boot.
The wind chimes welcomed him as if he were entering a Buddhist monastery, but he broke the illusion by shouting: “I’m here. Cut it out, whatever you’re doing,” as he moved through the kitchen and hallway, towards the parlour.
His wife was sitting on the settee and the visitor in an easy chair, an empty cup and saucer perched demurely on his knees. A compilation CD of music from television adverts was playing in the background, very softly. The track was Bailero , from the Songs of the Auvergne, but he only knew it as the Kenco coffee tune.
“Hello, darling,” his wife said. “You’re home early.”
He stooped to give her a peck on the cheek and turned to the visitor. “So this is what you get up to while the boss is working his butt off, eh?”
“Oh, not every week,” the visitor replied with a grin.
He placed his briefcase on the floor and draped his jacket over it. “Will you excuse me,” he asked them, moving back towards the door he’d just entered through, “but I’m bursting for a piss.”
They listened to his footsteps climb the stairs, looking at each other. She with an expression of relief, he guiltily. The bathroom door closed and he opened his mouth to speak, but she silenced him by putting a finger to her lips. It was possible, she knew, that her husband had closed the door but remained outside it. It wasn’t until she heard the sound of flushing that she dared to whisper: “Phew! That was close.”
“What are we going to do?” he hissed.
“I’ll ring you,” she replied.
He placed the cup and saucer on a low table and rose to his feet as footfalls sounded on the stairs again. The husband went straight into the kitchen and was looking in the refrigerator as the visitor passed through. “I’m off,” he said.
“Why not stay and eat with us, Peter,” the husband offered.
“Thanks all the same, but no,” he replied. “I’ve things to do. I was in the vicinity so I thought I’d come and have a cuppa with the little woman.”
“OK. See you tomorrow, then.”
“God willing. Bye Margaret,” he called. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re welcome,” she called back.
When he’d gone the husband poured himself an orange juice and rejoined his wife. “What did he want?” he asked.
“You’ve been smoking,” she accused, ignoring the question .
“Just the one,” he replied. “A client…you know how it is.”
“Good God, you’re pathetic,” she told him.
“I asked you what he wanted.”
“Nothing,” she replied. “Like he said, he was just passing .”
“Does he make a habit of just passing?”
“That’s about the second time this year, but Peter’s welcome any time. He’s a good friend.”
“He’s a bloody awful salesman. What time’s supper?”
“I haven’t thought about it. I wasn’t expecting you for another two hours.”
He resisted the temptation to say: “Evidently.” Scoring meaningless points wasn’t his style. “Let’s eat out, then,” he suggested.
“We can’t afford it.”
“It’s two for one at the Anglers before six.”
“The Anglers!” she sniffed.
“Well bloody-well cook something. I’m starving.”
“Oh, very well,” she said, standing up. “Let’s go to the Anglers.”
Chapter Three
Nine o’clock Wednesday morning somebody mugged a Big Issue seller in Heckley town centre. He’d never get rich that way but he made four pounds – enough for a heroin wrap or a few tueys; or some bush, bute, bhang, boy, blow, Bolivian or B-bombs to see him through the day. I ticked the report and slid it into my You’ll be Lucky tray.
I was reading the list of overnight car thefts when there was a knock at the door of my partitioned-off domain in the corner of the CID office and big Dave “Sparky” Sparkington walked in. He’s a DC and my best pal.
“It looks lovely out,” he announced.
“Well leave it out, then,” I told him. We’d lost a Fiesta XR3 and an elderly Montego to enemy action.