For Richer, For Poorer Read online

‘I don’t know why you get so upset about it – it’s only a game . . .’

  Jessica grinned at him, knowing there was nothing more certain to get a reaction. At first she thought he was going to storm off to the toilets but Archie took a deep breath instead. ‘I’m not rising to it.’

  Jessica finished the rest of her second drink. She knew she was putting them away too quickly, that slight sense of giddiness making her giggle more girlishly and for longer than she usually would. ‘Another?’

  ‘Are you on one tonight?’

  Jessica slid out of the booth. ‘I was off for almost a week before Sunday night’s debacle – I’ve got a whole week to get through.’

  Archie shrugged. ‘Aye, I’ll have more of the same in that case – and don’t forget the crisps.’

  Bladder emptied, two more pints of the grim, cloudy ale in hand; Quavers, beef Hula Hoops, crispy bacon Wheat Crunchies and nice ’n’ spicy Nik Naks delicately held under her armpit, Jessica arrived back at the table miraculously without dropping anything.

  Without spilling a drop of their drinks, she carefully edged everything onto the table and then flopped into her seat. ‘I’d like to see an Olympic gymnast show that level of control and balance,’ she said.

  Archie was too busy tearing into the Wheat Crunchies to notice. Jessica started on the Hula Hoops and then continued from where she’d left off. ‘Anyway – aside from the fact we’re not going to get much from wheeling in all the local scum and we’ve got no chance of finding anything from the description of the weapon, the rest of the ideas haven’t been too bad.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘One of the constables is looking into similar robberies around the country – especially those where jewellery has been taken. It could be a gang who hits one area and moves onto another. The problem is talking to the other forces, of course. You’d think we were asking for a spare kidney. We’re still trying to figure out if our main guy could have a link to security companies but that’s not got us anywhere yet.’

  ‘How much cash have they got away with?’

  ‘Between thirty and forty thousand – well, according to the insurance claims. Over three hundred grand in jewellery. I don’t know how people go out wearing those types of thing – I’d be terrified of breaking it.’

  ‘How’s everything else going?’

  ‘Shite: Dave’s being a moody git and—’

  ‘I meant with the cases.’

  ‘Oh . . . Okay. It’s just one of those times where things aren’t quite working out. It’s not the first time. It’s just unfortunate because of Topper joining and . . . me being away . . .’

  Jessica tailed off. Having a few beers with Archie was fine but they both knew the one topic that was off-limits. It suited the pair of them. With Izzy having her family to look after and the fact that Jessica didn’t particularly want to see much of either Dave or Garry, her evenings with Archie were one of the few times she got to relax.

  Perhaps reading her mind, Archie put his glass down. ‘How’s your friend?’

  ‘No.’

  Archie opened his palms, leaning backwards. ‘No what?’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

  ‘I didn’t realise mind-reading was one of your abilities.’

  ‘I don’t need to be able to read minds to know what you’re up to.’

  ‘I’m not up to anything!’

  ‘Either way, she’s only seventeen and I’m definitely not introducing you to her.’

  ‘This is an outrageous slander on my good name—’

  ‘Bollocks is it – just because I’m living with her, it doesn’t mean you get to be introduced.’

  Archie’s grin slipped as he lowered his voice. ‘You must know that everyone at the station is talking about it.’

  ‘It’s not the first time people have been talking about me behind my back. I don’t care anyway – she was living with me before. She’s just a mate who happens to be seventeen.’

  Archie shrugged. ‘Maybe give me a tip when she turns eighteen?’

  Jessica swallowed another crisp. ‘Honestly? She’d eat you for breakfast.’

  6

  Jessica’s key slid along the hole and scratched its way down her front door.

  ‘Shite.’

  She used a finger to trace the outline of the keyhole and then tried again, this time only succeeding in digging a pointy bit into her finger.

  ‘Sod it.’

  The hallway light switched on and Jessica could hear the female voice from inside. ‘Hang on – I’m still up.’

