Louise Voss & Mark Edwards 3-Book Thriller Collection: Catch Your Death, All Fall Down, Killing Cupid. Mark Edwards
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the weekend. He’d have made her take a cab if he could, but then he would’ve had to pick up Jack from her house, which was even further away. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing Kate’s miserable face sitting in the driver’s seat next to him, refusing to talk; treating him like something she’d picked up on the sole of her shoe. Maybe he should have made a sign to welcome her. ‘The Bitch is Back’, something like that.
He managed a tight smile at his own joke – which turned to another frown as he opened his car door, and it banged against the wing of the car next to him, leaving a small dent. He glanced around to make sure that nobody had noticed, hopped back into the driver’s seat, reversed out of the space and into another one across the other side of the car park.
On the other hand, he thought, smoothing down his thinning hair and looking around for the Exit to Arrivals sign, it would be good to see his boy again. Despite everything, he loved Jack to pieces. Always had, always would. His own child; his precious son. He puffed out his narrow chest slightly with pride. It wasn’t Jack’s fault that Kate had turned into a paranoid bitch. No wonder Jack had been acting up a bit lately. He’d have to get Kate back to her shrink, hopefully that would sort her out. All this crud about wanting a divorce; it was ridiculous. She just didn’t know what was good for her. They’d only been separated six months, and she clearly wasn’t coping. Every time he crossed paths with her she seemed grey and stressed, and the lines on her face were getting deeper. She’s really losing her looks, he thought, choosing not to dwell on his own burgeoning little pot belly, greying chest hair, and the gingery beard he’d grown to try and disguise his weak chin. But I’m a decent guy, I’m prepared to do right by her. Besides, it’s a nightmare finding good child-minders in this city.
Vernon took up his position next to the barrier by the sliding doors through Customs. He looked at his watch; twenty after one. The flight had landed on time; at 1.05, he’d called on his cellphone to check. So they ought to be through in another ten, maybe fifteen minutes or so, once they’d collected their bags. He wondered how long it would be before he and Kate had their first argument; they’d probably be quarrelling by the time they reached the turnpike. Maybe sooner, maybe by the time he’d turned onto I-90. It never usually took long for her to blow a gasket over something or other. Plus, she’d probably be depressed from seeing the nuts old aunt of hers.
Vernon couldn’t understand the point of dragging Jack across the Atlantic to celebrate the hundred and fiftieth – or whatever – birthday of some old crust who’d probably scare the living daylights out of him with her toothless sunken face and grabbing claws. OK, so she’d been important to Kate – he understood that – but really, Jack was too young to appreciate it, and Lil was totally past it. She’d been senile for years now, living out her days in an old folks’ home; incontinent, almost speechless, no marbles left whatsoever. Vernon shuddered. Just shoot me before I ever get like that, he thought to himself. Kate would probably pull the trigger, too. And she wouldn’t wait till I was old, either. Ha.
Forty minutes later Vernon was still waiting. He called Kate’s cellphone, but it went straight to voicemail. He exhaled with irritation. She’d obviously forgotten to switch it on again after the plane landed – typical. Then his own phone rang.
‘Yeah – hello?’
‘Hi baby boy,’ cooed the voice on the other end, and Vernon’s face relaxed into a smile.
‘Hey, Shirl, missing me already?’
‘You’d better believe it, big boy.’
Vernon blushed slightly, and ran a finger around the inside of his collar, turning away so that the large Jamaican family waiting at the barrier next to him couldn’t hear the conversation.
‘So when will I see you again?’
‘I told you, hon, lemme sort things out this end, and clear a window for us, say, at the weekend?’
He could hear the pout in Shirley’s voice.
‘It’s been so nice, baby, havin’ you all to myself this week, is all.’
This was the reason he hadn’t put up too much of a fight when Kate told him she wanted to separate – unfettered access to the voluptuous Shirley. The excitement of sneaking around had been sexy at first, but he’d quickly grown sick of musty motel rooms and all the tedious lies he’d had to tell. Shirley was a little clingy, certainly, even more so now she could smell his divorce and, God forbid, a possible impending marriage; but it had been like a breath of fresh air, being with a woman who appreciated his talents and accommodated his sexual appetites the way she did. She was so in awe of his intelligence that she would try and keep up by using lots of long words, usually in completely the wrong context. Vernon found it quite endearing, for the short-term anyway.
‘Yeah, it’s been good. Listen, Shirl, I gotta go. I’m picking up my boy from the airport and he’ll be through any minute. I’ll call you, OK?’
‘OK sugar. You take care now. Kissy kissy kissy.’
‘Kissy kissy kissy,’ Vernon muttered back, as quietly as he possibly could. A little Jamaican boy of about seven still managed to overhear, though, and mimicked him with glee.
Vernon glared at him, putting his cellphone back in his jacket pocket, and glancing at his watch again. Where the hell were they?
A young couple pushing a trolley piled high with suitcases came through the barrier, causing the entire Jamaican clan to leap up and shout for joy, running out to greet them as if invading a soccer pitch, jumping and clapping and embracing them. Vernon could hear them talking excitedly, and the word ‘London’ came up several times. So they must have come off the same flight as Kate and Jack. They’d be out any minute.
Another thirty-five minutes later, he was still waiting. All the people who had been standing with him were long gone, and a whole new set had taken up their places at the barrier. He tried to call Kate, left a message for her. A stream of passengers in saris and turbans were now coming through, not remotely looking as if they were recently arrived from London.
Vernon tutted. He was busting for a piss, but he didn’t want to leave in case he missed them. Besides, he really needed to get back to his office – he had seventeen student papers on symbolism in classic American literature to grade before the end of term next week. Keeping an eye on the sliding doors, he walked across to the Information kiosk, and waited in line there for five minutes while the man behind the counter explained to an elderly Irish couple the procedure for tracking missing luggage.
‘It wasn’t there!’ the woman, who had patchy grey hair and an anxious face, kept saying. ‘All the bags were off, the belt was empty, and ours wasn’t there! Has someone taken it by mistake, do you think? We had presents in there, for our grandson! What’ll we do now if you can’t find it?’
Her husband turned to her and put a placatory hand on her tweedy sleeve. ‘Stop fretting, would you, Deirdre! It’s not helping things, now is it? This gentleman will phone through to London for us, and check it got on the plane in the first place, isn’t that right, sir?’
Vernon interrupted. He had a very bad feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. ‘Excuse me. Did you just say you came from London, and all the bags are through?’
‘Not ours,’ replied the woman. ‘Ours is lost, you see, and it’s full of –’
‘Were you on flight BA0213?’
‘We were, but –’
‘And there’s nobody back through there still waiting for their luggage?’
‘I wouldn’t know about that, now,’ said the man, slightly impatiently. ‘But I can tell you that the luggage conveyor belt was empty, so I suppose not.’
He turned back to the man behind the counter, who was dialling numbers on a telephone.
Vernon stepped away from the kiosk, his mind racing. The flight had landed. The bags were through. Kate’s phone was off. He was almost certain that he’d have seen them if they’d come through those sliding doors.