Cath Staincliffe - Stone Cold Red Hot

“Catch you later,” he said.

I felt sick. As he moved away the volume of noise from the punters at the bar seemed to mushroom. Another crowd came in, the girls wore what passed for underwear in my day and the boys looked ready for the ski slopes, all thick fleeces and puffer jackets. They clustered by our table. We were hemmed in.

“So, what do you think?” Diane asked.

“I prefer our usual. It’s too loud and it’s hardly relaxing. I’m ready for off.”

She narrowed her eyes at me.

“What?”

“Stuart. What do you think of Stuart.”

So that was it. She’d lured me here to weigh up a new conquest of hers – or someone she’d got her eye on.

“Don’t you think you’ve got enough on your plate?” I pulled my jacket on.

“Not me. You.”

It was my turn to glare. “Diane! What do you think you were…” raising my voice above the racket made me cough as the smoke caught in my throat.

I fought my way out and she followed. We went round to the car-park where our bikes were.

“What did you tell him?” I was all outrage.

“Nothing, give me some credit. But if you’re interested I can always invite him to something.”

“I don’t need a matchmaker. I’m not looking for a match. I’m perfectly happy as I am. Just because you want…”

“Go on,” she said dangerously.

“I’m not you,” I pointed out. “You want a relationship, you’ve done the ads, you’ve met Desmond. That’s great but don’t assume I want the same.”

“You don’t want a relationship? Not ever?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“They don’t fall from the skies you know, you have to go looking. You fancied him, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” I muttered, trying to get my key in the bike lock.

“He’s a lovely man,” she said.

“So how come he’s available then?”

“Divorced.”

“Oh,” I groaned.

“And over it,” she insisted. “Good relationship with his ex. They share the kids, all very amicable.”

He had children.

I got the lock sorted out and put my helmet on.

“Think about it,” she said.

He might not fancy me, though.

“Anyway, if he’s such a lovely man, what’s he doing in a place like this? It wasn’t just coincidence. Did you tell him to come?” I got all agitated again.

She laughed. “No. There was a pretty good chance he’d be here, anyway. He’s the boss. This is his place.”

Later I was still a bit peeved that Diane had engineered the meeting without asking me about it first but there was also a positive side to it. My mind got sidetracked into weaving fantasies about Stuart Bowker and that left me no room to dwell on the fate of Jennifer Pickering, my row with Ray or the plight of the Ibrahim family.

Bedtime was more fun than usual.

Next morning there was a message from Roger on the ansaphone at the office. He was eager to know what I’d found out. I wasn’t ready to give him a full report yet. I wanted to talk again to Mrs Clerkenwell. I needed to try and fix as much as I could about the last known movements of Jennifer and something was niggling at me. I was sure there was some significance behind the incident when Jennifer had turned and run from Frances’s. Once I had checked that out I would tackle Mrs Pickering and see if she had anything to say that would disprove my theory. Then I’d go to Roger.

In the meantime the least I could do was give him the bald facts about my research. No baby, no marriage, no death and tell him I was making a few final enquiries to verify everything before I gave him my complete report.

When he answered the phone I proceeded to flatten the hope in his voice.

“Isn’t there anything else you can try?”

“No. I don’t think so. I’m sorry,” I concluded. “Can we meet next Monday perhaps, lunchtime, say twelve-thirty? That’ll give me time to write up all the details for you.”

“So it’s just a dead-end?” He asked.

I closed my eyes at the irony. “It looks that way.”

Mandy Bellows was off sick. When I asked if anyone was covering her work-load I got laughed at. “She should be in next week though.” And until she was, nothing was going to move forward for the Ibrahims.

Mr Poole was dismayed when I called him. “I’m going to have a word with the councillor about this. One person’s off and the whole thing grinds to a stand-still.”

“Hopefully, she’ll be in on Monday and I’ll ring her first thing, tell her to make it a priority. I’ve still got the camera so if anything happens meanwhile let me know.”

“What’s this I hear about your car?”

“It went on Monday, just as I was ready for home and there was no sign of it.”

“How did you get back?”

“I got a taxi.”

“You should have woken me, you could have rung from here.”

“No. I had my mobile. Anyway, how did you hear about it?”

“The Brennans,” he said, “making cracks about it. Took me a while to cotton on.”

“They probably took it but I can’t prove anything.”

“Have they found it yet? They could fingerprint it.”

“No. No word. Besides I’d rather see them lose the tenancies or get bound over to keep the peace than done for nicking my car. Least I’m insured.”

My last call was to Mrs Clerkenwell. I arranged an appointment with her that afternoon.

The hire car was due back but I made use of it to get some shopping from the greengrocers and the small supermarket in Withington. I stocked up on some of the basics and bulky items as I didn’t know how long I’d be without a car and they were awkward to carry on the bike. I left the lot at home and took the car in. I walked back to the office enjoying the colours of the leaves which were brilliant in the sunshine. Frost still edged the foliage in shady corners and covered puddles with sheets of ice.

I had a cup of coffee and then worked solidly on my notes from the Records Office and my summary of the case so far. When I document a job I usually include a section which no-one ever sees where I jot down all the wild, implausible, outrageous notions that I have as to what may have happened. Now and then I hit on something and it’s a useful way for me to see things from another angle. It’s also a good way of getting any pet theories out of my system and of exposing them to the light. Once they are written down I find I can discount some of them. But I was reluctant to go through this process with Jennifer Pickering. There was some superstitious side of me that feared that if I committed my imaginings to paper they might come true. And I wanted to be wrong this time.

I collected my bike from home and cycled up to the baths to do my regular twenty lengths. One of the other swimmers reminded me of Stuart Bowker and I had a fierce impulse to run and hide. A second look told me it wasn’t him. I felt a flutter of embarrassment. I swam away from it. Did I want a relationship? My gut reaction was no. It all seemed too complicated, too much trouble. How could I start something like that without disrupting my life? How would Maddie take it? Did I want to meet Stuart again. Yes. Yes, I did. And the thought brought bubbles to my insides and made me kick my legs harder and spread my arms wider and swim that bit faster.

Mrs Clerkenwell put the dogs out before she let me in. She’d obviously been working; her hair was covered by a scarf and she wore a large calico smock which she removed to reveal the same dark trousers and woolly jumper as on my first visit.

“Any news?” She asked me once we had sat down.

“No, I’m afraid not. But I wanted to ask you about a couple of things, to try and make sense of what other people have told me. I can’t go into details, confidentiality, you see. And the questions may seem a bit strange.”