Dead Money, page 7
Trouble was, other than the kids demanding something of her every couple of minutes, she looked more interested than I'd envisaged. So I kept it light and informative and had to repeat myself because she didn't pick up on everything the first time round. Sometimes she picked up on stuff I hadn't even said.
"Ah, you see, we don't really have room for a conservatory."
"That's fine, no, I wasn't going to mention them."
"You just did."
"I mentioned that it was the same Pilkington glass that was in the conservatories."
"Mummy, may I have a biscuit?"
Mummy. Jesus wept. I kept my mouth shut.
"No, Isaac, you may not."
"Noah has one."
"Well, Noah shouldn't have one." To me, "Sorry, excuse me."
She got up and went through to the living room. Isaac followed her, kept his distance, as if someone else had grassed up poor old Noah. I heard voices, one of which was Mrs Lyon's, then I heard a smaller, weaker voice kick into a whine. More voices. I looked into my cup of Tassimo and thought it tasted like Costa's bins. When I swirled around the coffee, I could see the mud in the bottom of the cup. I turned on my mobile to see if Lucy had called in the meantime.
She hadn't. That was fine. I could wait just as long.
Mrs Lyon came back into the kitchen. She rolled her eyes. "Honestly. Children, who'd have them?"
"Not me," I said, and immediately regretted it. "Look, perhaps we'd better reschedule for some other time—"
"No, that's fine. He's settled now." Mrs Lyon put a chocolate biscuit on the table. "Would you like another coffee?"
"I'm fine, thank you. So were you looking to replace the windows at all? I noticed you had wooden sash."
"Oh, I love them. They're original to the house, you know."
I nodded. "Quite high maintenance, I'd imagine."
"Not really."
"So was it the door?"
"Excuse me?"
"What you arranged the appointment for."
She smiled at me. It was bland and stupid and I wanted to break it with my foot. "I told you, I didn't arrange the appointment. My husband did."
"And he didn't tell you what it was he was interested in?"
"No, he didn't. I thought you'd be able to tell me."
I regarded her for a moment, wondered if she was taking the piss. I mean, I supposed she wasn't, but there was something about the look on her face that made me think she was either having a warm one or else deeply deranged. Either way, I didn't fancy spending much more time in her company.
"Okay, well, I think we should probably reschedule for another time when your husband can tell us both what it was he had in mind."
"I could phone him."
I was all ready to go. I didn't particularly want her to phone him, but I couldn't tell her not to now. So I waved my hand at her and gave her a smile that hurt my cheeks. She picked up a cordless phone and pressed a number, apparently at random. And if my smile was stuck in place, hers was so loose it looked doped up. Was she drunk? High? Maybe a little bit of both? You heard stories about middle-class wives who made it through the day with a bottle of red and a fistful of pills. Mother's little helper and all that.
"Hi, darling, it's me. Yes, he's here now." She winked at me. "Yes, well, we're both kind of wondering what it was you had in mind. You know, why you arranged the appointment." She listened. She smiled some more, showed some teeth this time. "Oh, right! Gosh, well, I'm not sure he'd ... Okay." She held the phone out to me. "He wants to speak to you."
Just like the bad old days when we had to phone pitch from the directory. At least this one wouldn't end with a whistle being blown down the phone.
"Mr Lyon," I said, "how are you?"
"I'm fine. Terribly sorry I couldn't be there. Work called, and I had to answer, I'm afraid." His voice was deep enough to be put on. And part of me still reckoned this was a set-up. It'd all looked too good to be true on paper, and now here we were, a grinning idiot in front of me and a basso profundo bell-end on the phone.
"Completely understandable. I did ask if we needed to reschedule—"
"God, no. No need for that. We've got you now."
"Fine, okay." Mrs Lyon gestured to my coffee cup again. I put a hand over it and shook my head. "So what was it you were looking at?"
"The windows," he said.
"You're looking to replace the sash?"
Mrs Lyon frowned then. "No, we're not."
