Dead To Me

28

ON THE DRIVE home, Gill tried to shake off the anger zapping about inside. What a cock-up! The girl playing Nancy fucking Drew and landing them with another dead body. Not that her syndicate would take it. Division would investigate and conclude no foul play, unless someone had a brainstorm and fancied Rachel for it.

She needed to decompress before she got home. The bloody gall of it! They’re all working their arses off and Miss Marple’s sneaking around on her own shiny new line of inquiry without having the decency to inform her colleagues. You wanna be in my gang, you stay loyal. That’s what it was like: being stabbed in the back. And Gill had history in that department.

When she caught Dave cheating, she’d been wounded, deep inside. As though the whole marriage had been a sham. Work was her salvation. Work and Sammy. But it became apparent that she’d have to resign; her role in the crime faculty took her away from home, all over the country as a matter of course. And she could be away for long periods, assisting regional forces with particularly taxing murders. It was high-profile work, demanding, painstaking, exhilarating. She loved it. The sense of being that good, of being in an élite unit of detectives with skill and experience so highly regarded. But without Dave, all the parenting, all the school stuff and the family arrangements, all the daily chores would fall on her shoulders. And much as she loved her job, she loved her boy and she needed to be there for him.

The day she handed in her resignation had been the low point. Her boss had expressed great disappointment, promising her that if she ever had the desire to return there’d be an open door for her. Her colleagues took her out for a boozy lunch and she got a taxi back to the digs where they were staying.

That afternoon she had walked to the promenade in nearby Cleethorpes, the wind brisk, smelling of brine and seaweed and candy floss. She’d carried on walking past the pier and on to the wide sands, a handful of figures scattered here and there. She had taken off her socks and shoes and stood at the water’s edge. The North Sea was cold, numbing her feet and stinging her ankles. Gulls wheeled above, their harsh cries competing with the thundering waves.

Gill retreated up the beach, to the top of one of the groynes, the lines of rocks that divided the sands and protected against coastal erosion. She sat there till it grew dark. Mourning. For her marriage, for her job. Salt in her hair and on her face.

Then, stiff and cold and thirsty, she went back to pack. Ready for the morning train home. To pick up the pieces, determined not to let that cheating bastard ruin her life.

But the worst moment? Oh, God, worse even than finding them in bed – it still made her feel ill. Three weeks after she had walked in on Dave and his bimbo, Gill and he sat down to talk. She was expecting him to beg forgiveness, plead for a second chance, him thinking that she’d be keen to save the marriage. He had another think coming. Gill had been to a solicitor to obtain advice on her legal rights and how to proceed if she wanted to keep the marital home and ditch Dave, as well as information on his obligations where Sammy’s maintenance was concerned. She’d told Sammy his dad was on a training course. They’d not seen each other since she’d finished in Grimsby and come back to Shaw. Unless he’d heard it on the grapevine, he wouldn’t know she’d resigned from the faculty. Dave had been staying somewhere else; at his mother’s, she assumed. Unless the uniform had taken him in. She couldn’t see that working for them. A roll in the hay with one of the lower orders was a whole different prospect from sharing a laundry basket, a microwave and a cheap double bed. Hell, the girl probably still lived at home. Her parents not best pleased with her seeing a man over twenty years older. A forty-eight-year-old. A married forty-eight-year-old with a teenage son.

Dave arrived on time, she heard his car on the gravel, steeled herself. He came in, shucked off his coat and pulled up a chair. He still had it, that presence, that magnetism, even in this toilet of a situation. Not just his physique – tall, broad, handsome, piercing blue eyes – but there in the way he carried himself and something indefinable. Pheromones? Gill could not believe her response. She still fancied him, was still drawn to him. Her Judas body betraying her too.

They had been so good together. Bright, energetic, ambitious. Matching each other stride for stride. The sex had been phenomenal. State of permanent arousal, and there like a promise, like a drug, at the end of each exhausting day’s work. There too in the morning. Times they met for lunch, took a room, frenetic, greedy.

He didn’t say anything now. Sat four-square, arms on the table, hands folded. Wary, perhaps? Something of the big cat in him, waiting. Muscles tensed. She had loved the size of him, the power in his back, in his arms, the way they fit together making love.

‘I want a separation,’ she said, her voice sounding loud in the kitchen. ‘Move your stuff out by the end of the month.’ She couldn’t help trembling, but fought to keep her voice steady.

Dave nodded once. No quarrel, no question, no pleading. No ‘sorry’ either. No regret. ‘I’ve moved in with Emma,’ he said.

Gill blinked. ‘Really? You didn’t hang about!’ Thinking: do you love me? Did you ever? When did you stop? You cold-hearted prick.

‘She’s… we’re…’ He gave a sort of a gasp.

‘What?’ Spit it out.

‘We’re having a baby,’ he said.

Gill’s heart thumped, she felt adrenalin spike through her, scalding. God, the gift that just keeps on giving! It hurt, deep hurt. She screwed up her mouth, biting her cheek; to no avail, tears, treacherous tears, stood in her eyes. ‘Get out,’ she managed.

‘Gill…’

‘Fuck off!’ Enraged.

‘The house,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to sort out the house.’

‘No.’ Her face was wet and she was shaking with fury. ‘No way, matey. I’ll see you in a fucking hostel first.’ The unholy family: Dickhead, Pendlebury and the spawn of Satan.

‘Gill, this is completely-’

‘Get out,’ she screamed, standing and kicking at her chair. ‘Get out.’

He shook his head, gave a little snort and grabbed his coat.

When she had cried herself out, she went upstairs and selected his ceremonial uniform. She unpicked the hem of the trousers and fetched a king prawn from the freezer, put it in the hem and re-stitched it neatly. Moved the suit, along with his other clothes, into the wardrobe in the spare room. She felt a tiny bit better then, a very, very tiny bit. Hard to see without a microscope.