Chapter 6
Next day at the station, Anderson could sense that there was an atmosphere. A few more faces than usual looked up when he walked across the incident room and the chatter was livelier than the day before. At first Anderson thought they knew something that he didn’t. That they’d struck lucky - that the case was about to break but back in his office with Comben sitting in front of him, he knew that wasn’t it. He wanted to slap away the half smirk on Comben’s face; instead he kept his lips tight wondered how they had slipped up.
Secrets were not easy to keep in the force - after all he was running a team of detectives. There were two ways they might have got caught out. First, his relief might have come earlier than expected in the morning and left quietly when he saw what was happening or maybe the officer outside had popped in for a hot drink during the night and heard them. On the other hand his taking on the job of guard duty was not very sensible. His motivation was pretty obvious. Whatever it was, he hadn’t been careful enough.
There was only one thing to do and he did it: get on with the job. He wanted to get Comben out of there and away from him. ‘See if you can get anything more from Amanda what’s-her-name and then see if Mrs Downing needs anything. I’ll visit Mark Turney to tell him what’s happened to his wife.’ Both men could see that was an unfortunate phrase and the half became a full smirk on Comben’s face. It was not a good start to the day.
The two men parted in silence. Anderson wondered how long it would take for those above to find out. And if they did, would they do anything? It was hardly a capital offence. Still there was no point in worrying: he had a murder case to solve.
Later that day, he drove to the park and waited across the street in his car until Mark came home from work. Then he followed Turney up his front path. Mark turned and Anderson could see that he was not surprised to see him. Why should he be? Clarissa had been spirited away and he had been promised information that he hadn’t yet got. A visit from the police was the most likely of events. Anderson knew what to expect from him and was not disappointed.
‘Where’s my wife?’ he asked.
Anderson motioned to him to unlock the door. The man neither said anything further nor did he open his front door.
‘Shall we go inside,’ said Anderson.
Mark let them both in and then walked ahead to the kitchen. He sat down and hung one shoulder of his jacket over the seat back so that the other draped itself half way down on the other side. Turney had wide shoulders and he didn’t seem to mind creasing the jacket. One fell forward revealing a label Anderson recognised. It wasn’t his own style, since he went in for tailored suits while Turney’s was unstructured but Mark was younger and Anderson had to accept that he knew how to dress his age. Anderson wondered where the money came from. Did Clarissa give him a dress allowance?
Anderson hitched up his wool trousers and sat upright across the table. Mark lounged and allowed his cotton ’chinos’ to fall into natural folds. Anderson thought back a few years and imagined that, then, Mark would have been considered scruffy. But now the carefully chosen shades of blue that co-ordinated his outfit from mid-blue jacket through his lighter shirt and darker trousers down to his deep blue suede sporty shoes produced anything but that effect. He was smart but at ease with himself. Anderson felt himself to be stuffy, stuck in an age when only suits were considered smart and ties were essential. ‘I can’t tell you where she is,’ he said.
‘Why not? Do you think she’s in danger from me?’
‘No, but where security is concerned, the less people who know, the better.’
‘Can’t she phone me?’
Clarissa had refused to do this. Anderson wondered whether to tell him. Then he decided. ‘She doesn’t want to. It’s something between the two of you. Nothing to do with the case.’
‘Will you take a letter to her?’
Anderson nodded and Turney got up and walked out of the kitchen into another room to write his note. Anderson watched him move. He was about the same height as himself but broader in the chest. His tee shirt showed off his upper musculature and arms, while his loose trousers hid his legs but Anderson imagined they were equally well proportioned. A few years back he would have fancied his chances but now it would be sensible to leave any physical stuff to Comben, where Turney was concerned - if it ever came to that. He didn’t yet resemble those TV detectives who were too fat or too old or unfit through drink to chase criminals or take them on physically but it was coming.
As he waited, he wondered why he was thinking like this. He had no evidence to suspect Turney: it was purely personal prejudice. His judgement was becoming clouded and it had to stop, he couldn’t do a good job this way.
A few minutes later Turney came back with his note sealed in an envelope.
‘When will she get it?’
‘I’ll make sure it gets to her tonight.’
