Wasted Years

Fifty

Lorna didn’t know why it was, but ever since Kevin Naylor had stopped returning calls something appalling had happened to her appetite. Instead of settling down to watch Neighbours with a Linda McCartney low-calorie broccoli and cheese bake, she found herself reaching for the telephone and waiting, tummy impatiently rumbling, until the Perfect Pizza delivery man appeared on her doorstep. Her lunch had progressed from two crisp-breads and a piece of celery to lasagna and chips at the local pub. Breakfast was no longer a single shredded wheat, it was porridge with maple-type syrup and cream, several slices of toast and marmalade, and instant coffee with two spoonsful of sugar.

She had overheard Becca yesterday whispering to Marjorie in a voice that could have been heard up and down the street. “You don’t suppose, do you, that our Lorna’s got herself pregnant?”

Fat chance!

“I’m sorry,” Kevin Naylor had said when she’d finally raised him on the phone, “but there’s another officer handling that now. I’ve been shifted on to something else.”

Shifted back to his wife, Lorna thought. She still hadn’t forgotten that in the midst of their one and only night of passion, Kevin had etched a particular moment forever on her mind by digging his fingers sharply into her shoulders and shouting, “Yes, Debbie! Yes, Debbie! Yes, Debbie, yes!”

Lorna ran her finger round the inside of her breakfast bowl, scooping up the last of the syrup and cream, before rinsing it under the tap. Oh God, she thought, next thing I’ll be running out of things I can wear, having to go out and buy myself a whole new wardrobe. The one saving grace was the example of Marjorie, huffing and puffing and perspiring her way through every working day. The minute Lorna found herself rivaling Marjorie, she was enrolling in Weight Watchers, withdrawing her savings, and booking two weeks on a health farm.

In the bathroom she cleaned her teeth with care, applied the finishing touches to her makeup. At least it was Friday, another week nearly over. Maybe tonight she’d go down the Black Orchid, let her hair down; dance enough she might even lose a few pounds.

The senior officers involved in Kingfisher had been in closed session ever since Jack Skelton came back from his early morning run. The consensus was this: Rains was back in circulation and his meeting with Churchill was enough to suggest Millington’s information had at least a patina of truth. Rains, moreover, was aware of the possibility he and Churchill might be being watched. There was no certain way of knowing whether their tail had actually been spotted or if they were merely taking precautions. But then, as Reg Cossall suggested, you don’t waste time fiddling around with a condom if all you’re interested in’s a quick wank. Even as he said it, Cossall thought he might get an earful from Helen Siddons, but all she did was compliment him on his awareness of the need for safe sex. All you need do, darling, Cossall thought, is carry on looking like that. What he did was smile and keep his mouth shut.

Finally it was agreed that they would maintain a careful watch on Churchill for another day, Frank having obligingly returned to his Mansfield home in time for tea. Meantime, extra officers would be assigned to the search for Rains. If nothing had developed within twenty-four hours, Frank Churchill could be brought in for questioning. If they moved quick enough, rattled him enough, they might squeeze some answers out of him before he was able to shelter behind his brief.

“Fetch us another tea, Keith. Make sure it isn’t stewed, eh? More like gravy, this last cup.”

Keith could tell from the tone of Darren’s voice that he was seriously on an up. Sitting by the back wall of the Arcade cafe, finishing his cooked breakfast, and looking so sodding full of himself. At least his cropped hair had started to grow out a little, he didn’t look so weird any more. Like one of them skinheads you saw sometimes round the city center, lace-up Doc Martens and Levis and swastika tattoos.

“Better treat yourself to something more than that,” Darren said, watching Keith with his two of toast.

“How come?”

Darren winked. “Big day today, can’t afford for you to be feeling queasy.”

“What’s on, then?”

“What’s on? Day trip to Skeggy, what d’you think? You and me, we’ve got some unfinished business to do, right?”

Keith looked at him sharply, the unnatural gleam in his too blue eyes. “You’re not serious? I mean, not after what happened last time, it’s not …?”

“Jesus Christ!” Darren had one of Keith’s hands tight inside his own and was squeezing hard. “You know what, I reckon I’d’ve done us both a favor if instead of cutting you down inside that cell, I’d let you swing. You’re about as much good as a foreskin in a Force Ten gale.”

Tears were forming in the corners of Keith’s eyes as his face grimaced with pain.

“All you got to do, be out front with the car, ready to get us out of there. I’ll go in on my own.” He snorted with derision. “Worked a bloody sight better without you last time, why not this?” And he gave Keith’s hand a final squeeze before letting it go. “Now don’t take too long,” Darren said, “it’s time we were out of here.”

Keith pushed half a slice of half-cold toast into his mouth and almost choked.

“No word from young Rylands?” Resnick said, pausing by Lynn Kellogg’s desk.

Lynn shook her head. “Not as yet.”

