weren’t on what you’d call friendly terms?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Wouldn’t you, Derek?” Lorraine swiveled on the sofa, reaching out with her free hand to steady herself. “Really? Well, of course, that’s just because you’re too polite—Derek being polite, you see, gentlemanly. Quite big on the old-fashioned virtues, Derek, standing back and opening doors, always walking on the outside of the pavement so that … Why is that exactly, Derek, I forget? To protect me from anyone wanting to snatch my bag from a passing car or bike, or is it something to do with not getting splashed?”
Derek’s face drawn now, thin lips pursed tight; his hands, Vincent noticed, were closed into fists upon his thighs, their knuckles white. He was a small-boned man, wiry; if someone had said he had been an athlete when he was younger, middle distance most likely, Vincent would not have been surprised. Probably still played tennis in the summer, went swimming with the kids.
“He doesn’t like to give offense, you see,” Lorraine was saying, “Derek. Not to anybody. And not to me especially, this being such a delicate time. The funeral and then seeing Michael again after all that while …” Shifting position, Lorraine slid forward on the cushions of the settee, the tall glass wobbling in her hand till Vincent ducked forward quickly and took hold of it, easing it from her fingers and setting it on the floor.
Pushing a hand up through her hair, Lorraine gave Vincent a long look. “The truth of it—you want to hear the truth—is that Derek doesn’t like Michael one bit, he never did. Not ever.”
“That’s not true,” Derek exclaimed, looking at Lorraine for a moment, then away. “That’s just not true.”
“Of course it’s true. What’s the matter with you? Can’t you own up to a single bloody emotion, even if it means admitting you hate somebody’s guts?” Lorraine was leaning toward him, eager and alive; the brightness Vincent had noticed in her eyes before had returned.
“I don’t hate anyone.”
“Oh, Derek.” Lorraine reached down and recovered her glass. “You might keep it locked away inside, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there, festering away. All that ill will, gurgling around down there in your gut, growing …”
Before she could finish, Derek was on his feet and heading for the door. A smile on her face, Lorraine lifted her glass high, toasting him on his way. Footsteps faded, then stopped. Vincent was conscious of the clock ticking on the wall, of the glass tilting dangerously in Lorraine’s hand. Somewhere in the house, a door slammed.
Ten
Until he had fallen from grace into the arms of Helen Siddons some two years previously, Resnick’s immediate superior, Jack Skelton, had been an evangelist in the cause of cleanliness and Godliness, healthy bodies making healthy minds. “That man,” as Resnick’s colleague Reg Cossall had been heard to say, “doesn’t just think he’s holier than Jesus Christ; he thinks, given a standing start, he could take him over fifteen hundred meters.”
But the affair with Siddons pulled Skelton’s life apart. His daughter already off the rails in the way of teenage kids half the world over, his wife, Alice, had started doing her drinking and hollering in public, instead of in the privacy of their four-bedroom detached. For her part, Siddons tried easing herself out of the relationship and, when Skelton wouldn’t let go easily, she dumped him flat. Fitness regime abandoned, private life the stuff of canteen gossip, Skelton began turning in for work later and later and, on occasion, not at all. Only a sixth sense of survival, allied to some unofficial counseling from his colleagues, pulled him back from the brink.
At his age, not so far short of his statutory thirty years service, Skelton was never going to get back the taut trimness he once had; but the surplus fat that for a while had hung around his gut and pouched out his face had
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Wouldn’t you, Derek?” Lorraine swiveled on the sofa, reaching out with her free hand to steady herself. “Really? Well, of course, that’s just because you’re too polite—Derek being polite, you see, gentlemanly. Quite big on the old-fashioned virtues, Derek, standing back and opening doors, always walking on the outside of the pavement so that … Why is that exactly, Derek, I forget? To protect me from anyone wanting to snatch my bag from a passing car or bike, or is it something to do with not getting splashed?”
Derek’s face drawn now, thin lips pursed tight; his hands, Vincent noticed, were closed into fists upon his thighs, their knuckles white. He was a small-boned man, wiry; if someone had said he had been an athlete when he was younger, middle distance most likely, Vincent would not have been surprised. Probably still played tennis in the summer, went swimming with the kids.
“He doesn’t like to give offense, you see,” Lorraine was saying, “Derek. Not to anybody. And not to me especially, this being such a delicate time. The funeral and then seeing Michael again after all that while …” Shifting position, Lorraine slid forward on the cushions of the settee, the tall glass wobbling in her hand till Vincent ducked forward quickly and took hold of it, easing it from her fingers and setting it on the floor.
Pushing a hand up through her hair, Lorraine gave Vincent a long look. “The truth of it—you want to hear the truth—is that Derek doesn’t like Michael one bit, he never did. Not ever.”
“That’s not true,” Derek exclaimed, looking at Lorraine for a moment, then away. “That’s just not true.”
“Of course it’s true. What’s the matter with you? Can’t you own up to a single bloody emotion, even if it means admitting you hate somebody’s guts?” Lorraine was leaning toward him, eager and alive; the brightness Vincent had noticed in her eyes before had returned.
“I don’t hate anyone.”
“Oh, Derek.” Lorraine reached down and recovered her glass. “You might keep it locked away inside, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there, festering away. All that ill will, gurgling around down there in your gut, growing …”
Before she could finish, Derek was on his feet and heading for the door. A smile on her face, Lorraine lifted her glass high, toasting him on his way. Footsteps faded, then stopped. Vincent was conscious of the clock ticking on the wall, of the glass tilting dangerously in Lorraine’s hand. Somewhere in the house, a door slammed.
Ten
Until he had fallen from grace into the arms of Helen Siddons some two years previously, Resnick’s immediate superior, Jack Skelton, had been an evangelist in the cause of cleanliness and Godliness, healthy bodies making healthy minds. “That man,” as Resnick’s colleague Reg Cossall had been heard to say, “doesn’t just think he’s holier than Jesus Christ; he thinks, given a standing start, he could take him over fifteen hundred meters.”
But the affair with Siddons pulled Skelton’s life apart. His daughter already off the rails in the way of teenage kids half the world over, his wife, Alice, had started doing her drinking and hollering in public, instead of in the privacy of their four-bedroom detached. For her part, Siddons tried easing herself out of the relationship and, when Skelton wouldn’t let go easily, she dumped him flat. Fitness regime abandoned, private life the stuff of canteen gossip, Skelton began turning in for work later and later and, on occasion, not at all. Only a sixth sense of survival, allied to some unofficial counseling from his colleagues, pulled him back from the brink.
At his age, not so far short of his statutory thirty years service, Skelton was never going to get back the taut trimness he once had; but the surplus fat that for a while had hung around his gut and pouched out his face had
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