The Only Game. Reginald HillЧитать онлайн книгу.
…’
‘And you could see this? You mean she wasn’t wearing a coat, even though it was raining cats and dogs?’ said Cicero, gently puzzled.
Jane thought, then said, ‘Yes, she was wearing an anorak, a blue anorak with the hood up.’
‘Like Noll’s. That was what you said Noll was wearing, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right. They matched. It was the same blue, I remember. And she was walking along with the anorak unfastened but with her hands in her pockets to clasp it tight across her body as she walked. But when she bumped into Noll she took her hands out to steady him and the anorak fell open.’
She stood in front of him and looked down at him almost triumphantly. A problem posed, a problem solved. But was it a problem of memory or a problem of explanation?
‘And what happened then?’ he asked.
‘She said she’d take Noll into the kindergarten, and I got in the car and drove away,’ she said.
‘What? You left your child with this stranger? All right, so she said she was a teacher at the kindergarten, but you only had her word for it, didn’t you? And didn’t it occur to you to wonder, if you were so late, what was this so-called teacher doing wandering around outside at that time too?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think of that. Not then.’
She sat down on the edge of the bed and regarded him earnestly.
‘But I wouldn’t have left Noll if I hadn’t been certain, no matter how much of a hurry I was in. I knew she was a teacher because I’d met her in the school. On Friday afternoon when I picked Noll up. She was there. In the school. She talked to me about Noll. She said she’d just started and was trying to get to know all the mothers.’
‘But Mrs Vestey says …’
‘She’s a liar!’ cried Maguire, jumping up once more. ‘She’s the one you should be questioning. That bitch. She’s a liar, a liar, a liar!’
She was moving round the room again. But now the cat-like grace had gone, to be replaced by something much more spasmodic, angular, almost manic.
WPC Scott was looking at him anxiously. He nodded and she rose and slipped quietly out.
He said, ‘When you fainted, Mrs Maguire, the last words you said were, I quote: it’s all my fault; I shouldn’t have hit him. What do you think you meant by that?’
She came to a sudden halt, freezing to complete stillness like a child playing statues.
‘It was me who said that?’ she asked, though it was only marginally a question.
‘So I am informed.’
‘I must have meant … I suppose I meant … it was when I was getting him out of the car. That’s it. He was yelling his head off and flailing out with his hands and legs. He kicked me on the shin. It was an accident. When I looked down, I saw he’d torn my tights and I swore. I said, “Oh shit!” and he took it up. You know what little boys are like with naughty words. He just stood there shouting, “Shit! Shit! Shit!” and I hit him. I didn’t think about it. I just slapped his leg very hard like my mother used to do to me. He didn’t cry or anything. In fact he went completely silent. I’d never hit him before, you see. Then his face began to crumple up and he turned to run away, and that’s when he ran into Miss Gosling. Perhaps if I hadn’t hit him … And we never made up …’
Her body was racked with huge sobs, each one of which visibly drained her reserves of strength. She seemed to be collapsing in on herself and she had started rocking to and fro like a tower in an earthquake, when the door opened and a nurse and a doctor hurried in, with Scott close behind.
They caught her and lifted her towards the bed.
‘Do you mind?’ said the nurse angrily, as she found Cicero in her way. The doctor scowled at him with unconcealed distaste and even WPC Scott couldn’t hide her disapproval.
Dog Cicero didn’t seem to register any of this, but watched pensively as they laid Jane Maguire on the bed. The doctor said, ‘I think you’d better go now, Inspector. We can’t delay this X-ray any longer.’
‘Yes, of course. Excuse me.’
He leaned over the bed before they could draw the sheet up and looked at the woman’s shins. Then he went across to the tall locker against the wall, opened it, reached in, and emerged with a pair of tights. He held them up to the light, and stretched them out.
They were perfect.
‘Let us know as soon as she’s fit to talk to us again, won’t you?’ he said pleasantly.
He went out. The young constable followed. In the corridor he said to her, ‘You stay here, Scott. By the bedside. Whatever she says, waking or sleeping, you make a note. Get me?’
‘Sir, what do you think …? The child, will he be all right?’
‘Is he still alive, you mean?’ He regarded her steadily. ‘If you can get even money, take it, Scott.’
He walked away. She watched him go, then with a sick heart went back into the room.
The sign was brash and new: FAMILY FUN HEALTH CENTRE in big black letters on a white ground strewn with cameos of families having fun on exercise bikes, in a sauna, under sun lamps.
Dog Cicero had been here before. He knew if you removed the sign above the entrance you would find chiselled in the granite lintel: SHELL STREET YOUTH CLUB, OPENED MAY 1921 BY ALDERMAN CALDER DSO JP.
Last time he had stepped through these doors, he’d been fifteen, and memory programmed him to expect peeling olive green paint, worn linoleum, bare bulbs, a smell of damp wood, the stridency of punk guitars.
Instead he found pastel shades, carpet tiling, strip lighting, an odour of embrocation oil and the bounce of James Last.
Someone had turned Shell Street Youth Club into a place fit to get fit in.
Not that the woman sitting at a small reception desk looked much of an advertisement for the service. If fat was still a feminist issue, here was a profound political statement.
‘I’m looking for Granger,’ said Dog.
‘He’s in the gym. Can I help? I’m Mrs Granger. Was it one of our courses you’re interested in?’
‘No.’ He produced his warrant card. ‘Just an enquiry.’
She didn’t look surprised. Or worried.
‘Come with me,’ she said.
She led him through a door into a corridor. A willowy blonde looking like the after to the older woman’s before came towards them. Mrs Granger said, ‘Suzie, watch the desk for a minute, will you?’
There had been something euphemistically called a gym in the youth club. This too had changed; sprung floor, white pine, and enough gleaming implements to delight an Inquisitor’s heart. A couple of youths were pushing and pulling at steel levers, watched by a burly middle-aged man who came to the door in response to a gesture from Mrs Granger.
‘George, this is Inspector Cicero,’ she said. ‘My husband, Inspector.’
‘Cicero? There was a chippie called Cicero’s.’
‘My father’s. Mr Granger, if you can spare a moment, I’d like to ask about a member of your staff. A Mrs Maguire. Mrs Jane Maguire.’
The Grangers exchanged glances.
‘So what’s she been saying?’ demanded the woman.
‘Is there somewhere