“You’ve told me nothing, check.”
Back to Coronation Road in time for dinner. Risotto. Apple crumble and custard for dessert. Two of my favourites. Beth must be up to something. I did the dishes, made two mugs of tea and joined her in the living room. The TV was off, the fire was lit, the record player was on (Schubert by the sound of it). I picked up my copy of The Times, which I hadn’t had a chance to skim through. Beth was reading a book called Ubik, but without much obvious enthusiasm. She was looking at me when she thought I wasn’t looking. Yeah, something was going on.
“You have a good day today?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Anything new or out of the ordinary?”
“No. Played with Emma, did some reading.”
“Are you at the writing stage of your thesis yet?”
“No, no, lot of reading to do yet.”
“Well if you need help with the typing … I’m practically a touch typist now. Fifteen years in the cops will do that for you.”
“Thanks, Sean,” she said and looked at me again under that adorable ginger fringe.
“So nothing else happened today?” I asked.
“Well …”
Here it comes …
“Yes?”
“My father called.”
“On the phone?”
“No, he came round.”
“Really? I’m sorry I missed him. Your mum with him?”
“No, she had her bridge morning.”
“What did he want?”
Another evasive look. “He just wanted to see the baby … uhm that’s all.”
The end of Symphony #2.
Empty grooves in the vinyl.
Silence.
The lovely opening of Symphony #3 that Schubert wrote when he was only eighteen years old, a few weeks after the Battle of Waterloo.
“Is that a clarinet?” Beth asked – an obvious ploy to distract me, that worked like a bloody charm.
“Yes. Solo clarinet. Pretty, isn’t it?”
“It’s good music to have in the background I’ll admit that … oh there’s Emma …”
“I’ll take care of her.”
Upstairs. Change the baby. Downstairs. Baby to Beth for a feed while I did The Times cryptic crossword.
Everything going great until the very first down clue “an often mature ham at the local church hall perhaps? (7)” which I fussed over ridiculously so that my completion time came in at a shocking nine minutes. The answer to the clue, of course, was “amateur”. “Mature” being a pseudo anagram of “amateur” and “ham” an unkind phrase for a poor actor. I didn’t get it because I didn’t realise until halfway through the crossword that more than half the clues were theatre-related.
We turned on the telly and caught the Season 3 premiere of Miami Vice – a show all the young cops down the station were raving about but which I’d never seen.
Liam Neeson was in it, playing a reformed IRA terrorist who wasn’t as reformed as he made out.
At 9pm I called the station and asked to be put through to the duty officer.
“Carrick CID, this is DC Lawson speaking.”
“Thought I sent you home.”
“I came back. I’m still duty officer. Unless you want to come in, sir?”
“No, I don’t. Any word on the results on our victim?”
“I have them in front of me, sir. They faxed them through an hour ago. It must have been a light day at the M.E.”
“Tell me the salients.”
“Time of death: between 1 and 2 this morning. Cause of death: haemorrhaging of the superior mesenteric vein.”
“Anything unusual?”
“Nope. It’s what we were expecting. He’d been drinking but he wasn’t drunk and we’re waiting for the full narcotics results.”
“Was there any sign of any previous beatings, kneecappings, anything like that?”
Lawson ruffled through the report. “Nope. His body was in good shape.”
“Strange that they would kill him straight away, isn’t it? Usually they’ll give you a good punishment beating to make you pay up. Dead men don’t pay anything.”
“Yes, sir. But a killing can be useful too. The old Voltaire rule.”
“The old Voltaire rule indeed.” (Dans ce pays-ci, il est bon de tuer de temps en temps un admiral pour encourager les autres.) “How’s Mrs Deauville holding up?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been down to see.”
“Jesus, Lawson, she’s our responsibility. CID, not the station. Take her down a clean sheet and a pillow and get her some food.”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”
“Goodnight, Lawson. Oh wait, one more thing. I have a feeling the annual fitness test is going to be tomorrow, so if you want to call in sick this would be the day to do it.”
“Nice wee run along the seafront. I’d quite enjoy doing it, sir.”
“You would. Well, I’m going to have to get Crabbie and me out of it somehow. And I’m dreading getting the results of our blood work the nurse took. All right, fine, goodnight, Lawson.”
“Night, sir.”
“Oh, before you go, I saw that programme you’ve all been raving about.”
“Red Dwarf?”