back-doubles. He flung the car round corners on a small industrial estate, took it up a cobbled alley-way, round the back of a parking lot and back on to the main route again, tyres screaming. When they arrived at number fourteen Roman Court, Todd was pale and Bailey felt calmer, not ashamed for shaking his passengerâs composure.
They would not be talking to the victim. She was resting in her own flat, her mother said, and that was not, in any event, the purpose of the visit. Bailey had seen her statement already, it was background he wanted. Something to make the girl more than a silhouette and a name on paper. Something, perhaps, to stop himself disliking her.
The parents were not of the kind accustomed to being deferential to the police. Middle years, old enough to have watched
Dixon of Dock Green
on TV and then read three decades of newspapers detailing the destruction of that avuncular image. Mr Pelmore had twice been stopped for speeding and Mrs Pelmore had once been the victim of an overzealous store detective, so both of them were experts on the law. They saw themselves as minority honest citizens; fully employed, subject to harassment. Shelley, their daughter, was one of three children. Looking around, Bailey imagined he could guess an enthusiasm to leave home, even, as in Shelleyâs case, to live with a boyfriend less than two miles away.
âSheâs a good girl,â the mother said, as if anyone had yet suggested otherwise. âA sweet girl. Quiet.â
A parent would always claim a girl was good. Bailey hadwaited years for one to boast that his or her child was gloriously, colourfully bad. The father was silent. Both sat in their living room, defiantly occupying their regular oatmeal fabric covered chairs with uncomfortable wooden arms. Two dining chairs had been produced for the officers to sit facing them, perhaps to emphasize the fact that the interview was on sufferance. Tea was not offered. The room itself personified contemporary gloom: dark-blue carpet, patterned blue curtains, light-blue wallpaper with heavy borders near the ceiling, fittings of orangey-coloured wood. The shelves housed no books, but contained instead carefully arranged china figures of ladies in crinolines, shepherds and shepherdesses, dogs, cats and horses, all prancing together in sterile contemplation of a large loud clock on the opposite wall. Everything was depressingly tidy. Bailey remembered that his own flat had been given a similar description by Helen some time since, but his flat was different. It was eclectic. There was another passing thought, as he let the words flow over and around him, while he arranged his own face in an expression of rapt and kindly concentration. Would he and Helen sit thus, in chairs like this, when they reached the stage of Darby and Joan? The thought made him shudder. He never wanted to be fastidious. Not about emotion; not about anything.
âYes,â said father at last. âA very good girl. Always worked, Shell. Never cost us.â Bailey could not help himself, he leant forward with his arms resting on his thin knees. His legs were too long for the narrow room; Todd thought he had a face like a hatchet.
âWhat exactly do you mean by âgoodâ? Do you meangood in school, good at helping blind people at zebra crossings, kind to animals, or not many boyfriends?â He spoke with all the congeniality of a cobra, but quietly, scratching his head as an afterthought to suggest genuine confusion. Both mum and dad bridled; mother spoke first.
âI mean a good girl, thatâs what I mean! Not one of those dole spongers! And she lives with this decent bloke. Been going out with him since she was sixteen. Works hard, he does, too. Electrician; works shifts. They got a flat on a mortgage. Getting married.â She spat the last with a note of triumph.
âShe liked animals,â father added as a delayed reaction. âLeast, she did when she was a
They would not be talking to the victim. She was resting in her own flat, her mother said, and that was not, in any event, the purpose of the visit. Bailey had seen her statement already, it was background he wanted. Something to make the girl more than a silhouette and a name on paper. Something, perhaps, to stop himself disliking her.
The parents were not of the kind accustomed to being deferential to the police. Middle years, old enough to have watched
Dixon of Dock Green
on TV and then read three decades of newspapers detailing the destruction of that avuncular image. Mr Pelmore had twice been stopped for speeding and Mrs Pelmore had once been the victim of an overzealous store detective, so both of them were experts on the law. They saw themselves as minority honest citizens; fully employed, subject to harassment. Shelley, their daughter, was one of three children. Looking around, Bailey imagined he could guess an enthusiasm to leave home, even, as in Shelleyâs case, to live with a boyfriend less than two miles away.
âSheâs a good girl,â the mother said, as if anyone had yet suggested otherwise. âA sweet girl. Quiet.â
A parent would always claim a girl was good. Bailey hadwaited years for one to boast that his or her child was gloriously, colourfully bad. The father was silent. Both sat in their living room, defiantly occupying their regular oatmeal fabric covered chairs with uncomfortable wooden arms. Two dining chairs had been produced for the officers to sit facing them, perhaps to emphasize the fact that the interview was on sufferance. Tea was not offered. The room itself personified contemporary gloom: dark-blue carpet, patterned blue curtains, light-blue wallpaper with heavy borders near the ceiling, fittings of orangey-coloured wood. The shelves housed no books, but contained instead carefully arranged china figures of ladies in crinolines, shepherds and shepherdesses, dogs, cats and horses, all prancing together in sterile contemplation of a large loud clock on the opposite wall. Everything was depressingly tidy. Bailey remembered that his own flat had been given a similar description by Helen some time since, but his flat was different. It was eclectic. There was another passing thought, as he let the words flow over and around him, while he arranged his own face in an expression of rapt and kindly concentration. Would he and Helen sit thus, in chairs like this, when they reached the stage of Darby and Joan? The thought made him shudder. He never wanted to be fastidious. Not about emotion; not about anything.
âYes,â said father at last. âA very good girl. Always worked, Shell. Never cost us.â Bailey could not help himself, he leant forward with his arms resting on his thin knees. His legs were too long for the narrow room; Todd thought he had a face like a hatchet.
âWhat exactly do you mean by âgoodâ? Do you meangood in school, good at helping blind people at zebra crossings, kind to animals, or not many boyfriends?â He spoke with all the congeniality of a cobra, but quietly, scratching his head as an afterthought to suggest genuine confusion. Both mum and dad bridled; mother spoke first.
âI mean a good girl, thatâs what I mean! Not one of those dole spongers! And she lives with this decent bloke. Been going out with him since she was sixteen. Works hard, he does, too. Electrician; works shifts. They got a flat on a mortgage. Getting married.â She spat the last with a note of triumph.
âShe liked animals,â father added as a delayed reaction. âLeast, she did when she was a
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