Alex Gray - The Riverman

‘Milk money.’ The boy looked up at Maggie, his face devoid of any kind of expression. She resisted the impulse to add ‘please’ and turned away to find her handbag.

‘How much?’ she asked, throwing the question over her shoulder.

‘Five-thirty.’

It was the same amount every week but the boys who collected her money changed with amazing regularity. Only once had she been ripped off, waiting like an idiot for change out of a tenner. The boy had never returned and the next night she’d opened the door to the same request, only realizing her mistake when a different lad asked for her money. She’d felt such a fool: she was a policeman’s wife, for heaven’s sake, she should have known better. Now Maggie asked the same question every week, ignoring the rolled eyes of the boys who thought she must be a bit thick not to remember how much she paid.

‘Just a minute, don’t have any change,’ Maggie muttered, scrabbling in her purse. ‘Can you come back in five minutes?’ she asked, only to be met with a grunt that was meant to indicate assent.

Maggie closed the door, seething inwardly. There had been no time to get to the bank and Bill wasn’t home yet. She’d have to rake through the wardrobe to find any loose change he might have in his jacket pockets. Once upstairs she opened Bill’s side of their wardrobe and began to feel about for any coins. He had the habit of tucking folded banknotes into his top pockets so she tried there too. A quick trawl produced some silver and a worn fiver folded up with a piece of paper. She yanked them out and clattered downstairs just as the doorbell rang.

‘Here you are.’ Maggie thrust the money into the boy’s hands, some extra for a tip. With another grunt, the boy was off.

It was only as she turned to close the door that Maggie realized the bit of paper was still in her hand. Unfolding it, she looked to see if it was something Bill would need to keep.

Remember to ask Jo about going away.

Maggie blinked at the note. It was certainly written in Bill’s scrawl. She turned it over. There was nothing else written down.

Maggie slumped down on the bottom stair as if she’d been winded. Jo? There was only one Jo she could think of and that was Jo Grant, the attractive blonde DI who was so much a part of Bill Lorimer’s life these days. Going away? Maggie’s fingers shook as she looked again at the note. What the hell did that mean? Surely they hadn’t gone away together while she’d been in Florida? A wave of nausea came over her, leaving her weak and trembling. No, surely not. With an effort, she rose to her feet and staggered upstairs once more.

She stared at the open wardrobe where Lorimer’s jackets hung from their rail. Which suit had this been in? It was only minutes ago she’d been searching through his things, yet she hadn’t a clue where she’d found the note. Some detective she’d make, Maggie told herself wryly. Then, with a cold certainty, Maggie Lorimer knew that was exactly what she was going to have to be if she really wanted to know the truth behind her suspicions. The image of that poor woman who’d lost her husband came into her head. The anguish of not knowing, Bill had murmured. Oh, God! The irony of it all!

‘Get a grip, woman,’ she said aloud, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed and smoothing the cover with her fingers, remembering the way he’d cuddled her into his shoulder. ‘He’s never been seeing anyone else. He loves you! Don’t be so daft!’

Yet even as Maggie conjured up the glorious hours they’d spent in bed since her homecoming, she was wondering who else might have consoled him in the lonely months she’d been away.

*

‘Daddy? Can we go to Disneyworld again this year?’

Mandy had crept up on his knee and was snuggled into his neck, holding onto his sleeve and jiggling it to catch Malcolm’s attention. He smiled at his little daughter and ran one hand over her soft blonde curls. ‘Like a child out of Mabel Lucie Atwell,’ Duncan had remarked once on a rare visit to the Adams’ household. It came flooding back now, Duncan’s face lit up with pleasure as Mandy had sat on his knee, bouncing her up and down as if the older man was her real grandpa. How proud he’d been when his daughter Jane had given birth! They’d all been treated to sticky cakes in the boardroom that afternoon, he recalled. Now Duncan’s little grandchild would grow up with the knowledge that someone had taken her grandpa away.

‘Can we, Daddy? Please?’ Mandy’s voice implored. ‘I’ll be a really good girl and save up all my pocket money. Promise.’

Malcolm hugged the child’s warm body to his chest. Her hair smelled so sweet and fragrant, the smell of baby innocence. A deep sigh escaped him and he felt the breath upon her hair. Mandy snuggled in tighter, her little hands clasped around his neck, her whole weight against him. How trusting children were! And how ready she was to believe that Daddy could make anything possible. Malcolm wanted to weep. She was so sure of her world, what on earth would she do when he was gone from it?

‘We’ll see, darling,’ he whispered into her hair, ‘we’ll see.’

Malcolm closed the bedroom door and stepped quietly away. The Tale of Peter Rabbit was told over and over each night but Mandy never tired of hearing Daddy reading to her. He’d left her yawning as she turned over onto her side, one thumb stuck into her mouth. It was a habit Lesley hated but tonight he hadn’t had the heart to admonish the little girl. There was so little time left for cuddles and stories. Perhaps he should take the therapist’s advice and simply jack in his work. An intense longing to be with his family threatened to overwhelm him. He stood outside the pink-and-white room with its hanging mobiles and flowered wallpaper, imagining the rise and fall of his daughter’s shoulders as she drowsed her way to sleep. If only he could hold onto this moment for ever: the quietness, the peace of knowing that she slept contentedly, his only wish.

Downstairs the telephone rang, shattering the silence, and Malcolm made his way towards the sound, holding onto the banister for support. Lesley was out fetching Gayle from Brownies. It was probably one of his wife’s friends.

Already rehearsing what he was going to say to Janette, Lin or whoever it might be, Malcolm picked up the telephone. A puzzled frown crossed his brow as a man’s voice whispered in his ear.

‘Michael?’ He sank to the floor, his shaking body no longer able to support him. ‘Michael? Is that really you?’

*

JJ had gone out, locking the doors behind him. He’d grinned at Michael as he’d left, an expression of devilry in his eyes. He wouldn’t be long, he’d said. Had to see to something. Whatever that was seemed to necessitate taking the laptop and his overnight gear, a fact that was not lost on the man left behind.

Michael had waited by the window listening to the van as it disappeared out of earshot. The dust swirled from the spot where the van had stood, then gently blew back onto the grasses on either side of the road. Heart thudding, Michael raced through to the kitchen. For hours he’d eyed a large walk-in cupboard opposite the entrance from the living room. Not once had JJ tried to open it in all the time they’d been in the house, an omission the younger man had found significant.

There was no door handle, just a ragged hole where a lock might once have been. Sticking his middle and index fingers into the gap, Michael felt for an edge to grip and tugged. Slowly the door pulled towards him, then stuck, its lower edge jammed against a bulge in the thick vinyl floor covering. He looked at the floor in dismay. Maybe water had seeped under the vinyl at one time leaving the surface so uneven. Yanking the door harder made no impression so he eased himself into a position where he could peer into the dark recess of the cupboard. With one arm he held the door open as far as it would go while he thrust in the other to search the shelves. Vague shapes of boxes and polythene bags were jumbled together as if someone had stored their rubbish in a hurry and left. His vision became keener as he peered into the gloom, picking out a set of ancient tableware still in its original cardboard container, a stack of different narrow boxes that he recognized as children’s jigsaws and a bundle of cloth wrapped into a roll. Digging deeper, Michael felt the shapes of jugs and vases. His hand caught the handle of something and he jumped back in horror as the smash of glass rang out in the kitchen, shards scattering out of the door. Quickly he pushed them back into the cupboard with his shoe, looking behind him and listening for the noise of an engine that would signal JJ’s return.