‘I’ve ordered a takeaway and thought you were the delivery man.’ Jill’s heart raced uncomfortably at the shock of having Max filling her air space.
‘That’s a bloody good epitaph for half the people who end up with a tag round their big toe.’ He shook his head in the cynical way he had. “I suppose you reckon nothing happens in sleepy old Kelton Bridge?’
Jill took a deep breath and silently counted to ten. Doing this to keep calm was an art she’d mastered while she and Max had lived together.
‘What brings you here, Max?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector to you,’ he said, and the slightly self-conscious smile touched her.
That was the problem with Max. She loved him, she hated him, she despaired of him, but she couldn’t be unmoved by him.
“I heard.’ She’d seen his photo in the local paper with a small write-up of his promotion. It had been cut out and put in her ‘special box’. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So how’s it going?’ Badly if the smell of whisky on his breath was anything to go by. Nothing to do with her, she reminded herself. If he wanted to lose his job, fine.
‘Ups and downs. Downs at the moment.’ He took off his jacket, black suede, and threw it over the back of a chair.
“I need a slash.’
As he raced up the stairs, Jill picked up his jacket and hung it on the peg in the hall. Then, remembering her days of tidying up after him were long gone, she took it off the peg and threw it back on the chair. He wouldn’t be staying long enough for it to bother her.
She could hear him moving around upstairs. What the devil was he doing up there? She was about to go and find out when she heard him coming back.
‘It’s Day of the Bloody Triffids up there/ he said, shaking his head with amusement.
“I like plants in my bathroom.’ Her bathroom. ‘So what are you doing here, Max?’
‘This afternoon ‘
The ringing of her doorbell interrupted him.
‘It’s open/ Jill called out, smiling sweetly at Max.
He was never more than six inches from her right shoulder while she thanked the man and paid him, opened the cartons, took out a plate and cutlery.
‘That smells good. I don’t really have time, but I haven’t eaten all day’
Suppressing a sigh, she took another plate from the cupboard.
Samuel, too, had appeared from nowhere. All human food was high on that cat’s list, but chicken was his favourite. Chefs at Indian and Chinese restaurants could do with it as they pleased; it was still Sam’s favourite.
She had hoped Max wouldn’t be staying long, but there was too much food for one, although probably not enough for two, not when one of the two was Max. But his need would be greater than hers; he seldom remembered to eat without being prompted.
He forgot to eat because he never found time, and he drank because - well, Jill reckoned life in general stressed him to hell and he reckoned he simply enjoyed a drink.
They’d agreed to differ on that long ago. Not her problem, she reminded herself. They’d parted almost a year ago now. So long as they could be civilized on the rare occasions they saw each other, that was fine. It wasn’t easy, but it was OK.
‘Is there any wine in this place?’ Max began searching, first the fridge, then the cupboards.
‘There’s a bottle of red in the cupboard above the microwave.’
He found the bottle and soon had it open. It was only the second time Max had visited her here, yet he managed to make himself comfortable as if he’d known no other home. The knowledge irritated.
Having eased her conscience by phoning her parents, Jill had planned to curl up in the sitting room with her food.
Deciding the kitchen was less intimate, however, she put their food on the table and sat down. Max sat opposite. At least with two of them eating, it would be easier to keep Sam off the table.
It was ironic, she thought, but she and Max had probably sat down to eat together more times in the last year than they had during the time they’d been together.
She wondered if there was anyone else in his life. She never asked, of course, but she would dearly love to know. Half of her was jealous at the idea, but the other half, the sensible half, knew the poor woman was welcome to him.
‘So?’ she prompted, spearing a hot chunk of pineapple.
‘You were about to tell me why you’re here.’
‘This afternoon,’ he said, ‘a woman was killed in Kelton Bridge.’
‘Killed?’ She thought he was referring to an accident, but Max wouldn’t be involved in that. ‘You mean murdered?
Here? In Kelton?’
“In sleepy old Kelton Bridge, yes.’ His smile was mocking.
‘Must have been expecting a takeaway’
She ignored his sarcasm. ‘Who?’
‘Alice Trueman. The vicar’s wife.’
‘No! Alice Trueman? But I only saw her on Friday night.
