Frances Fyfield - Trial by Fire

Beyond the unmanned station, William examined his unused ticket, puzzled Life on the buses was different. 'Here,' he said, 'you can have this,' proffering it to her – his version, she understood, of a gift.

`Why, thank you, William. See you soon.' Then in a rush of sudden pity for his look of misery, as well as a desire to walk home unaccompanied, she added, 'You can tell them you came back with me, if you like. Say I asked you, if they go on about your being late.'

William's straight face widened into the vacant grin; they smiled in conspiracy. 'Goody,' he said, smiling and waving, embarrassed at parting. 'Bye, then.'

`Bye.'

She staggered uphill with deliberation. Her thigh tingled from his touch; on her upper arms the purple marks were forming that would show tomorrow over the bones of another possible statistic. `Woman raped and attacked between Debden and Theyden,'

The stuff of the local paper, the thought of it inducing a mild and comic hysteria. Not a woman with a coat, though. Ridiculous thinking: coats were meant to lend warmth, not protection; perhaps the mere existence of this one had lent her confidence. She was surprised to find herself giggling. One way to downplay this whole episode to Bailey: Darling, I bought this very expensive coat and avoided being attacked on the train because I didn't want to damage it. Or, having this new, very expensive coat enabled me to cope. Take your choice.

Or, darling, I want to talk to you about William Featherstone and someone who seemed for a moment to want to kill him. He and Evelyn Blundell – they're conspirators.

They found her mother, and William is violent enough to have killed her. He's been schooled into silence, but he's like a dummy without a ventriloquist until the action slips. What are you going to do about it? And while we're at it, what are you going to do about us, Bailey, you rat? Can we leave this improving place, please, where people do these things to their children? I'm sorry to disappoint you, but my spiritual home is Oxford Street and north London with all the Cypriots, and drunken Irish, the blaggers and the dirt.

I'm frightened here as I never was there, more frightened now than I was on the train, which is extremely frightened, as it happens. I'm also ashamed. I have fingerprints all over me; please let me in. Her own fingers had lost their sixth sense for finding the keys. To avoid William, she had walked from the station, forgetting the simple fact of her car in the carpark.

She was cold, it was dark, she was wet from the drizzle she had failed to notice on the train, and she was still preparing a smile.

She dared not look at the time, expected it was well after nine. Dear God, the civility of London was a long way off. Life here was far too complicated.

Bailey wrenched open the door of 15 Invaders Court, feeling and looking savage, his face blank with fury. The smile fell: Bailey's rage, whatever the degree or cause of that rare anger, was difficult to handle.

`Hello,' she said stupidly, and pushed damp hair out of one eye. He saw the scar on her forehead, implicit with dreadful memory. She remembered, quite irrelevantly, that the coat on her arm might be soaked.

‘For Christ's sake, Helen,' he shouted, dragging her in through the door, 'I could shake you… Where have you been?' And he was shaking her, gripping both arms in his own strong hands, as strong as William's, fingers extended in a grasp more exasperated than affectionate.

He was angry and anxious and distant: she was in disgrace. Perhaps his concern for her was uppermost in his mind, but it made no difference on the sensitive spots. She hated him for this exhibition; it simply hurt, body and soul, it hurt. Helen yelped briefly in her own anger and profound disappointment, and in the flurry of the pain she shook her arms free. And briefly, sharply, and painlessly drew back one hand and slapped him.

The day of Helen's ordeal had begun well for her but not for Bailey.

`Get you, Amanda Scott! Who's the new lover boy, then? Look at that, flowers all over.

Champagne next, is it? Boss gave them to you, did he?'

`Leave it out, Jack,' said with ostensible boredom and secret pleasure. 'Can you see Bailey giving anyone flowers?'

Police Constable Bowles paused to consider. Difficult, that, hanging on the door of the detectives' room, empty save for her. PC Bowles was one of Amanda's fans; most occupants of the room were not, preferring to work elsewhere when she was in. Prissy, clever, tidy little bitch. Iron knockers.

`Superintendent Bailey giving flowers? Yes, I can see him doing that, as a matter of fact. But not those flowers and not to you.' `Push off, Jack. I'm busy.'

He blew a daring kiss in the air, ambled down the corridor whistling, leaving Amanda in contemplation of the bouquet, which he had delivered from the front desk, telling everyone its destination en route. Which was nice, to put it on record; so nice she was not about to diminish the pleasure by taking off the polythene and allowing anyone to imagine she had bought the flowers herself. Keep this up, J. Blundell, and we'll get along fine, really we shall.

You're doing very well, what with phone call yesterday to celebrate the colour of my eyes and dinner tomorrow night. Don't know if I should. Bailey won't like it, but he'll have to lump it. If he knows, that is, which he won't if I don't tell him. Never mind, never mind, I know how to fix him.

Grabbing handbag, smoothing hair, making for his office with verbal report of yesterday's sojourns with Featherstones et al. already tidy in her mind. Not entirely fictionalized, simply glossed by judicious omission. She always presented the best profile to her information.

Good morning, sir; good morning, Amanda, how did you get on? Could ask the same thing, sir, but I don't, of course, even leaving aside the rude connotations of the phrase. Your days can be secret, mine bloody aren't. Instead of saying that, offering a rueful smile.

`Not much success, sir, in any direction. Apart from the committal, of course; you know about that. But I found out a bit on William Featherstone, our arsonist, sir.'

So did I, Bailey thought. Rather too much, really; can't afford to feel for a fire raiser. I know all about where he goes and what he chooses to buy and steal. He watched with surprise as Amanda produced a clumsy bracelet from a tidy handbag.

In his spare time he hides in a shed in the garden, and he makes these things in the kitchen,' she said gravely, as if revealing the crown jewels.

The bracelet lay on his desk like a gaudy and lumpish pebble: Bailey wanted to laugh. 'Do they know you have this?' he asked quietly.

She flushed, furious to be caught at a disadvantage so soon. She should have begun at the beginning and gone on to the end of her afternoon, giving her report the authority of chronology. 'Well, no they don't. I sort of picked it up.'

I think I'll return in at some stage,' said Bailey evenly. `Someone's treasure, isn't it?

Well, well, clever William,' putting the thing in his pocket, continuing. 'No jewellery in the Blundell house, by any chance? Was he helpful?

`Yes, ' she replied with sincerity this time, 'yes, he was. Very. We went through the place with a fine-tooth comb,' repeated like a parrot and, to forestall any further questions on that line, entered a rider that did not follow the question at all. 'Sir, there's something I must tell you.'

`Sit down, Amanda, please.'

So she told him with relish, keeping the spite out of her voice and her whole stance as she had learned to do as a child, wrapping it into a parcel of concern. 'I was puzzled, sir, very puzzled at the committal proceedings… I don't think you can have known about it ..

`Go on.'