  Jessica took a final breath of the cool evening air as the door opened inwards revealing a thin young woman with long, straight black hair. She was wearing a pair of shorts, large slippers in the shape of elephant heads and a rugby shirt that could have probably fitted three of her.

  ‘Sorry,’ Jessica said, stumbling over the step.

  Bex closed the door and locked it. ‘It’s your house.’

  Jessica began fighting with the arm of her coat. ‘I’ve told you before to treat it like it’s yours too.’

  ‘Do we have to do this again?’ Finally managing to yank her arm out, Jessica dropped her jacket over the banister, where it slumped to the floor. ‘Do you want something to eat?’ Bex added.

  ‘You really don’t have to make food for me.’

  ‘I’m hungry anyway – why do you think I’m up this late?’

  Jessica grinned. ‘What was today’s subject?’

  Bex returned the smile. ‘What makes you think I spent the morning watching rubbish talk shows?’

  ‘C’mon, don’t tease me.’

  ‘Fine – it was “My boyfriend wants to wear my underwear”.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  Fifteen minutes later and Jessica was on the sofa sharing a blanket with Bex, eating fish fingers on toast, drinking a mug of tea, and watching the recording of that morning’s show. If all evenings ended like this, she’d be perfectly happy.

  ‘How was college?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘All right – I thought it’d be harder though. There’s nowhere near as much work as I thought there’d be.’

  Jessica frowned. ‘You’re complaining there’s not enough work? What’s wrong with you?’

  Bex snorted into her own tea. ‘I like having things to do.’

  ‘So go to the cinema, go bowling, hang out around the back of the offy and drink a bottle of cider with your mates. Be a teenager.’

  ‘I don’t really want to drink, I—’

  ‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking . . .’

  Bex had left home when she was barely a teenager, tired of the alcohol, drugs and men that her mother brought into her life. After a few years fending for herself – something neither of them spoke about – Jessica had given her somewhere to stay, acting more like a mate than a mother. Sometimes she wondered if that was making life better, or creating more problems.

  Bex had enrolled on a course at a local college at the start of the year, with her heart set on a full-time one in September, possibly with university afterwards. For a girl who hadn’t had much in the way of formal education, she had taken to it like a natural, covering her room with notes and further reading material. She wasn’t even interested in something vocational – the type of course certain people would bang on about as ‘cushy’ – she’d gone for a five-month module in post-World War Two history. It was certainly not the sort of thing Jessica would have chosen.

  For now, their strange relationship worked but there was always going to be a time when it wasn’t so simple. What if Bex brought home a boyfriend Jessica didn’t like? That was assuming she was into boys; another thing they’d never spoken about. It didn’t matter whether she liked boys or girls – but the fact Jessica didn’t know meant they were neither mother and daughter, nor friends. Instead, their relationship was something different; more than flatmates but exactly what, Jessica didn’t know.

  Bex moved on, not acknowledging what Jessica had said: ‘Anywa
y, I’m happy reading and doing other things. I don’t really like being out when it’s . . .’

  She tailed off before adding ‘dark’. Before Jessica could reply, Bex added: ‘Did you have a good evening?’

  ‘Same as ever – commiserating about work.’

  For a few moments, they said nothing as the husband in question on the talk show strutted onto the stage wearing his wife’s underwear. The one thing Jessica could give him was that he did at least have the boobs for it. The thong was definitely a step too far though. His wife took one look at him and dashed off stage into the waiting arms of one of her friends.

  Advert break: Jessica couldn’t be bothered to fast-forward.

  ‘How’s your money?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t want to keep taking yours.’

  Jessica finished the final fish finger. ‘I don’t need it – it’s just money. You know this place was paid off after . . . then I had money from my dad. It’s just there, not being spent. It’s not as if fish fingers, crisps and tea bags cost that much.’

  ‘I want to get a job and start paying rent.’