"No," said Mr Lyon at the same time. "No, not the window, the glass."
"The glass," I said.
And the smile came back to Mrs Lyon's lips. I only wish I could've felt the same way.
"Yes, we were looking for a quote for a complete replacement of all the glass in the house."
"But you want to keep the windows."
"That's correct."
I felt Mrs Lyon staring at me now. This would've been easier with the pair of them here. But then it would've been easier if they hadn't been a couple of idiots, too. "I'm afraid that's a little out of our remit. You're asking to replace single-glazing with double, that's fine, but Warmsafe tend to do the whole window rather than just the glass."
"Okay," said Mr Lyon, "so how much for just the glass?"
"We don't do it."
"You do windows."
"Yes."
"So ..."
"But not just the glass. You'll need to talk to a specialist glazier for that."
"Oh."
He said it; she did the face.
"Okay," said Mr Lyon. "I wonder if you would pass me back over to my wife, please?"
I did as I was told. She took the phone. I heard him talking. Sounded loud. Her face crinkled in the middle. She opened her mouth to speak on a few occasions, but was automatically silenced by her husband's voice. I couldn't help but wonder how he did it, because when Mrs Lyon hung up, she was utterly contrite, and quiet with it.
"I'm sorry we wasted your time, Mr Slater," she said.
"Not at all."
"No, I am. We should have researched a little more before calling you out here."
"Not a problem," I said. "I hope you find someone who can do the work for you."
"Yes," she said. "I hope we do, too."
I held out my hand to shake, but she didn't accept. If anything, she appeared to recoil a little. She led me back to the large, hardwood door in an apparent daze.
"You ever change your mind, you know where to get me."
She looked at me as if she didn't understand, then closed the door.
As soon as she did, my phone rang. I took the call as I marched back to my car. "Alan Slater."
"Ponce." It was Beale.
"What do you want, Les?"
"Want to know if you've changed your mind?"
"About what? Tomorrow night? No, I haven't."
"You should. You're missing out on an earner."
"I'd be missing out on another night's sleep. Can't afford to do that, Les."
"I forgot you were a company man now. You been to the seminar yet?"
"No. I'm down for Wednesday. With you."
Beale laughed. "Fuck that."
"Come on, man, you've got to turn up." I got into the car, shut the door. "You don't turn up, they'll put you out on your arse."
"Fuck them."
"Les, you can't afford—"
"I'm serious. I've got bigger fish to fry, my old son. Fuck Jimmy Henderson, fuck Warmsafe. I'm better than that. You are an' all, you know. You should come in with me on this thing—"
"Hey, look, good luck with it and everything, but it's not me, I told you."
"You'll be crying Saturday night when you're stuck watching fuckin' X Factor instead of making money."
"I'm sure I will."
I was sure I wouldn't. Beale signed off. I tried Lucy's number again. She had her mobile turned off. I turned off mine as well. Two could play at that game.
11
It was Cath's idea to eat out, which I should have taken as a warning. Whenever we ate out, we argued. But for a good long part of the meal, it was eating and suffering through her anecdotes about her silly middle-class mates, one of whom had taken to volunteering at Barnardos, but who couldn't stand the old women who essentially ran the place. I'd never met the woman, didn't give a shit if the bitchy biddies nailed her to the floor and burned her alive, so I nodded in the right places and kept my attention firmly fixed on the meal in front of me.
"Alan?"
I looked up to see a semi-pulped curl of paper in the middle of the table. It took me a moment to read the writing. The receipt from the off-licence, almost papier maché thanks to the rain, but clearly for a bottle of Jim Beam and from a place in Hulme. I looked at it, then her with the same practised and slightly confused expression.
"I found it in your jacket the other night."
I raised my eyebrows. She was going through my clothes now?
"You left it on the sofa, I was going to have it dry-cleaned so I had to go through the pockets."
"Okay."
"Do you know what it is?"
"It's a receipt."
"You want to tell me anything, Alan?"
