susan had come in and started to lay the table. Oh God, Hannah! he thought, and it was a cry for help. She came and looked over his shoulder, studying one after another of the likenesses on the paper. Suddenly she bent forward, peering more closely, and he felt her breath on his cheek.

'I know that face,' she said.

He stiffened. 'Which one?'

Her finger touched the paper. 'It's not quite right, though.'

He raised an eyebrow. 'A critical appraisal?'

'No, something's different, I'm not sure what. But I recognize it all right, the eyes and mouth particularly.' She straightened, shaking her head. 'Sorry, I can't place it.'

'If you remember, will you contact me at once? It could be important.'

'OK.' Absent-mindedly she put her hands on his shoulders and began to massage his neck. It was what she'd always done, when he was tired and tense. Now, he suspected she had another motive. 'Finish your drink, then. Supper's ready.'

She moved away, turning off the overhead light and pulling the lamp to the table. Webb watched in silence. He'd let her call the tune; there was a tremendous relief in giving up the fight. Seeming to sense his acceptance, she turned and smiled at him, gesturing for him to sit down.

The kidneys were excellent. She was a good, if messy, cook. In the kitchen, there'd be dirty dishes everywhere, the work surfaces splashed with gravy.

Over coffee, she lit a cigarette, her eyes daring him to comment. Tipping her head back, she blew a chain of smoke rings while he watched the contracting muscles of her throat.

'Have vou ever thought of remarrying?' she asked idly. 'No.'

'Why not? You like your creature comforts.'

'I manage very well. I'm a good cook, though I say it myself. Even if,' he added tactfully, 'I've not yet aspired to kidneys Turbigo.'

'Nevertheless there are some things, my love, that you can't do for yourself.'

'They're catered for too.' Forgive me, Hannah.

'I see.' That had surprised her. After a pause, she added, 'You're not the flighty type, Dave. How do you manage, without committing yourself?'

'She doesn't want to be comitted either.'

'Aren't you the lucky one?'

He ignored her sarcasm. 'I think so.'

'Does she know about me?'

'Of course.'

'That I'm here?'

'In Shillingham, yes.'

'You've been with her since I came back?'

He held her gaze. 'That's none of your damn business.'

'What does she do? You can tell me that, at least.'

'She's a schoolmistress.'

Susan's brows lifted. 'Whatever turns you on.' She leant back in her chair. 'And how's the old gang? There were some new faces when I called in. Is the earnest Ken still with you?'

'He is.'

'And Millie, how's she? Still breeding?' Her words were distasteful to him. Had she coarsened, or was it comparison with Hannah which, every now and then, made him wince?

'Since you mention it, she's having another baby, yes.'

'Just the wife for a copper, isn't she? Never complaining, whatever time Ken gets home, and dropping kids at regular intervals. God, what an existence!'

'Which, if you remember, was why you left me.'

She bent forward, grinding her cigarette out on her plate and twisting the white column of it into the gravy. 'We'd better do the dishes before we start quarrelling.'

In silence they collected the plates and carried them through. He'd been right about the mess. He wiped up the worst of it, while she ran water gushingly into the sink. The tension was building between them. Soon, it would have to explode.

He'd have preferred to wash the dishes himself, since she never got them clean, but to suggest it would only provoke a scene. It had always amazed him that someone so fastidiously hygienic in her work could be so sloppy at home. Stoically he wiped off undetected pieces of onion with the tea-towel. She put the last plate on the draining-board, and pulled out the plug, making no attempt to rinse the sink of soap and food scraps. Then she turned, took the tea-towel out of his hands, and put her arms round his neck.

'I want you, Dave,' she said softly, 'and I think you want me. We both know I didn't only come to cook your supper.'

So they made love, as he'd known they must, and it was as it had always been between them—frenetic, agonizingly intense, but leaving him in the end unsatisfied. And, though their bodies united, there was no meeting of their minds. He knew desire, resentment, guilt, and desire again. The mixture very much as before. Neither of them slept much. They came together several times during the night, and he knew despairingly that she was trying as hard as he to make it right. They'd changed, both of them. They were different people from the last time they'd shared a bed, but they'd grown even farther apart. Despite the clamour of his body, he knew beyond doubt that this occasion was the last. After tonight, they would never again touch each other. The thought brought sadness overridden with relief.

He came fully awake to hear the bath running. What was her assessment of their experiment? He prayed it was the same as his own.

She padded naked into the bedroom and picked up her clothes from the chair. 'Bathroom's free. I'll see to breakfast in a minute.' They weren't quite meeting each other's eyes.

When he reached the kitchen, she said brightly, 'Sorry to rush you, but I'm on duty at nine.' Blearily he looked at his watch. It was still only seven-thirty. 'Toast and coffee do?'

'Fine.'

They ate at the small kitchen table. Beyond the window the Hillcrest gardens cascaded down, one beyond the other, to the foot of the hill, each glowing with autumn reds and golds. And at last Susan said, 'Well? What's the verdict?'

Unwillingly he met her eyes. 'You know, don't you?'

'No, tell me.'

'Susie, we're different people.'

'Not necessarily a bad thing.'

'It wouldn't work.'

'I see. So I've been wasting my time.'

He put a hand over hers, but she angrily shook it off. 'I don't measure up to your lady-love, is that it?'

'It was great. You know that. But we're unconsciously fighting each other all the time, even in bed. We don't seem able to give and take, so we hurt each other. It would be the same as before.'

'Quite the philosopher, aren't you, all of a sudden?' She stood up and collected the carrier bag she'd brought. 'I wasn't asking you to
marry
me,' she added, and he saw she was close to tears. 'I just thought that now and again, for old times' sake—Still, if you don't want me, that's that.'

He stood too, his hands on her shoulders though she struggled briefly to free herself. 'We had six very good years. Can't we just remember those?'

But she wouldn't be mollified. 'It's all right, I get the message. Go back to your toffee-nosed schoolmistress, then, if I'm not good enough for you.'

'I'll drive you to the hospital,' he said quietly.

'No need.'

'I'm going in anyway.'

He followed her out of the flat, pulling the door shut behind him. And it seemed inevitable that, as they reached the first landing, Hannah's door should open and she bent down, hair swinging forward, to take in the milk.

For a frozen moment their eyes locked. Webb forced himself to say, 'Good morning,' as he followed Susan round the next bend of the stairs. He did not hear her reply. Waves of misery penetrated every pore. Above all, it was the sight of her dressing-gown, so dear and familiar, which underlined the risks he had taken. Risks that had been fully realized. And to what end? Self-gratification. That was the bald, unpalatable truth. .He'd never believed he and Susan would be reconciled.

Wrapped in despair, he drove into town. 'What'll you do now?' he asked dully, and she answered in his own words of the night before. 'None of your damn business.' A moment later she added brittly, 'Don't lose any sleep. I'm a survivor, too.'