Reginald Hill - The Only Game

She left the pub without re-entering the bar and half an hour later she had solved both the problems of damp and disguise. In black trainer-type shoes, loose slacks, tee shirt, and a chunky sweater, topped by a thigh-length waxed jacket with her hair tucked beneath its wired hood, she felt herself anonymous and warm. Her headache had gone and though she felt her body to be far from the high muscle tone she had enjoyed since her early teens, she was walking with some of her old long-limbed athleticism as she approached the bus station.

Despite the weather and the hour there were still plenty of people about, seduced by the lights and the music and the glittering prizes on offer in the late-closing stores. A couple in front of her turned aside abruptly to peer into a toy-shop window and in the gap created she glimpsed, twenty yards ahead at the bus station entrance, the tall helmets of a pair of policemen.

Immediately, without thinking, she too halted and turned towards the display of toy space ships, ray guns, spacemen helmets, all the TV-age artefacts designed to delight the heart of a little boy. Her brain refused to register them. Instead her head kept turning till she was looking back down the street. It felt like slow motion, but it all happened quickly enough for her to catch a man’s eyes before he too paused and looked aside into a shop window. That was all it took. He was an ordinary-looking man from what she could see of him under a narrow-brimmed tweed hat and a buttoned-up riding mac. But that brief eye contact was enough, even if the shop window he was peering into with such interest hadn’t been a ladies’ heel repair bar.

She glanced the other way. The helmets were moving towards her.

She peered into the toy-shop window. The toys presented no problem now. She couldn’t see them, only the street behind her reflected in the glass. The tall helmets like ships’ prows came alongside. They didn’t pause, but sailed on by. She didn’t wait to see what would happen when they reached the man outside the heel bar but strode out along the pavement, leg muscles tensing and untensing, almost trembling in their anticipation of being called upon to explode into a sprint. But she mustn’t draw attention to herself. Then, as she reached the station entrance, she saw at the far side the bus she wanted, the last couple of passengers stepping aboard.

Now she had her excuse. The legs stretched and she floated across the intervening fifty yards with the balanced grace of a ballet dancer.

The engine was running, the automatic doors closing. The driver saw her, decided it was near enough to Christmas for charity, and pressed the button to reopen the doors. She scrambled aboard.

The bus pulled out of the station with that minimal acknowledgement of the presence of other traffic which distinguishes the bus driver the whole world over.

Jane Maguire flopped into a seat and looked out of the window.

For the second time her eyes met those of the man in the tweed hat.

Then he was falling away behind her. She relaxed, or rather felt her body go weak. She tried to set her thoughts in order but found her mind had lost its strength too. The bus moved on through the garishly lit streets, then out of the town into the sealing darkness of the countryside, and Jane sat still, feeling herself more part of the country’s dark than the bus’s light, with little sense of either presence or progress, and unable even to tell whether she was hiding or seeking, chasing or chased.

Dog Cicero stood outside Maguire’s apartment block and felt his unhappiness grow. It was a modern three-storey building, purpose built, in a good residential area less than ten minutes’ drive from the kindergarten. Renting or buying, these flats would cost. Add the kindergarten fees … he had forgotten to check out her salary at the Health Centre but doubted if it would be enough to cover flat, school and food, clothing etc.

Maguire’s apartment was Number Seventeen on the top floor. He rang the bell, felt himself observed through the peephole, then DC Johnson opened the door.

‘Any action?’ asked Dog.

‘Nothing. There’s no phone, and you’d need to be a pretty thick kidnapper to knock at the door with a ransom note, wouldn’t you? Thousand to one it’s a weirdo anyway.’

Always interested in odds, Dog said, ‘Reason?’

‘I’ve had a poke around. Jackie Onassis she ain’t.’

Dog glanced round the room. It was clean, tidy and comfortable, but hardly suggestive of wealth worth extorting.

He said, ‘It may be neither. Take a stroll around the neighbours. Keep it low key but find out what they know about Maguire, when they last saw her and the kid, especially if anyone noticed her having trouble with her car this morning.’

Johnson, a plump, comfortable-looking man whose sleepy exterior belied a sharp mind, looked shrewdly at Dog and said, ‘She’s in the frame herself, is she, guv?’

‘Could be. One thing – she’s on the loose. I doubt if she’ll come back here, but keep your eyes skinned.’

He closed the door behind the plump DC and began to search the flat.

Johnson hadn’t poked deep enough. The clothes in the wardrobe might not be designer originals but the pegs they came off weren’t cheap. They all had American labels. The same went for most of the kid’s toys, expensive and made in the USA. Her lingerie was of the same quality. He looked without success for anything that might be professionally kinky. Nor did he find anything in the way of contraceptive medication or stocks of condoms to suggest a commercial sex life. Not even a domestic one. He searched diligently for drugs, both prescribed and proscribed, anything which would suggest nerves stretched close to breaking point, but found nothing more than a bottle of paracetamol and a child’s cough mixture. There was flour in the flour jar, tea in the tea caddy, talc in the talc tin, and nothing at all on top of the wardrobe, in the lavatory cistern or under the kitchen sink. There was no alcohol in the flat nor any tobacco. She had a small portable television set and a radio tuned to Radio Two. Her small tape collection was mainly soul and folk. There were quite a lot of books, mostly paperbacks. Her taste in fiction was for chunky historical romances, though he did find a couple of Booker nominees which she was either still reading or, on the evidence of the hairpin bookmarks, had abandoned at page seventeen and page thirty-two respectively. There were two PE manuals, one on athletics coaching, the other on sports injuries, both inscribed Jane Maguire, South Essex College of Physical Education . There was also a beautifully bound edition of Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience . It was inscribed, To Jane, going out into the world, with love and best wishes, Maddy . He opened it at random and found himself looking at a poem called ‘The Little Boy Lost’.

‘Father, father! where are you going?

O do not walk so fast.

Speak, father, speak to your little boy,

Or else I shall be lost.’

The night was dark, no father was there

He closed the book abruptly and sat down in an old armchair which creaked comfortably, and tried to think like a copper. He had found nothing remarkable, nothing incriminatory. The only oddness was an absence, not a presence.

There was no mail except the usual junk addressed to the occupier which he’d found in the kitchen pedal bin. But there was nothing to suggest that anything either official or personal had ever come addressed to Mrs Jane Maguire.

And there was nothing either which referred to her dead husband, Oliver Beck.

He closed his eyes and played through what he had got, but it came out blurred and distorted with too much interference from other channels.