“See if you can raise Mark or Kevin for me, will you? Maybe something’s happening on the Churchill front.”

It was Divine whom Resnick eventually spoke to. The most exciting thing that had taken place was Churchill mouthing off at an old man with an orange delivery bag over his shoulder cluttering up the place with useless leaflets not worth the paper they were printed on. Chop down half a sodding forest just to keep you walking the streets.

Better kind of villain, Resnick thought, setting down the phone, not only is he nice to his mum he’s worried about the ozone layer and the state of the planet.

Shivering in the call box and not from the cold, Keith was having difficulty getting his coins into the slot, pressing the correct buttons for the number.

“Oh, Miss Solomon,” Becca piped in her shrill little voice, “could you come and help here, please?”

Lorna pushed aside the computer printouts she’d been checking, query from an account holder about the regularity with which her salary had been paid in, and got to her feet, automatically smoothing down her skirt as she stood.

What all the fuss was about, she didn’t know. There were no more than three people waiting, pretty average for this time of the day, she didn’t see why Becca couldn’t cope on her own till Marjorie got back from her coffee break.

“Thank you, Miss Solomon,” Becca smiled as Lorna took a seat alongside her, “mustn’t keep the customers waiting.”

Ever since she had started putting on a little weight herself, Lorna couldn’t help but notice how skinny Becca really was. Like a couple of twigs in American tan tights.

“Yes, sir,” Lorna said, looking up through the glass. “How may I help you?” And then thinking, oh, no; oh, Christ!

“Hello, Lorna,” Darren grinned. “Remember me?”

“Becca,” Lorna started, “I think …”

“Never mind about no one else,” said Darren, “this is between you and me. Now here …” and he pushed a green bin liner through beneath the glass “ … get that filled and don’t piss me about.”

Lorna froze.

Becca spotted the bin liner from the corner of her eye and screamed.

Darren reached towards the waistband of his jeans and pulled out the gun.

A middle-aged man wearing decorator’s overalls began to move towards the exit and Darren yelled for him to stop and leveled the pistol at his head. The man stopped.

“Lie down!” Darren ordered. “All of you. Flat down with your hands over your heads.” He’d seen them made to do that the other night in some film and it had looked pretty good.

“Okay,” he said, swinging the PPK round until once again it was pointing towards Lorna. “Lorna, what you have to do, all that cash, in the bag. And Lorna, nothing clever like you tried before, none of that business with alarms.” He tapped on the glass with the barrel end of the gun. “Reinforced or not,” he smiled, “once I press this trigger, this isn’t going to be worth shit.”

Becca had doubled forward, head towards her knees, praying for it all to go away. Lorna, scarcely taking her eyes off Darren and the pistol, was dropping handfuls of money down into the bag.

Stretched across the floor like sardines, none of the customers moved.

“Come on, come on!” Darren urged. “Be quick!”

Lorna held up the green bin liner for him to see. “That’s all there is.”

“You wouldn’t be holding out on me?”

There wasn’t a patch of color anywhere in Lorna’s face.

“No, I suppose not.” He gestured with the gun. “Back over here.”

Reaching up to retrieve the bag and the money, Darren had his face close to hers. “Have to come round and see you some time. Easy now I know where you live.” He grinned and winked and blew her a kiss.

“Everyone stays where they are,” he called out at the door. “Less they want to get hurt.”

Pushing the pistol down from sight and switching the bin liner to the other hand he pushed his way through the door to where Keith was waiting in the car.

Except that Keith wasn’t waiting and nor was the car.

“Armed police,” said an amplified voice. “Put your hands behind your head and get down on the ground. Do it now.”

Darren could see four vehicles, angled across the road; behind each one were men in blue overalls, arms outstretched, weapons at the ends of those arms all pointing at him.

“Keith!” Darren screamed in anguish. “Keith!”

From the safety of the car where he was sitting with Resnick and Lynn Kellogg, a block away from the building society, Keith heard Darren’s voice calling his name and brought up both hands to his ears.

“Armed police,” the voice repeated. “You are surrounded. Raise your hands above your head now and then clasp them behind your neck. This is your final warning.”

Darren reached inside his jacket and pulled clear the pistol, bringing it round until it was held out in front of him, aiming in the direction of the nearest car.

The sergeant in charge of the tactical response team gave the order and Darren was hurled back and swayed like an off-balance skater, before falling forward with nothing to break his fall.

He had been hit once in the neck, twice in the chest and, to all intents and purposes, was dead before he struck the ground. The crash team from the ambulance did what they had to do but really it was for show. The officer who retrieved the unfired 9mm Walther PPK would testify in court that the safety catch was still on.

Inside the unmarked car at the far side of the disused home improvements store, Keith Rylands sobbed against Lynn’s shoulder till his throat was sore, while Resnick stared through the windscreen and tried to blot out the sound.