Wasted Years

Fifty-Two

The first thing Ruth saw when she looked through the window that morning was the car she had heard drive up, parked now down by the sea wall, close to the first of the lobster nets. One of those removable signs on the passenger door, a minicab, car and driver for hire.

Ruth threw a coat over her shoulders, told the dog to stay where it was. “You didn’t come all this way by taxi?”

Prior gestured, palms of his hands outwards. “I don’t have a license, Ruthie, don’t own a car. What else was I to do?”

Stay away? Ruth thought, the words catching on her lips. Christ, she thought, I would hardly have recognized him. For the first time she had some insight into what it must have been like for him inside, locked away all those years.

Prior stood before her, almost sheepish. “Aren’t we supposed to kiss or something?”

Despite herself, Ruth smiled. “Why break the habit of a lifetime?” she said.

Prior smiled back with his eyes. He wasn’t going to hurt her, she could tell that. “Why don’t you come inside?” she asked. “I’ll make some tea.”

Prior looked off towards the sea. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d sooner stay out here.”

“Fancy a walk, then?”

“Why not?”

“Wait a second,” Ruth said, turning back towards the house. “If I leave the dog behind, he won’t understand.”

She waited until they were on the hard, damp sand, heading south, before telling him of Resnick’s visit, telling him about Rains, the way he had got into her room at night, half-frightened her to death. Pretended to have killed the dog.

“Bastard!” Prior whispered.

“Rains,” Ruth said, “there’s more.”

“You don’t have to tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“Yes, you do,” Ruth said. “It’s why you’re here.”

When she had felt married to him, living with him, imprisoned by him, Ruth had never been able to talk to him; now she had seen him again, this stranger, she could tell him anything.

She did: anything and everything.

Prior listened without interruption; said nothing for a long time. When he spoke it was almost wistful, distant-“Makes you think, what happened to you, me, Rains running free.” There was no disguising the hurt and anger in his eyes.

“D’you want to turn back?” Ruth asked when they reached a point where the dunes came down closer towards the sea. “We’ve come a long way.”

“Yes, all right. Best think about the taxi fare, eh?”

Several times walking back towards the cottages, Prior picked up a piece of driftwood, bleached white, and threw it for the dog to chase. At the sea wall, Ruth turned quickly towards him, kissed him on the face, and hurried across the green, just managing not to run, not looking back until she was inside and the car was puffing away on its long journey home.

Too late to cry now.

Prior remembered Churchill’s mum, how she always maintained he was a good son. When Prior called on her out of the blue, she was pleased to see him, invited him in.

“Frank never told me you was out.”

“Could be he doesn’t know.”

“He’ll be around soon. Always comes by of an evening when he can, likes to know I’m all right. Well, you can see I am. Come on in the lounge and put your feet up, some dreadful rubbish on telly, never mind. He’ll be right pleased to see you, will Frank.”

He was so pleased he tried a runner, but Prior had him by the throat, face pressed hard against the paintwork on his mum’s lounge door. “I always knew you weren’t worth the paper I shat on, Frank. Just give me where I can find Rains, that’s all I want with you. And don’t you try and warn him or I might be back.”

“Thanks, Mrs Churchill,” Prior said at the rear door. “Nice to see you looking so well.”

Rains had more or less finished his business here, one more plan to okay, another investment to be made on his way back through London, currency to be transferred into his bank in Spain as pesetas. It was as well he’d come out to talk to Frank himself, convince him of the wisdom of riding their luck less hard. When you’d kept a good thing going this long, criminal to see it come down, all because of a little local greed. But he was happy now. Frank would pass along the word, see it all sorted. Tomorrow he’d be back on the plane, leaving Resnick and the rest of his former colleagues still floundering.

Rains took the brandy bottle over to the bed, poured a good measure into the glass, and slid between the sheets. He had bought a Jeffrey Archer at the airport coming over and he read a couple more chapters now before finishing his drink and switching out the light.

In less than ten minutes he was asleep.

He was still asleep when a hand clamped across his mouth and a voice he failed to recognize spoke his name. Suddenly awake, he wriggled against the weight that was holding him down.

“Rains?”

The only reply was muffled, angry. What the hell was going on?

“It’s me, Prior. This is for me. And my wife. In a way it’s from Frank, too.”

It was the old coal hammer that had stood by Frank’s mum’s hearth more than twenty years. When her late husband had worked down the pit she’d got free coal and she’d kept the hammer there, handy, for breaking up the larger chunks. Prior lifted it above his head and brought it down between Rains’s eyes as hard as he could.

Likely that blow was enough to kill him, but Prior didn’t stop until the greater part of Rains’s once handsome face was spread across the pillow and beyond.

He dropped the hammer down and wiped his hands upon the sheet, wiped splashes of blood from the bottle, and gulped down some brandy, neat. There was a telephone in the next room and he used that to make the call.

“Hello? Who is this?” The voice was faltering, heavy with sleep.

“Is that Pam? Pam Van Allen?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s me, Prior.”

“Why are you ringing me at home, and at this time?”

“You gave me your number.”

“Yes, for emergencies.”

“Right,” Prior said, “that’s what this is.”

Resnick waited a week. Prior was back inside, awaiting trial for murder. True to form, Frank Churchill had grassed on all and sundry in order to save his own hide; six men were on remand, facing five counts each of armed robbery, including Churchill himself. Ruth stayed put in her cottage, and Debbie Naylor had moved back in with Kevin and the baby, though she left some of her things at her mother’s just in case. Lorna Solomon applied for a job in the principal office of the Abbey National Building Society in Sheffield and got it. Mark Divine went to France for a weekend by Hovercraft and was sick both ways. Resnick waited a week before dialing the probation office number and asking to speak to Pam Van Allen.

“I suppose you’re calling to crow,” she said, when she knew who it was

“What over?”

“Prior, of course.”

“Why? You were right. You said he had no antagonism towards his wife and you were right.”

There was an uneasy pause and then Pam said, “Look, I’m sorry, but I’m really busy …”

“What would you think about meeting me some time?” Resnick asked. “A drink or something. After work.”

He imagined her staring at the phone, surprised, maybe slightly embarrassed, maybe pushing one hand up through her silver-gray hair.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “I’ll have to think about it. I’ll let you know.” And she hung up.

Resnick placed the receiver and went out into the CID room, hoping not too many people would notice the smile beginning to form on his face.