I was talking to her.’ It simply wasn’t possible. Yet she knew it had to be true. ‘Are you sure she was murdered?
It couldn’t have been an accident?’
‘Difficult to accidentally slit your throat from ear to ear.’
‘Good God. Who on earth would want her dead?’
‘That’s what I’d like to know. How well did you know her?’
‘I don’t really know her. I met her at a party on Friday night.’
‘What was she like?’
Was.
Jill pushed her plate aside, her appetite gone, and leaned back in her chair.
‘Very attractive,’ she said, causing an impatient raising of dark eyebrows. ‘Sorry. Um - down-to-earth, homely type, proud of her son, embarrassed by her husband. The vicar - what’s his name? - oh, yes, Jonathan Trueman is a bit of snob. As soon as I said I’d already met Michael, the son, he had to make sure I knew that Michael was soon off to uni and that his job at the filling station was only a Saturday job. Alice wouldn’t have liked that. She stopped him talking religion at me, too.’
And now she was dead.
‘She was incredibly attractive, though/ she went on.
‘No make-up, no expensive haircut, no showy clothes and yet she was stunning. An incredible figure, and long, shapely legs.’
Dead.
‘What happened?’
‘The vicar arrived home shortly after two o’clock this afternoon to find his son holding her. She was naked, his clothes were covered in blood, and he was holding the knife.’
‘Michael?’
‘Yes, we’re questioning him at the moment.’
‘You think Michael killed his mother? Never in a month of Sundays.’ Something else occurred to her. ‘How old is he?’
‘Eighteen. He had his birthday six weeks ago.’
He’d looked younger, but Jill knew that was merely a sign of her own age. When you hit thirty, and she’d done that four years ago, everyone else started looking younger.
“I thought I’d have a chat with you,’ he said, ‘and see what you knew about the family’
She wasn’t convinced. With a murder inquiry only seven hours old, it would be action stations. There would be no time to waste. By now they would have spoken to dozens of people who knew Alice better than she had, people who had known her for years.
‘You’re wasting your time then, Max.’
‘Hm. There’s something else,’ he said, and Jill wasn’t surprised. “I thought I ought to warn you that Meredith’s planning to coax you back.’
‘Ha! He’ll be wasting his time, too.’ Although she was grateful for the warning. ‘I’ve given all that up, Max.
I write. It’s what I enjoy.’
‘He’s not asking you to give that up. He’s simply asking ‘
‘No.’
‘Why not, for God’s sake?’
She stared back at him, heart pounding with a mixture of emotions, uppermost of which was anger. They were no closer to catching Valentine, the serial killer, and every two months or so, despite being off the case, Max tried to persuade her to return to her job. Now, it seemed, he had the backing of his boss. It was easier for them; having Rodney Hill’s blood on their hands didn’t seem to bother them as much.
She’d enjoyed her work, but offender profiling was still met with a huge degree of scepticism. It was often a last resort, something to try in desperation. It was over, though. She was happier writing. So long as the public was crying out for self-help books, she was guaranteed an income.
‘Why not? How long have you got? Firstly, I’m no longer employed - I gave it up, my choice. Secondly, I don’t know how Meredith has the cheek. What does he call my work?
Psychology bollocks!’
Max was still eating, still looking infuriatingly calm.
‘OK, so if you don’t want to get involved with Valentine again, how about helping me with Michael Trueman?’
‘No.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that. I couldn’t work with you, Max.’
‘You used to enjoy spending time with me/ he pointed out mildly.
‘You used to enjoy spending time with me,’ she snapped back, ‘until something better, something younger and more attractive, came along.’
‘Oh, for ‘
‘Ah, I forgot. We brush the past under the carpet. You screw around, you come crawling back to me, you expect me to congratulate you on your pulling power, and then forget it ever happened.’ She could feel her voice rising hysterically, but she felt hysterical. It hurt like hell. Even now.
‘My head was fucked at the time/ he reminded her.
‘What with pressure at work, you threatening to leave me every fortnight because of your stupid guilt trip -‘ He took a calming breath. ‘We’ve done this to death and I refuse to go over the same old ground. It happened, I’ve apologized till I’m blue in the face, and I wish to God I’d never met the bloody woman. But that’s it. Case closed.’
