Parallel Life (11 page)

A deafening silence followed. Hermione eyed the cluttered decor, sniffed, patted Annie's arm, then stared hard at the man. He had a weak chin and very nervous hands. He was plucking away at a folkweave throw on the arms of his mother's chair. Terror showed in the darting movements of eyes set rather too close together. Lisa had very poor taste in men, it seemed. ‘Annie?'

‘Yes?' Even Annie seemed slightly cowed by the visitor.

‘Get your gun?'

Annie nodded. ‘Yes, I got my gun, Mrs Compton-Milne.'

Jimmy sank lower in his mother's best armchair. Twin spots of colour glowed in ashen cheeks, and his heartbeat quickened, seeming to sound in his ears like the threatening drum of some Native-American tribe. Yes, this was a war dance, and he was the intended target.

Several seconds passed before Hermione went in for the kill. In clipped tones, she delivered his sentence. ‘We know about Birmingham,' she stated plainly. ‘Your wife has found a tidy sum in the eaves of your house. While searching, in order to pay bills and feed your children, Annie also discovered the weapon. Tax avoidance is one thing; the crippling of a security guard is another matter altogether.'

Jimmy opened his mouth, but delivered not a single syllable. He sat as still as stone, jaw hanging while he took in the implications of what he had just heard. He had hidden the damned thing well, had removed all ammunition and had given the item no thought in months. They held him by the throat, and they knew it.

‘The gun is safe,' said the old woman. ‘It is wiped of all fingerprints – exactly as the police would expect. But, if tested, it will doubtless deliver a missile very similar to the one taken from that poor man's spine. Wheelchair-bound, isn't he? Obviously, he has my complete sympathy.'

A battery-powered clock delivered a tinny account of the time. Lisa turned towards the window because she found herself incapable of looking at him. Armed robbery? She had been about to run away with a real criminal, and she cursed her own stupidity.

‘Annie?'

Jimmy's wife gave her attention to Hermione. ‘Yes?'

‘You have always suspected that he was involved in the Birmingham jewellery quarter robbery, haven't you?'

Annie nodded.

‘But the way to be sure would be to have that gun tested?'

Annie inclined her head again.

At last, Jimmy managed to speak. ‘I never shot him,' he cried. ‘I wasn't even there – I kept that gun for a mate.'

‘You were there.' Annie's tone was icy. ‘You came back and locked yourself upstairs for days, said you had a cold. I saw it in the papers and on the telly. That poor man's life hung by a thread for weeks – even months. But I wanted to think the best of you, wanted it to be somebody else who did the robbery. I can tell now from your eyes that you were one of the gang that did it. You've never been able to lie to my face, have you?' She turned to Lisa. ‘Don't worry – you've handled none of that stolen jewellery. It was years back, and it's all long gone – sold by the gang leader, I reckon.'

‘It wasn't me.' The words arrived crippled by panic. ‘I never did any of that—'

‘Tell it to the judge,' Annie snapped. ‘For now, you'd be best off just listening to what this lady has come to say.'

Hermione sniffed. ‘He is guiltier than sin itself. Now, listen to me, Mr Nuttall. The ill-gotten gains you promised to share with Lisa are all yours, along with the stolen goods you hid in the floor safe. I have also placed a sum of money in here.' She tossed an enormous brown envelope on to a coffee table. ‘Now, run, run, as fast as you can, because the law is on your tail. Breathe one word of your association with my family and the police get the gun.'

Lisa, who had remained silent throughout, finally managed to look at the man who had so recently been her lover. What had she seen in him? How desperate for love had she been? He was like a rabbit trapped in headlights, and the monster he faced was a Rolls Royce. When it came to putting people in their place, Hermione was the cream.

It was into this interesting tableau that Freda Nuttall stepped on her return from holiday. A taxi driver, having announced that he was leaving luggage in the hall, closed the front door in his wake. Freda stood dumbfounded in the entrance to her lounge. She saw Annie, two women who were unknown to her, and her son cowering in the best chair. ‘What the bloody hell has he done now?' she asked.

Hermione glanced at Freda. ‘Please sit down,' she invited regally.