  ‘I don’t want your money – I won’t take it.’

  They’d gone around in circles on this issue before – Jessica insisting she didn’t want to take anything from Bex, Bex wanting to pay her way. As yet, Bex hadn’t found anyone who wanted to employ a seventeen-year-old with no experience and no qualifications. The only semi-interest she’d had was from the guy that ran the pizza shop two streets over, who asked if she was good with her hands and then – according to Bex – started foaming at the mouth when she said she was. Jessica not only advised not to work there, but vowed not to eat there either. Ugh.

  They turned their attention back to the television as the wife returned to the set, mascara smeared across her face, friend patting her gently on the back. The husband was tugging up ‘his’ bra: ‘I’m sorry but this is me. I’ve been denying it for too long . . .’

  Bex had curled her legs underneath herself, her bony knees and elbows jutting out. She ate as much as anyone Jessica had ever met, yet didn’t seem to put on weight at all. Out of the blue, she turned to Jessica. ‘Can I say something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I know you’ve got money – so why don’t you go somewhere and do something? Why do you work? I know you say you like it but . . . sometimes it seems that you don’t.’

  On screen, the husband, wife, friend, presenter and most of the audience were in tears. Jessica didn’t reply for a moment. When she did, her voice cracked slightly. She didn’t like talking about it, which is why she didn’t hang around with Dave. Izzy and Archie knew not to ask. ‘I suppose I feel I’ve got something to finish.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . it’s complicated.’

  ‘Is it about . . . him?’

  ‘You can say his name,’ Jessica replied.

  ‘Is it about Adam?’

  ‘No.’

  Bex opened her mouth as if she was going to say something but took a breath and then closed it again, focusing back on the television. Jessica was watching the screen but taking almost none of it in – somehow there was a lie detector test involved now.

  In so many ways, she wanted to open up to Bex and tell her everything she thought she knew about the day her car had blown up with Adam inside but it was always in the back of her mind that the fewer people who knew, the safer it would be for everyone. As for continuing to work, knowing that Graham Pomeroy was the chief constable, she figured sometimes it was better to keep your enemies close – not that she had a speck of evidence that he was anything other than a senior police officer.

  When Bex spoke again, her voice was cheerier. ‘If you’re staying around, perhaps you can talk to one of my college friends, Sam. She’s having a few issues but doesn’t want to go to the police.’

  ‘I am police.’

  ‘Yeah but you’re cool.’

  ‘Er, thanks. What sort of issues?’

  ‘Something to do with her neighbour. She didn’t really go into details. I said I’d ask you.’

  ‘If you give me her number and address, I’ll see what I can do.’

  On screen, it was time for another advert as the presenter held up an envelope containing the lie detector results.

  ‘Thank you,’ Bex said softly.

  ‘If she’s having problems then it’s kind of my job to sort it out.’

  Bex shuffled across, resting her head on Jessica’s shoulder. ‘Not just that . . . everything.’

  7

  Jessica headed into Longsight Police Station through the main door at the front to be met by Fat Pat on the front desk crunching his way through a Danish pastry. Given the abdominal twinges she’d already had that morning, probably down to her appalling choice of food the previous day, the way Pat was licking the runny caramelised sugar from his pudgy fingers was enough to make her stomach gurgle in protest.

  ‘Do you have to do that so openly?’ Jessica said.

  He swallowed the final piece and then slurped on his thumb. ‘A man has to eat!’

  Jessica picked up the empty paper bag with a bakery’s name on the front, balled it up and threw it towards the bin behind the counter. It clipped the rim, rolled around the edge and dropped onto the floor. ‘A man can eat fruit.’

  ‘There was apple in it.’ He pointed towards the paper bag. ‘Are you going to pick that up?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think I need to return to that bakery more often – it’s this new place down by the Aquatics Centre. I saw a post about it on an Internet forum. This guy reckons he knows all the best places to eat in the city and he was saying—’

  ‘Much as I’d love to go on a culinary tour around the north-west with you, Patrick, I was wondering if there’s anything I need to know about before I go to find my office and spend the morning practising throwing balls of paper at the bin.’