"About what? It's a receipt for a bottle of Jim Beam. Beale likes Jim Beam. I bought him a bottle."
"I did think that it wasn't your drink."
"Then you were right, weren't you?" I looked around the restaurant. We'd done our mains but the desserts would still be a while coming yet. Cath was picky with her order. Meant they'd have to make it special for her. Nobody was paying us any attention, but I got the feeling Cath was building up to something, so I nipped it in the bud. "What's this about?"
"Beale lives in Chorlton, doesn't he?"
"That's right. Well remembered."
"So what were you doing in Hulme?"
"I was on a sit."
"You bought this when you were supposed to be at work?"
I nodded, pointed to the receipt. "You can see the time there."
"Did you and him drink it at work?"
"No. He's still got it."
"Because I didn't know you went round his house."
I looked at her through narrowed eyes. "What you digging for, Cath?"
It came out in a semi-apologetic rush: "Why'd you buy him a bottle when you two go out all the time? And if you were going to buy him a bottle, why'd you buy off the shelf? If it was a special occasion, why didn't you get him something special?"
I laughed. Seemed to be the best thing to do at the time.
"Don't laugh, Alan. Please."
"I don't know what else to do, I really don't. You sound insane."
She shook her head. The desserts arrived. I watched her eat a few mouthfuls before I started myself. The pear tart looked good, but it was tasteless. I took a sip of wine to get some feeling back in the inside of my mouth.
"Are you seeing someone else?" she asked.
"Don't be daft."
I should've just told her the truth. It was a perfect opportunity. I could've put a bullet in the head of this marriage, but I didn't. Mostly because I was tired, and the last thing I wanted to deal with now was an emotional woman. So I played innocent, but not outraged, and we carried on with the meal.
One thing I couldn't let go, though: "There used to be a time you trusted me."
She didn't answer.
"There used to be a time you didn't go through my pockets."
"I told you why I did that."
"The dry-cleaning. And if you think I believe that, Cath ..."
She fixed me with a sad stare. "I never felt I had to before, Alan."
I didn't answer her this time. I didn't think anything I had to say would sink in with her, so I kept quiet. She could play the martyr in her head as much as she wanted, but she wasn't making me feel guilty. I hadn't done anything wrong. She was the one going through my pockets and looking to spoil the most expensive meal I'd had this week. That took a special brand of selfishness.
She must have known that, because just after the coffees and petit fours were set down in front of us, she apologised.
I waved it off. "It's okay. Let's just leave it for now, though, eh?"
The coffee was bitter and hot. It was also, for the first time in a couple of days, good. It perked me up after the wine slowed me down. I must have been in a good mood because the bill looked reasonable. She didn't say much for the rest of the night. I wouldn't say she seemed preoccupied, because it wasn't like she was thinking, more just zoning out. That was fine by me, The less conversation the better. I had thinking to do, myself.
Like how to patch things up with Lucy. I knew she was playing funny buggers, and I wasn't going to be the one to back down first, but I couldn't help but wonder what she'd do otherwise. She was a good-looking girl. I wouldn't have been in this position if she wasn't. And as such, she could probably break it off with me and have her pick. Indeed, there was a significant and paranoid part of me that was convinced she'd bedded one of her flatmates at some point – in my kinkier moments, even the little feminist – but that might just have been the product of an overactive imagination belonging to a bloke who'd never had to share a house with anyone he wasn't supposedly having sex with.
I could wait her out, I was positive of that. But the question was, did I really have to do that, or would a phone call in a couple of days suffice? Fact was, I had treated her like shit this past week. She probably should have taken priority over Beale. Actually, no, there was no probably about it. I enjoyed myself more in her company then I ever had in Beale's. And was I really about to lose that company because I was too pig-headed to admit I was wrong?
If Cath hadn't been sat in front of me, I'd have called Lucy there and then. Instead, I had to hold my tongue and wait out the rest of the meal.
