Lucie Whitehouse - Critical Incidents

‘How are you all doing this morning?’

Christine’s breath made clouds. It was eight o’clock but the lawn behind her showed no sign of thawing. ‘I don’t think anyone slept.’

‘You’ve got to take it steady, all of you. This, it’s … beyond.’

‘That’s what I wanted to say to you, Mags. I don’t think Robin should be working today – I told her what you said yesterday about taking the day off. She needs to—’

‘I’m right here,’ said Robin. ‘Aged thirty-five.’

‘Everyone handles things differently, Chris.’

‘I know but you know what she’s like. If she gets it into her head—’

‘For Christ’s sake .’

Maggie gave Robin a look then turned back to the window. ‘I’ll look after her, darl, and I’ll drop her back later on. You take care.’ She fired up the car, raising the window as they pulled off. For the full circuit of Dunnington Road, Robin said nothing. As they waited for a break in the traffic on Stratford Road, the indicator ticked like a stopwatch.

‘She’s worried about you, that’s all.’

The lights changed and they inched towards the junction, past the little branch library, nearer the deep bland lawn of South and City College on the corner. The inexorable miles of white sky overhead. Robin felt a surge of panic. ‘She’s trying to take control, like she always does. Do I have to ask her now if I’m allowed to go to work ?’ A flashback to one of their old stand-up fights, her mother yelling after her as she ran up the stairs, My house, my rules.

‘If you get some sleep tonight, we can take your car tomorrow. Would that make you feel better?’

‘Make me feel less like I’m eight years old.’ Robin huffed. ‘Sorry. I don’t want to drag you into this. But I need to work, that’s what she doesn’t understand. What am I going to do otherwise, sit around there trying to cry?’ Wondering if the past had caught up with them.

Maggie took a breath, as if she were about to say something, then stopped. A moment later, ‘Anything new since yesterday?’

‘No.’

‘It was on the radio on the way over. Heart, just local. Same thing, looking for Josh, nothing we don’t already know.’ She reached for the radio. ‘Want to see if we can catch it again?’

As Robin shook her head, her phone buzzed in her pocket, a text. Gid? Eight o’clock, a few minutes after – he could just have come on shift. A small leap of hope: perhaps there’d been movement on Hinton. But no, when she took out the phone, the screen said ‘Adrian’. It was mildly startling, the name already an anachronism.

Len just told me about Corinna. Devastated for you. Here if you need me. A

For god’s sake. She couldn’t stop them being in touch – she didn’t want to, they loved each other, and it was good for Len to have a male figure in her life – but of course it meant Adrian would hear about everything that happened to them. Was he going to use this to reopen communication, even try to make her reconsider? She’d thought at least that was over and done with. She locked the phone and put it back in her pocket – she’d deal with it later.

‘Where are we going?’ she said.

‘Val Woodson’s, via coffee. I can’t be messing with that Nescafé this morning.’

‘You’ve taken her on?’

‘I’ve told her we’ll see what we can do, yeah. She’s desperate and I want to help her.’ Another pause. ‘I also thought it would be good for you.’

‘Me?’

‘It’s what you need now, isn’t it? Something to get your teeth into – something where you can actually use your skills.’ She glanced over. ‘It’s going to be very hard for you, being on the outside while this is going on. I thought this would give you another focus, something else to think about.’

‘Thank you,’ Robin said.

She watched Stratford Road slide past outside the window, One-Hour Photo and the Kerala Ayurvedic spa, a place offering cash for gold. Outside UK Furniture Clearance, a ragtag assortment of wooden cots, bedframes and awkward-looking cabinets metastasized on the pavement. She concentrated, focusing on details, looking for something she could throw a line around. If anything, the unreality was stronger this morning, the lack of sleep compounding the sense that what had been concrete was now wily, unreliable. Malign. The world had spun away – she was out on her own, free-falling.

A couple of minutes later, Maggie pulled into a spot outside a bakery three times the size of the travel agent and sari shop either side. Weddings, Parties, Functions read the awning, while photographs propped at the bottom of the plate-glass window showed enormous, multi-tiered cakes in colours and degrees of ornamentation from subtle to Bollywood. At eye level, a poster offered Morning Breakfast Deals at astonishing prices. Fried egg, two toasts and beans, £2.75 – you’d be lucky to get a single slice of toast for that in London.

‘Come with me,’ said Maggie, undoing her seatbelt. ‘Meet Gamil.’

Inside, the air was heady, the smell of coffee and eggs on the griddle cut with condensed milk, coconut and cinnamon. On the right, a long glass cabinet displayed ranks of Indian sweets in pinks and greens and caramel tones. Kaju barfi, mysore pak – an image suddenly of Aisha’s wedding, the boxes and boxes of sweets they’d pressed on her because they all knew – it was a family joke – how much she loved them. Robin shook her head, flicked the memory away.

‘Maggie.’ A man in his mid-fifties stepped out from behind the counter, pulling off a pair of blue gloves. He dropped them in a bin and came to greet her, taking her hands in his. ‘We haven’t seen you for ages.’ Indian sing-song met Brummie sing-song, his voice all music. Heavy-lidded eyes with extravagant bags looked out from a face that was otherwise remarkably line-free. His hairline had receded parallel with his ears, and the deep exposed forehead and long nose with its arched nostrils gave him an avian look. At the same time, he had something French going on, the thick white cotton shirt with cuffs rolled to the elbow, perhaps, or the tan loafers. An Indian Serge Gainsbourg, minus the sleaze.

‘I haven’t had much over here lately,’ Maggie said, ‘but we might do for a bit and I wanted to introduce you to my friend Robin. Friend and colleague – we’re going to be working together.’

‘Robin? My pleasure.’ A firm, dry handshake. ‘Coffee for two? I’ve got a fresh pot this side, just done.’

‘How are things with you?’ Maggie looked at the line of people queuing to order breakfast sandwiches. ‘You’re mobbed.’

‘Yes, morning rush, always busy, busy.’ He went back behind the sweets cabinet and pulled paper cups from a long stack. ‘Just as well – three kids at university. Have I seen you since? Wasim got a place at Nottingham. Computer Science.’

‘Younger son,’ Maggie said. ‘He helps out in the shop sometimes, you might meet him if we’re over here. That’s smashing, Gamil, congratulations.’

‘Last one. Just the A-levels now and then, pouf, all my little birds flown. Now, what are you having? Doughnut, flapjack? New muffins are just out of the oven.’

‘You’re all right, thanks, love. Still playing chicken with the diabetes express here, so I resist on the very few occasions I can do it without chewing my arm off. Rob?’

‘No. Thank you.’

He brought the coffees over and put them on top of the display counter. ‘Very hot – careful. Omelette’s good if you don’t want sugar. I can make it for you myself.’

‘Thanks, this’ll do me.’ Maggie inhaled a vaporous sip from the top. ‘Now, ulterior motive, I wanted to ask you if you know someone.’ She reached inside her long suede coat and brought out a folded sheet of A4 printed with a grainy photo. ‘He’s basically the mayor of Sparkhill,’ she said to Robin. ‘Knows everyone round here.’