A Lesser Evil - Lesley Pearse [99]
‘If that’s what you want,’ she said in a sullen tone, and climbed into bed, lying down with her face to the wall. She expected him to get in and try to cuddle her. But he didn’t. He faced the other way and they lay there with their backs to each other.
As usual he fell asleep very quickly, and that made Fifi even more annoyed. She couldn’t understand why he’d changed so much. He didn’t even seem to like her any more, yet alone love her. Was he regretting marrying her now? Did he think he’d be happier single, going down to the pub every night with his workmates?
She felt him bound out of bed the following morning, and once again she was reminded of how things used to be. Before Angela’s death he had always been reluctant to get up, he would cuddle up closer and say he’d give anything to stay there with her. Now it was as if he couldn’t wait to get away from her.
Fifi lay there crying after he’d gone. It was raining hard, and the thought of another long day cooped up alone in the flat was almost unbearable. August was nearly over, the whole summer had gone without so much as one day at the seaside. Next month would bring their first anniversary, and she couldn’t help but think what they’d been like with each other when they first got married. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other, often jumping into bed as soon as they got home from work, making love far more important than meals.
Dan used to want to know every last thing about her then. Stories from her childhood, about her friends, the people at work. He wanted to know what she was thinking, what she day-dreamed about. And she was the same about him.
They had only made love once since she lost the baby. Maybe that was down to her more than him; she was weepy and the plaster on her arm put her off. But Dan hadn’t tried very hard to get her interested. Since the murder there had been nothing; even his cuddles seemed half-hearted. She guessed that he was afraid that intimacy would open the floodgates to how she felt about the murder. And he didn’t want to hear that.
But how could she deal with the images of that day trapped inside her head, if no one would let her describe them? She also needed to know what had happened, who was responsible and why, and until she did, none of it would fade. Once, Dan had understood everything about her, so why couldn’t he now?
But it wasn’t just Dan who didn’t want to talk to her. Miss Diamond said she was in a hurry every time Fifi saw her. Frank wouldn’t answer the door when she knocked. Stan would smile sadly but could not be drawn into conversation, and Yvette never seemed to be at home any more.
Surely they all had the same sort of thoughts and questions as she did about it all? If the Muckles had killed Angela, what were they intending to do with her body when they got home that evening? Were they going to bury it in their garden? Borrow a car or van and dump it somewhere? What story were they intending to put about to explain her disappearance? Would anyone have cared enough about the child to question it?
And if it wasn’t the Muckles who killed her, what was going on over at number 11? Who were these people Alfie wouldn’t name? It was all too much having this milling around in her head.
Just after nine Fifi heard Miss Diamond sweeping the stairs. She had always done it every Saturday morning, from her landing down to the front door. When they first moved in Fifi used to volunteer to do it, but the older woman said it was her job. When Fifi broke her wrist, her neighbour had started coming right up to their flat and doing the stairs all the way down.
Desperate to talk to someone, Fifi got up, pulled on some jeans and a blouse and opened the bedroom door. Miss Diamond was a couple of steps down from Fifi’s landing, working with a small stiff brush and dustpan. She had on the blue nylon overall she always wore for household chores, but her hair was as immaculate as usual.
‘I’ll