Dead To Me

5

ADE WAS IN front of the telly, a pile of exercise books on the sofa beside him, red pen in hand.

‘’Lo,’ Janet called from the doorway.

‘Hi,’ he grunted, not even bothering to look her way.

In the kitchen she opened the fridge, wondering if they had left her any tea. It was hit and miss. Time was Ade would have a hot meal for her whenever she was late home, would even sit with her while she ate, swapping tales from their days at work. She on the job, nothing strictly confidential of course, but the vagaries of policing, the cock-ups and triumphs, irritants among the team, the gossip, always someone shagging someone else. And Ade’s stories of high school hell, the Machiavellian manoeuvring of the geography department, the dirty politics of management and the LEA and school governors. The trench warfare of the classroom. Thirty hormonal teenagers, most of them regarding geography as slightly less interesting than waiting for paint to dry. Flirting, fighting, giving cheek, the lads rife with BO and Lynx deodorant, the girls wearing enough product to blind a lab-full of rabbits.

That all seemed so long ago. Janet couldn’t remember the last time they’d laughed together, the last time she’d saved up an anecdote to please him, relished the telling of it and his response. She opened the microwave, which was empty and looked a little like a crime scene. Blood spatter on the walls. She went back into the lounge. ‘What did you have for tea?’

‘Chilli,’ he said.

‘You save any for me?’

‘Eh?’ He scribbled something in the margin of an exercise book, slung it down, picked up the next. On the telly someone was explaining why drilling into the Arctic ice sheet was a good idea.

‘Did you save me some?’

‘There was a bit left. I think Taisie had it.’

‘That girl must have a tapeworm,’ Janet grumbled. Eleven years old and always hungry. Would eat twice her own body weight, given the chance. Never got podgy though. Taisie was out climbing. She got a lift there and back with one of the other parents. Next week Janet, or more likely Ade, would be the taxi.

Janet’s thoughts flickered to Denise Finn, lost both her kids in a year. Tomorrow, Janet reminded herself. Work stayed at work. The separation was the only way to stay sane. She never brought her work home, just like she didn’t lug her family stuff into the office.

She went up to see Elise, who was glued to Facebook. ‘How was Drama?’

‘What?’

‘Drama?’

‘Good. Yeah.’

‘Put this lot in the wash.’ The floor was thick with cast-off clothes. ‘Or you’ll have to borrow my knickers.’

‘Rank!’ said Elise.

Janet moved closer, taking the chance to peer over Elise’s shoulder and scan the screen.

‘This century would be good,’ Janet said.

‘Yeah.’ Absently, same as Ade. I am the invisible woman, Janet thought.

‘What’s TFN then?’ Janet asked, tripping over the acronym on the page. ‘Ta-ta for now?’

‘Total fucking nightmare,’ Elise said.

‘I knew that,’ Janet said. And caught a quick grin from her daughter in the reflection on the screen.

Janet made herself an omelette and ate in the kitchen, the local evening paper propped on the ketchup bottle. One of their cases had gone to trial, a lad who had fallen out with his girlfriend, rung her up and persuaded her to meet him on her birthday. She thought they were getting back together again. He arranged to pick her up in the car park behind Tommyfield Market in Oldham. She had recognized his car, stepped out to wave, so he’d see her. He had accelerated. Ploughed into her at speed and tossed her thirty-five metres. She died at the scene. He claimed it was an accident, he hit the wrong pedal, swore every which way to Christmas that he was gutted. A broken man. The postings he put online beforehand told a different tale. He was going down, unless the jury cocked it up big time; it was just a question of how long for. Janet had done the interviews with him. Let him drivel on for the first two days, nodding with understanding and encouragement as he had spun his fantasy, before she’d begun to pick his story apart, line by line, sentence by sentence. Finally finishing him with printouts from the Internet, the most damning being, That cunt’s getting a birthday present she never forget. Thick as shit.

Janet had watched the light go out in his eyes, watched him squirm lower in his seat, knowing she had enough for the CPS, that she had dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s and gone through the whole alphabet with careful penmanship – win a flippin’ calligraphy prize for it – and got it bang to rights.

She heard the clatter of Taisie arriving, the slam of the door that shook the floor beneath Janet’s feet and rattled the double glazing.