  ‘I left you a note about it.’

  ‘You could just tell me.’

  Pat frowned, making the wrinkles in his face roll together like a potato left in a darkened room for six months. ‘There have been a few calls coming in from around the city. The operators don’t really know what to do with them because it’s so weird.’

  ‘What’s weird?’

  ‘There’s been three already – charity workers arriving at their shop or office to find an envelope stuffed with cash put through the door. They’re asking what they should do with it. Me? I’d be on the first plane to Vegas. I’ve heard there’s this chocolate fountain that’s—’

  ‘How much money are we talking about?’

  Pat scowled more deeply, chastened by Jessica’s interruptions when he was on a roll. The skin around his forehead was so saggy that it drooped over his eyebrows. Jessica hadn’t thought it possible to put on weight on that area of the face, but apparently it was so.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘Our beloved chief inspector is at HQ – there’s some council function this morning so they’ve all been called to a briefing to make sure they don’t say anything stupid. Franks is . . . well I don’t know what he’s up to, probably skulking around a public toilet somewhere. Two of the three parcels arrived in our district, so I suppose . . .’

  ‘I’m guessing the charities were told not to spend it – and that we’d either be around, or they should take it to their nearest station?’

  ‘Probably. We really are a bunch of killjoy bastards, aren’t we?’

  ‘Speak for yourself.’

  Five minutes later and Jessica was back in her car heading into the traffic she’d just spent half an hour trying to get out of. On the radio, today’s phone-in subject was ‘Is Britain still great?’, with a succession of people whining on, apparently missing the point that bleating on the radio probably wasn’t going to improve anything any time soon. The presenter sounded bored, not even bothering to talk patronisingly over people.

  In the aftermath of what had happened to her previo
us car, Jessica couldn’t bring herself to put any effort into finding a new one. She had gone to the second-hand lot on the main road closest to where she lived, picked the oldest one that didn’t look like it was going to fall apart at any moment – a red Corsa – and paid for it on the spot. It sat somewhere between her old Fiat, on which nothing worked, and the car she’d bought new that had a fancy Bluetooth thing. This one got her from one place to the next, made a rattling noise when she went from second to third gear and had a radio that worked ninety per cent of the time.

  The Grosvenor Street sexual health clinic was a small red-brick building wedged between a pizza shop and an old church long since converted into a bar. A small black and white sign above the unassuming doorway was the only indication it existed as it was camouflaged amid the neon signs and sandwich boards from the other shops and pubs trying to entice revellers inside.

  Jessica pushed open the door and headed up the stairs to small flat-cum-office that smelled vaguely of day-old pizza. She was greeted by a woman in her early twenties wearing jeans and a loose jumper, who introduced herself as Maria. Pointing to an open envelope on a table, Maria said she was going to make some tea and left Jessica alone in the waiting room. Lining the walls were posters about sexual health, with facts and statistics on everything from diseases that caused infertility, to pregnancy. It was enough to put anyone off ever opening their legs again.

  Wishing there was a way to un-see things, Jessica crossed to the table, taking a nitrile glove from her pocket and delicately re-opening the envelope. Inside, a mixture of newish and used ten- and twenty-pound notes had been neatly arranged into ten bundles of two hundred pounds. Jessica arranged the money on the table and then peered into the envelope, before turning it upside down. Nothing else came out and there was no writing anywhere on it.

  Jessica placed everything into two clear bags just as Maria returned with two plain white mugs. She handed Jessica one and took a seat in an uncomfortable-looking canvas-backed chair.

  ‘Was there any sort of note?’ Jessica asked.

  Maria was slim and pretty in a dressed-down, just-woke-up kind of way. She shook her head. ‘It was put through the door some time overnight.’