Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries 6

He fought the urge to slap her hand away, instead gratefully smiling as she smoothed it into place.

“Perfect,” she said, standing back. “I’ve ordered you a cab. We don’t want you going by bus and getting there late.”

He sat down and waited for her to cook him breakfast.

“Just here’s fine, mate.” He leaned over from the rear of the cab.

“The betting office?” the driver replied, confused after hearing the pudgy woman wish the passenger good luck in his job interview.

“Yeah, here will do.”

“That’s four eighty then, please.”

He counted out the exact money, then climbed out, the cabbie not bothering to thank him as he drove off. A bout of coughing caught him by surprise as he walked towards the bookie’s and he lit a cigarette to quell the itch in his throat.

The morning was spent working out his bets. He rang Marjorie at midday. “I’ve got the job. Can you believe it?!”

“Daniel, that’s brilliant. I’ll cook something special for tea.”

“They want me to start straightaway. I’ve got a sales patch right in the centre of town. Mainly pubs, so I’ll probably end up smelling of cigarettes each day.”

“Never mind. Did they say what they’ll pay you?”

“It’s commission only, but the vacuum is a great product. I’m sure I’ll sell loads. I’ve got to demo it to prospective customers. They’re dropping me off and have given me a special trolley to wheel it around on.”

“They’re making you carry one around town?”

“Yes. And I have to drop it back off at the factory at the end of each day.”

“That’s ridiculous. You need a car.”

He smiled to himself. “I’ll manage somehow. Now I’ve got to go. See you later.”

He hung up and then walked over to the Tap and Spile. “Hello there,” he said, taking the same stool at the bar, straightening a pristine shirt cuff.

She looked up, a tea towel in her hand, eyes passing briefly over his suit. “Hello again. Thanks for the champagne the other night.”

“My pleasure,” he replied.

“How’s business going?”

“Okay,” he said. “There’s a few question marks over the rates the council wants to charge. I’m arguing it’s a multi-let property, so not subject to the standard commercial tariffs they’d levy if…” He paused. “Sorry, that’s probably more of an answer than you were expecting. How about you?”

She looked round the deserted pub. “Lunches tend to be quiet. But I’m not giving up the bar meals. Every decent pub should offer them.”

He picked up a menu. “What do you recommend, then?”

“I don’t know,” she said, polishing another glass. “The chicken pie is good.”

“Homemade, too, I see.”

“Of course.”

“Is it breast or leg?” he asked provocatively.

“You’ll have to see,” she replied, one eyebrow arching upwards.

“Fine with me. I love both,” he said, placing an elbow on the bar.

He walked back to the bookie’s a couple of hours later, stopping at a newsagent’s to buy some Rennie for the burning ache at the back of his throat. Things were looking good. Marjorie was proving as easy as he knew she would be and it was going better than he dared hope with Jan. So good, in fact, he’d asked her out to dinner on Sunday night. He pictured her face, her cleavage, and realised she was really growing on him. If his plans for Marjorie worked out, he and Jan could look forward to some fun times together.

The next morning he woke with a headache and a metallic taste in his mouth. He struggled out of bed, a bout of coughs wracking his chest. God, he felt awful. He counted back the number of drinks he’d got through in the pub. Not enough to warrant a hangover like this. He’d have to have a word with Jan about how often she cleaned the pipes in her pub.

In the bathroom he stared in the mirror. His skin looked grey and a latticework of tiny veins marred the whites of his eyes.

“‘Morning,” he said dully, shuffling into the kitchen in a bath-robe and slippers.

“Daniel, are you all right?” Marjorie said, lines of concern across her forehead.

“Not so good, actually. I’m glad it’s Saturday. I don’t think I could have faced working today. Have you got any aspirin?”

“Yes,” she said, immediately opening a cupboard and reaching up to the top shelf. He watched the flesh wobbling under her thick upper arms with disgust.

“Here we are. Now you go and sit on the sofa. Can you manage some tea and toast? I’ll bring everything through.”

She bustled in with a blanket shortly after, tucking it around him before carrying through a tray piled with toast, a pot of tea, a glass of milk, and two aspirin in a little pot.

“Thanks, could you pass me the remote?”

She appeared again a couple of hours later, hovering by the sofa and aggravating him with her presence. “I’m going to the cemetery today. I always take flowers for my babies on a Saturday. Do you feel up to coming? We could take some for your mother, too.”

Her and those bloody babies, he thought, dragging his eyes from the TV screen. Normally a lie would appear instantly on his lips, but his mind seemed to be working sluggishly. “Erm, no. No, thanks.”

“No to coming with me?”

“Yes, I still feel terrible.”

“How about I take some flowers for your mother? You’ll need to tell me exactly where her grave is.”

He raised his fingers to his temples and shut his eyes. “No, don’t worry. I’d feel guilty if you took flowers for me. It’s something I’d prefer to do myself.”

“Okay, then. Would you like more tea? Or an Ovaltine, perhaps?”

He looked at the huge pot, still half full. “Yes, an Ovaltine sounds good. And a couple more aspirin, please.”

Once she’d gone he sat sipping his drink, swallowing down the aspirin with the last gulp. Then he kicked off the blanket, walked over to the front window, lifted the net curtain, and peered down the street. No sign of her. His temples were thudding and he realised his heart was racing uncomfortably fast as he turned to the top drawer of the dresser and took the file out.

Everything was there. Details of several savings accounts, bank cards, cheque books, even the deeds to the house. He flicked through to the back of the file, grunting incredulously when he found the sheet of paper with all the passwords for her savings accounts neatly written out. Stupid, stupid bitch. He thought forward to his meal with Jan the following evening. If everything went smoothly, he’d start draining Marjorie’s accounts dry the next day. Then he could invite Jan on a luxury cruise and be out of this horrible house within a week.

He turned to the envelope at the front and counted the cash inside. Almost four hundred quid. Taking the phone and a copy of the yellow pages back to the sofa, he found the number for the bookie’s he’d become a regular in. “Hi, George, it’s Dan Norris here. Can I place a few phone bets?”

The keys clicked in the front door after lunch and she walked into the front room, a rosy flush on her chubby cheeks. “How are you feeling?”

“Rotten,” he said, shifting on the sofa. “This headache seems to be getting worse.”

“Poor baby,” she said, shrugging off her coat and pressing her fingertips to his brow. “Perhaps I should take your temperature. You could be coming down with the flu. It’s that time of year.”

“You might be right. My joints are starting to ache, too.”

She brought the thermometer through from the kitchen, perched on the edge of the sofa, and popped it in his mouth. As they waited he was aware of her large buttocks pressing against his legs. After three minutes she took it out and tilted it towards the window. “It’s a bit up.”