Stone Cold Red Hot - [49]

Ray mistook my preoccupation with work for an extended sulk. He’s the sulky one usually, I’m more apt to lay the cards on the table or just lose my temper. He matched my silence with his own but I barely registered until Tom piped up. “Why’s everybody all grumpy?”

“I’m not,” Maddie said.

“Just tired,” Ray lied.

“I’m thinking about work,” I said, “and that’s making me grumpy.”

“Think about something happy, then,” Maddie suggested.

“I’ll try.”

“Think about Christmas presents.”

“And sweets.”

I cleared the table as the two of them invented outrageous wish lists based on all the television adverts they’d been watching.

Ray called Digger and they went off for walkies.

I had other creatures to attend to. “Maddie, Tom, we need to check your hair.”

They groaned in unison.

It was a regular palaver. I smothered their hair with conditioner then combed it through several times with a nit comb.

Time was we’d had to use a range of chemical treatments that filled the room with fumes and made our eyes water, but Manchester lice had become immune and the authorities feared we were in danger of poisoning our children; like sheep that were dipped too often they might end up twitching and collapsing, nerves and immune systems shot at, hence the conditioner and comb.

I found nothing on Tom.

“Don’t tell me, Mummy,” Maddie instructed me as she bent over the basin so I kept it to myself, tapped the two adult-size beasties into the sink and rinsed them away. I then applied herbal shampoo designed to deter lice to each scalp and put them in the bath for quarter of an hour while the lotion did its stuff. My head itched. I would do myself later.

While Ray was out I rehearsed what I would say when he got back. By the time I’d washed up, tidied the kitchen and swept the floor I was word perfect.

I heard the door open then Digger ambled into the kitchen followed by Ray. I didn’t even give him time to take his jacket off.

“I think we should have a talk, Ray. Can we fix a time?”

He sighed theatrically. “If this is all about yesterday…” he began.

“It’s not just that, there are other things and I’d rather we discussed them when we’ve got time to do it properly. One evening perhaps?”

“I can’t do this weekend,” he said quickly.

“Next week sometime, Monday, Tuesday?”

“Tuesday.”

“After they’re in bed.”

He nodded and wandered out. I let go of the tea-towel that I’d been gripping so firmly and rubbed at the cramp in my hand.

Chapter eighteen

I was restless that evening. I wanted, more than anything, to pamper myself, to relax. I went through the motions; opened a bottle of red wine, got my book and a snack ready, tidied my room, had scented candles in my bath. It was all very pleasant but my mind was locked on Jennifer Pickering. I even tried day-dreaming about Stuart Bowker but he kept sliding away to be replaced by other visions: Jennifer shouting at her father, Frank feverishly building the shed, Barbara clearing out her daughter’s room. There was a constant churning in my guts.

Finally I slept. In my dream I was yelling at Mrs Pickering who was forcing soil into my mouth. Ray stood beside her watching. Then he began to call my name.

“Sal, Sal.”

I woke with a muggy headache and a furry mouth. Ray stood in my doorway. I felt a irrational surge of anger at how he had betrayed me in the dream.

“Phone for you.”

I reached the phone expecting Diane, who, not having children, doesn’t know the meaning of an early night.

“Sal, it’s Mr Poole, there’s trouble again – they’re back outside the house, calling names and that, a big gang of them.”

“Right, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I stumbled around getting my bag with the video camera, disguise, phone, keys. I washed two paracetamol down with a glass of water. I knew I shouldn’t mix them with alcohol but if my headache got much worse I’d barely be able to function.

“Becoming a bit of a habit,” Ray said when I reached the kitchen.

“Yes, I’ll be glad when this job’s over.” And the other one, I thought. I’d solved the mystery of Jennifer’s disappearance but I’d yet to disclose it to anyone and I wasn’t looking forward to the response I’d get. Truth or not I felt like a pariah.

I rang for a cab. I watched out of the window for it to arrive. The wind had got up and was blowing hard at the trees. Carrier bags went careering down the street. Dark clouds were moving swiftly against a darker sky and across a creamy, full moon.

I climbed into the taxi and V. Chowdury greeted me.

“I got the call,” he said, “recognised the address. You on a job then?”

I felt a rush of confusion. I didn’t want to endanger the guy by asking him to drive me to the Close where the bully boys were out in force but would it be right to refuse to ride with him because of his race? How could I explain?

“This might not be a very good idea.”

“What?”

“I’m going back to Canterbury Close, in Hulme, where you picked me up before.”

“Yeah.”

“The reason I’m going is there’s some racists, kicking up trouble, they’re harassing a family on the Close and I’m filming it for evidence. They could just as easily turn on you.”