We left late. She got her own coat and her own door. Closest I came to touching her was a hovering hand on the small of her back as I guided her out of the restaurant. She wrinkled her nose when she got in the car, the same way she did when she got in to come over here. It was the dog smell. I'd gotten used to it, but I knew it was still pervasive. I lit a cigarette to kill it, and her look of disgust went from being directed at her general surroundings to a more specific me.
I didn't care. I smoked that one, and I smoked another one after it, and I didn't crack a window because it was cold outside. Twice she started to say something, and twice she caught herself.
Good girl. Resistance was futile.
We got home and she went straight into the shower. I poured myself a nightcap and stared at Buttons. Buttons stared right back. Would've done that all night if I hadn't gone to bed. I lay there in the dark. After a while Cath came in. She lay down next to me, but at a distance. I could feel the tension, but it didn't make any difference to me. I closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, it was two in the morning and my mobile was ringing The Muppet Show.
I blinked and swung my legs out of bed. My feet hit carpet, but not before one of them hit something wet. I hopped through to the living room and saw that Buttons had been up to his usual bollocks. Leaned over and snatched my jacket off the chair, removed my mobile as I hopped back through to the bathroom. Toilet roll took care of most of the shit, but I still needed a rinse.
"Hello?" I said, and switched on the taps full blast.
A voice, quiet on the other end. Someone saying something, but I couldn't make it out over the water. I turned off the taps.
I recognised the voice, but not the volume. It was Beale.
"Les? Speak up, mate."
He coughed down the phone. Then he said, so clear it was as if interference had been lifted: "I think I killed Stevie."
12
What's the old joke? A friend will help you move, but a good friend will help you move a body?
Yeah, well, it wasn't so funny when someone took it to heart.
The shit on my foot was the least of my problems. Second least was driving knackered.
So he thought he'd killed Stevie. Not good. In fact, almost the dictionary definition of bad. I had Chet Baker playing in the car. He was singing about his funny valentine. It was gentle, it was soothing, it was—
Stevie was dead. And Beale was sure he'd done it.
He didn't go into any details over the phone. He'd always been paranoid about mobiles, and probably with good reason. I didn't think I'd be comfortable discussing the murder I'd just committed on an open line, either.
Check them off, one by one.
He was probably drunk. He sounded drunk. So it probably wasn't as bad as he thought it was – let's face it, it couldn't have been much worse. Chances were, Stevie was just unconscious and bleeding.
That, I could handle. And from what I recalled of Stevie, it wasn't like the lad didn't deserve a good hard slap. My thinking was, the cocky little bastard probably tried to put one over on Beale and Beale had decked him for his trouble. Stuff like that had happened before and as long as Beale was equal parts naive and bolshy, it would happen again.
See, I knew this game was a bad idea from the get-go. Told him, too. Told him a few times. But see Beale, once he got an idea in his head ...
Beale and his missus bought their house when the area was unfashionable. As far as I was concerned, it still was. Passing new-builds on both sides, I saw little touches here and there – different paintwork, a little carved house number sign, an unkempt but otherwise fertile flower bed next to the driveway. I knew Beale's house from the end of the cul-de-sac. It was the only one with the lights still on.
I parked the Rover behind Beale's Mondeo. Someone had taken a key to the paintwork. Even in the dark, I could see the mess. The curtains in the living room window moved. I listened to Chet for one more verse, then throttled him. I needed to approach this calmly. No point in rushing in there looking to blame. But still, if this was just another one of Beale's drunken scrapes, I had a few places he could go to, and number one was Hell.
I got out of the car. The front door opened. Beale's bulk filled the doorway, but I couldn't see his face. As I approached, he whispered at me to get the fuck inside.
"What's all this about, Les?"
He flinched at the sound of my voice. He grabbed my arm and pulled me into the hall. Once inside, he closed the door quietly behind us. I smelled alcohol, a mixture of stale and recent. Smelled that on Beale before, but tonight it had a different, much more worrying connotation. His face was yellowish, his eyes bugging out of his head. Spittle had crusted in the corner of his mouth.