‘Will you take it yourself?’
‘Probably not, one of the relief officers can do that.’
Anderson had the note in his hand as he climbed the steps to the safe flat. Anderson would have preferred it to be a busier district and it had been at one time. Now half the shops were boarded up and, at night, there was little activity.
It was odd, as he climbed a distinct itchy fuzzy or tingly feeling pervaded his legs and then travelled upwards. He felt like a teenager again going to see his girl. This time the ’girl’ was a woman in her forties and not fifteen or twenty years younger as they had been since Gabriella had walked out on him. Was he growing up at last? Was adulthood beckoning? Anderson thought it was about time and his legs sprung him upwards.
Clarissa was bored. Anderson could see that in the languid way she looked up from her new laptop on the table in front of her. There wasn’t a glimmer of life in her eyes. Clearly, the changing personnel were making little impression on her. The succession of young uniforms was not in the least attractive. Clarissa was grown up: she was looking for a mature man. Or was all that simply wishful thinking?
Gratifyingly her eyes did light when she recognised him. He sent Tompkins out for tea and told him to leave his gun. The young man was doubtful but Anderson told him he had taken the firearm course. The constable acquiesced, although Anderson could see that the man felt naked without his weapon.
Anderson walked across the room and Clarissa stood up but stayed behind the small table, brought especially from her house so she could work. There really was no immediate future in it, since he couldn’t stay and anyway Tompkins would be back far too soon but he still lent across and kissed her. She didn’t respond but kept very still without leaning in to him. It was a small reprimand but Anderson felt he had been slapped across the face - had he blushed? He kissed her again on the mouth and this time she pressed back and opened her mouth. He had been forgiven.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked.
‘Trying to solve two murders,’ he said.
‘And have you?’
‘Maybe.’
She moved away from the table and sat on the settee. He sat next to her.
‘Have you caught him?’
‘Who?’
‘Whatever his name is - Julian?’
‘No, but we know where he lives or lived.’
‘So I’m still in danger?’
‘Until we catch him, yes. Are you bored?’
‘I have my work.’
‘But you’re still bored.’
‘I wouldn’t be if you came around more often.’
‘I can’t do that’
‘And when I go home?’
Anderson was close to her and she had turned towards him and lent over so that he could feel her body - her breasts - next to his chest. It was a good feeling but he had to ask. ‘Are you and Mark very unhappy together?’
‘I already told you he has another woman.’
‘That doesn’t mean that you’re unhappy with him.’
‘It does in my world.’
‘And I came along at a convenient time,’ Anderson said.
‘Yes, good isn’t it,’ she said, ’aren’t you happy about that?’
Anderson smiled. He couldn’t believe he had said that. What was next: ’do you really love me?’ This was too adolescent; where was his new found maturity? ‘Does Mark inherit if you die?’ he asked.
Clarissa hesitated before answering. Her frown told Anderson that she didn’t like the implication of his question. ‘You don’t really believe this has anything to do with Mark and myself do you?’ she asked.
‘We have to cover everything,’ he said.
‘You mean, “it’s just routine” don’t you.’
‘But he does,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Has Mark money of his own?’
‘Not a lot. I make him work.’
‘Where did you meet?’
‘At a party given by an acquaintance. I’m often asked and used to accept. It was flattering to be lionised.’
‘And you were single.’
‘No,’ she said, ’but I was quite soon afterwards. And you?’
‘Divorced,’ he said.
‘I always did think Mark made a play for me because of my money. At the time, it didn’t seem to matter.’ She waited for his reaction. ‘Are you scandalised? It’s the sort of thing men do all the time. Look at the number of old rich men with young adoring wives.’
Anderson was scandalised but he wasn’t going to say so. His new found maturity meant he didn’t like to see old men with teenage brides either. He got up. ‘I must go,’ he said.
She stood as well and they kissed. This time it was simple.
‘You will release me as soon as you can won’t you?’ she asked.
‘But no sooner,’ he said, ‘I don’t want another corpse on my hands.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I can’t see you as a necrophiliac’
Tompkins was waiting outside the door when Anderson opened it. He could have hoped for less tact on the part of junior officers.