Forget it, he was saying. Your problem, Jill, you deal with it.
But she couldn’t forget it. She still had moments of frightening fury at his betrayal. Just as she still had sudden painful visions of him and that woman together. Forget it, she instructed herself. He’s not worth it. Be civil, be civilized, pretend it doesn’t matter and get him the hell out of here.
A taut silence stretched between them.
When Max had come crawling back to her, his expression not hers, she’d been so angry that she’d hit him hard enough to draw blood. Then, as he’d held her close, told her it meant nothing, and asked her to marry him, she’d cried and cried. She’d clung to him, even agreeing to marry him.
They were together for nine weeks after that. Jill hadn’t been able to stand it. Emotions had been too raw. Yet she’d never quite known if she was more angry or hurt …
‘Everything we did together, we did well,’ Max said at last, his voice level and calm once more. ‘And I mean everything.’
Jill’s head was filled with the scent of him, his masculine warmth as he made love to her ‘We
worked well together, too, Jill. We care about the same things, and we think in the same way’
She couldn’t deny that. It was another reason she loved him - used to love him.
‘Michael Trueman/ he went on, forcing her mind back to the reason for his visit. ‘We’re interviewing him now, but he’s not talking. Ask him if he smokes, if he wants a drink - nothing. Zilch.’
‘Shock probably,’ Jill said.
‘Will you come and see him? Talk to him?’
‘Nope.’
‘What harm will it do?’
Jill gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘Ask Rodney Hill.’
‘Jill.’ His voice was softer now, gentle. He could coax bees from honey if he put his mind to it. ‘We arrested Hill because we thought he was guilty. The fact that he matched your profile was neither here nor there. You’re not responsible.’
She’d heard all that before. It didn’t help.
‘Please, Jill. As a favour to me?’
‘No. I’m sorry, but I can’t.’
‘I’m senior investigating officer on this one. I want it sorted, and fast.’
‘No.’
‘You can’t keep living in the past, you know.’
The intensity of those blue eyes shocked her momentarily It shouldn’t have. Max had been using that piercing gaze to his own advantage for years. Now, though, she almost felt as if he could read her every thought.
She hoped not. In the midst of her thoughts, mostly bad, was that she still found Max very attractive. In anyone else, the drinking, the long working days, the lack of regular meals and the way he constantly drove himself would have taken their toll. Nothing had though. He wasn’t handsome in the accepted sense of the word; his nose was a little crooked, he had a tiny scar beneath his right eye, and his mouth had a cynical twist to it. Dark hair, swept back from a face that could look arrogant and aloof one moment and as gentle as a playful puppy the next, was greying rapidly, she noticed.
‘You’re not prepared to spare a couple of hours?’
‘No.’ If it were only a couple of hours of her time, she might consider it. It wouldn’t be, though. She would get involved, not through choice but through necessity. She always had.
His plate empty, Max looked at his watch, refilled his glass and topped up Jill’s.
‘OK.’ He was thoughtful. ‘So why do you reckon he’s not saying anything?’
“I can’t answer that, Max. Shock perhaps. Who knows?
Has he asked for a lawyer?’
‘He hasn’t even bloody coughed.’
‘What’s his father said?’
‘Precious little. About as much as anyone would say if they’d come home to find that their son had slit their wife’s throat.’
Jill swallowed hard.
‘He seems torn between weeping at the injustice of it all/
Max told her, ‘and praying for all our souls. Other than that, he’s just said over and over that he can’t believe it.
Jill, you know how things are. We need to get Michael talking - and quick.’
‘And I’m sure you will.’ She smiled. ‘You find me an eighteenyear-old who can’t talk the balls off a buffalo.’
Max returned the smile. “I just have.’
‘No.’
With a heavy sigh, Max drained his glass and got to his feet.
‘Lock that bloody door,’ he said as he kissed her cheek.
“I will.’
She almost had the door closed behind him when his phone rang and he stepped back inside to answer it.
‘How come you horrors are still up?’ he asked the caller, his voice warm and loving enough for tears to spring to Jill’s eyes. She glanced across at the mantelpiece where a framed photograph showed Max’s sons, Harry and Ben, smiling into the camera. God, she missed them.