The Only Game. Reginald Hill
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‘You forgot your change.’
She took the money and managed to croak a thank you. Despite the chill rain she felt hot and weak. Across the road was a pub. Oblivious of traffic she made her way towards it. Only when she reached the bar did she realize it was the same pub she’d been in this lunchtime. It seemed light years ago. Would the barman remember her? What if he did? There was hardly time for her face to have appeared in the papers.
She ordered a brandy. She didn’t like it, but her mother had always insisted on its medicinal qualities. Her mother … She took a sip and pulled a face. The barman said, ‘All right, is it?’ She said, ‘Yes. Sorry. It’s just the taste … I mean, I’m starting a cold …’
It was a productive lie. He said, ‘What you really need is something hot. We do coffee.’ And as he poured her a cup in response to her nod, she was able to take a couple of aspirin without him calling the drug squad.
She sipped the coffee and felt a little better. It occurred to her that the last time she had eaten had been in this place several hours ago, and that hadn’t been much. There were some corpse-pale pies in a plastic display cabinet. She asked for one. The barman put it in a microwave and a few moments later handed it to her, piping hot but still pale as death. She bit into it. The meat was stringy, the gravy slimy, but it tasted delicious. So. Forget the soul, forget the intellect. Animal pleasure was still possible even after …
She pushed the thought away as she ate the pie. Then she ordered another. No pleasure now, but a simple refuelling, an anticipation that she would need all her resources.
Finished, she went to the cloakroom. The mirror showed her a face as pallid as the pies. Her long red hair, usually electric with life, hung straight and lank and darkened almost to blackness by its exposure to the rain. It was, she guessed, a good enough disguise, but it was not how she cared to see herself. She stooped to get her head under the hand drier and combed her hair dry in the hot blast. Then she washed her face, rubbed it vigorously with a paper towel and applied a little make-up to her skin, which was glowing with friction.
Once more she inspected herself. It was better, this shell she had to present to the world. Little sign there of the hollow darkness beneath, empty of everything but the echo of a child crying …
Her clothing was very damp. She took off her linen jacket and dried it as best she could under the hand drier. Then she thought, ‘What the hell am I doing?’ It was these damp clothes that the fearsome Cicero would have a description of. Out there was the High Street full of shops desperate to take her money, no matter how tainted it might be.
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.