‘Shut it, don’t slam it!’ Janet yelled.

Taisie came through, glanced at Janet’s plate, sucked her lip.

‘Make some toast,’ Janet said.

‘Can’t you do it? I’m tired.’

‘I’m tired.’

‘You want me to starve? I’ve just dragged myself thirty metres up a vertical rock face. My arms don’t work.’

‘And I’ve been sat on my arse all day making daisy chains out of paper clips.’ Janet got to her feet anyway, opened the bread bin.

‘Can I sleep over at Phoebe’s on Saturday?’ Taisie asked.

‘Who else is?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘More details,’ Janet said.

‘But…’

‘And if it’s a party, the answer is no. And I am going to ring her mother in advance to check.’

‘I really like the way you trust me,’ Taisie pouted.

Janet smiled.

‘But can I?’

‘We’ll see,’ Janet said, sticking the bread in the toaster. ‘Jam or peanut butter?’

‘Both.’ She sat down heavily. ‘Please, Mum?’ she begged.

‘We’ll see.’ Gill’s words at work. Janet groaned inwardly, wondered if she could put up with Miss Bailey Cockypants for six whole weeks or if the MIT would end up investigating the murder of one of their own.

Rachel ordered pizza just for a change.

‘Your usual?’ the guy on the phone asked.

‘Yeah, and extra garlic bread.’

‘Ten minutes.’

The flat was on the first floor, a conversion in a big Victorian villa. High ceilings, huge windows, parking out front. Single, on a decent wage, she could afford a nice place to live. Not as swish as Nick’s; he was in the middle of town, all mod cons, fridge the size of a walk-in wardrobe that made ice cubes by the chute-full, wet room, power shower, view over the city centre. Once she made sergeant, then she could get something like that, unless he invited her to move in. She wasn’t rushing things, didn’t want to frighten him off, sensing one thing he liked about her was her independence, the fact that she wasn’t really into all the slushy side of relationships – the chocs and flowers left her cold. Leave that to people like Alison, her sister, who’d been swallowed up by marriage and motherhood and vomited back up like some loony 1950s bimbo, earth mother crossed with desperate housewife. Though she did actually have a job outside the home, she never stopped bleating on about how tough it was, how guilty she felt.

‘I can help you plan your wedding!’ Alison had squealed when Rachel had finally told her she was seeing someone, that it had been going on for several months.

‘Be your funeral,’ Rachel said.

‘But there’s a wedding fair…’

‘Enough.’ Rachel had held up her hands. ‘It’s not on the cards, it’s not on the horizon, it’s not even in the same solar system at the moment.’

Alison was always wittering on about Rachel needing a social life, trying to get her to do things: a night out with Alison’s social-work pals, all dangly earrings and peculiar footwear, a trip to Les Mis in London on a coach, a book group. A book group, for fuck’s sake!

‘Do they read true crime?’ Rachel asked her.

‘No,’ Alison tutted. ‘Don’t you get enough of that at work? Fiction, Rachel. Booker prize, the Costa. Orange. We have some great discussions.’

‘Spare me,’ Rachel groaned, changing the subject by asking about one of the kids, guaranteed to get Alison warbling on for half an hour at least, like winding up a clockwork toy.

Rachel opened a bottle of red and poured herself a good measure. She got her daybook out of her bag and checked back through, all as it should be. She had a stack of reports from the National Police Improvement Agency – homework. The NPIA was where Gill Murray had worked before she headed up the syndicate. Called the Crime Faculty back then. Hard-to-solve cases from all over the country. That usually meant stranger murders. Interrupted by the take-away delivery, Rachel paid the guy and ate while she continued reading. She refilled her wine then texted Nick: You busy? Gud day?

He replied in seconds. Cd take a break?

Rachel smiled. She had an idea, would he be up for it? Won’t know till you try, kid, she said to herself. Dyin for a shag, she texted.

!!! He came back.

Phone sex, she typed. Call me if u want sum. She set the work files aside and had a long swallow of wine. Settled herself down on the sofa. The mobile rang. She picked it up.

‘So,’ she heard the laughter in his voice, ‘tell me what you’re wearing, you slutty girl.’