Freda bridled instantly. ‘In me own house?' she asked. ‘I don't need telling to sit down in me own house.' Nevertheless, she sat, her eyes fixed on Jimmy's face. ‘You may be my son, lad, but you've brought nothing but trouble to my door since you were knee-high to a standard lamp. I hope you've not been hitting her.' She waved a hand in the direction of her daughter-in-law. ‘I'm used to your thieving ways – I've had to get used – but I'm not having her used as a punchbag.'

The punchbag spoke. ‘Don't worry, Mam. He knows I'd have killed him in his sleep if he'd ever gone for me.'

‘Good.' Freda surveyed her unwanted guests. ‘And who the hell are you two? Leftovers from the Luton Girls' Choir?'

Hermione's mouth twitched. She found herself liking Freda Nuttall – because Freda did not fear truth, and she employed humour even when perplexed.

Freda waded on, addressing Hermione, who seemed to have placed herself in charge. ‘I don't know what this has got to do with you, missus. Sitting there with a gob like a bagful of spanners, taking over me bungalow, and who broke me shepherdess?'

‘I did,' replied Lisa. ‘I'll get you another.'

Freda chewed her lip for a moment. ‘Oh, aye? And who are you? His latest bit of fluff?'

For answer, Lisa lowered her head.

‘Oh, I see,' said Freda, arms folding beneath an ample bosom. ‘And did Annie catch you at it? She's no fool, is Annie. Though I have to say she were daft enough to get herself shackled to this bad bugger. He may be me son, but I can't say I'm proud.' She spoke now to Annie. ‘And I wouldn't say no to a cuppa, love. I'm fair clemmed after all that travelling. And them Southerners couldn't make a decent brew to save their flaming lives. I'm going back to Morecambe next year. Continental bloody breakfasts – I ask you. Who wants bread and jam in a morning, eh?'

Annie stood. ‘I'd better tell you now, Mam, that I'm divorcing him.'

Freda waited for further clarification, but none was forthcoming. ‘Not before time, then. Don't forget me sweeteners and make sure you don't divorce
me
.' She swallowed. ‘I think the world of you and them kids, girl, as well you know.'

Jimmy rose to his feet after Annie had left the room. ‘I'll . . . er . . .'

‘Annie?' shouted Freda. ‘Have a dekko in that there coronation mug. There should be forty pounds and ninety-seven pence for me lecky.'

Jimmy threw a note on to the coffee table before picking up Hermione's envelope. ‘I borrowed a tenner from your electricity money,' he said. Without waiting for a reply, he fled from the scene.

Annie came in. ‘You're a tenner down, Mam.'

‘It's all right,' replied Freda wearily. ‘I've got it here. Oh, see if we've any Bourbons. I fancy a nice biscuit with me tea.' She glanced at Hermione. ‘Why are you in that wheelchair?'

While the visitor explained about multiple sclerosis, Jimmy started up his car and drove away. No one made any further comment about him. But, as the small-talk continued, Annie and Lisa glanced at each other. A shadow remained in their hearts. He would be back – of that, both felt certain.

Driving round the Lancashire countryside with his heart in his mouth and bundles of clothes stuffed into the back of his car was not Jimmy Nuttall's idea of fun. He didn't notice the lushness born of heavier than average rainfall, the pleats and folds at the edges of moors, swans on a reservoir, children taking chances by trespassing on acres dedicated to crops. No. All he could think of was bloody Birmingham. He hadn't even held the flipping gun, had he? He was just the soft swine who'd driven the car and found the weapon afterwards, when the other two had fled.

To conserve petrol, he parked in a country lane, ate a cold pasty and drank a can of lukewarm cola. ‘I never killed anybody,' he told the windscreen, ‘but I feel as if I could now.' Mind, he would probably need a wooden stake or some silver bullets to put a stop to those four witches – his own mam, Lisa, Mrs High-and-Mighty Compton-sodding-Milne and Annie. Almost drowning in self-pity, he lowered his head and rested it on hands that gripped the steering wheel.

He hadn't cried for years, but he wept now because his life was all but over. If the cops got their hands on that gun, he would be doomed. Every truly guilty party had disappeared like smoke dashed from a windswept chimney pot. ‘I didn't even see a penny,' he wept. The handful of diamonds or whatever had been sold abroad, and the other two members of the gang had probably remained in Europe. Or South America, more like.

Where to go? He hadn't the money for Brazil, didn't know how to get a false passport, had no idea whether airport police had been alerted to look for him, Surely not? If they didn't know about Birmingham, they'd not be on standby for an installer of alarms, surely? Or would they? He'd nicked a fair amount of stuff just lately . . .

‘Blood and stomach pills,' he cursed. Damn Annie. Private detective? What had been the blinking point of that? He'd never have left her for good – she knew that.

Women were strange creatures. They forgave each other too readily and never forgave men at all. His mother had sat there without a single good word for him; his wife and his mistress had joined forces, while the third Charlie's Angel, a hundred years old and in a wheelchair, remained close to a daughter-in-law who had cheated on her own scientist son.
I might as well not have existed
, he thought.
Not one of them looked at me. I bet they never even noticed I'd left.

Tears drying on his face, Jimmy caught hold of a sudden brainwave. Sally Potter. Farm cottage, father dead, lived by herself.
She's always fancied me, has old Sal
, he thought. Jimmy had taken Sally's virginity and her heart, and she had waited for over fifteen years for him to become a fixture in her life. She worked, didn't she? Yes. Sally had a bike, and she rode it all over the place – she cleaned houses. That farm she lived on was crumbling. The farmhouse and all outbuildings, left to rot quietly, would probably be acquired sooner or later by some builder with an eye for a bargain. But for now, Sally lived halfway up a path that led nowhere. And halfway to nowhere was precisely where Jimmy needed to be.

They'll think I've gone to London or somewhere down south
, he thought.
But I'm too clever for them
. There had to be a way of getting that gun back. Going down for burglaries was one thing; attempted murder or manslaughter was another matter altogether. Yes, he had to stay here, in Lancashire. Yes, it had to be Sally Potter.

He swallowed audibly. Could he tolerate her? She fawned and slobbered over him every time he visited – even after her dad's funeral, which had been attended by just him, her and the vicar. Sally wasn't completely ugly, but . . . those craters in her face, large dents created by a morbid tendency to pick at teenage spots. And Sal's teenage spots had lasted well into her twenties. He wiped his forehead. Sal was a mess. But he had to go somewhere, wanted food and a bed. It was going to be Sally Potter. He needed her.

Gus polished off the last of his treacle sponge. ‘That was wonderful,' he said.

Sheila Barton smiled. She felt truly blessed, because she had always wanted someone appreciative for whom she might cook. Her dead husband had been confined to a strict diet on account of some digestive diagnosis with a name longer than Wigan Road, so this relationship with Gus had been her first opportunity to shine at good, plain cooking.

He leaned back in his chair. ‘I am very full,' he declared.

‘Good.' Sheila began to gather dishes. ‘I saw your daughter the other week,' she said, her tone deliberately casual.

‘Really? Where?'

‘Visiting that psychiatric person a few doors along. And I wouldn't be surprised if she saw you, because you'd forgotten your key again, and you waited for me at the bottom of Hawthorne Road. Remember?'

He nodded. ‘Yes, I remember.'

‘I've put a key under the middle-sized plant pot on the top step. All right?'

He nodded. ‘They know I keep my trains somewhere and that they aren't likely to be in a laboratory. And there is nothing untoward about our friendship. Whereas my wife . . .' His voice died away.

Sheila, tray in hands, waited for him to continue. ‘What about her?' she asked finally. Sometimes, Gus made her slightly impatient.

He shrugged. ‘She leads an adventurous life, I believe.'

‘Men?'

‘Several. And not always savoury.'

In the kitchen, Sheila washed dishes noisily. She understood him very well. The conjoining of male and female flesh had been necessary, as Gus had needed children to whom he could bequeath his brilliance. But now that he was a father, he no longer needed to perform those ridiculous acts on which the survival of the species depended. Lisa Compton-Milne didn't know how lucky she was, it seemed. Also, she was clearly one of those cheap women who liked throwing herself all over the place to be prodded and pinched by lowlifes.

‘There's something going on right now.'

Sheila looked over her shoulder; he was standing in the kitchen doorway. ‘Really?'

He nodded. ‘Even my mother is involved in it. I could be wrong, of course. If I were wrong, it would not be for the first time. But there is a new level of anxiety in the house. Because they think of me as some stereotypical mad professor, they believe I am impervious to atmosphere. I do notice things. Eventually.'