The Next Girl(Detective Gina Harte #1)(3)
‘I’m so sorry, Debbie. I love you and I’m so, so, sorry I betrayed you’. He frantically searched around, making sure he was alone, and hurried back to the car. The passenger door was still open. He leaned in to tidy the seat belt, which had snagged around the chair, and noticed a driver’s licence in the footwell. She was Romanian. Nicoleta Iliescu was only twenty-four years old. He stroked the outline of her photo on the small card. He was right: she wasn’t Debbie. What had he been thinking? He took a duster from the glovebox and began wiping down the passenger seat. Her perfume still hung in the air, making him gag. Although he could barely feel his fingers, he knew he’d have to leave the window open while driving home to get rid of the stench.
He walked down to the riverbank and went to throw the card, then hesitated. He’d touched it. Would his fingerprints stay on it if it were immersed in water? He rubbed it against his trousers and held it with the tip of his fingers. Placing it in his pocket, he decided that disposing of it now was too risky. If the body were found, they might also find the card, then they’d know who she was. Maybe she’d remain in the river until she was unidentifiable, but he wasn’t going to leave any further evidence behind. Maybe if they knew who she was, they’d know her whereabouts, where she lived. Maybe they’d have him picking her up on CCTV in Redditch. He couldn’t take the risk. He’d take it with him, away from the scene.
He gazed up and down, trying to spot her body – nothing, except for a rustling in the bushes. He flinched, following the sound. Was it the breeze catching the bare branches? Was it just an animal? Foxes and badgers were common around these parts. The bushes opposite him rustled once more. His heart hammered against his ribcage. Had someone seen him?
‘Who’s there?’ he asked in a quivery voice as tears streamed down his face. He gasped until he almost passed out. Who’d seen him?
A fox darted from the trees and ran off into the distance. An owl hooted, making him flinch. He ran as fast as he could, back to the car, almost slipping on an icy puddle. Mother would be awake soon. She’d need her breakfast and the bread was in the car. He was going home, then he was going to watch Debbie – just another normal day.
One
Friday, 1 December 2017
Albert belched as he supped the last of his ale and placed his cap on his head. Another would’ve been grand but he knew his pension wouldn’t stretch that far. His mouth watered as he thought of the homemade steak and kidney pudding his neighbours Mark and Jean had promised to make him for supper. He gripped the table and hauled himself up, flinching as he straightened out. It wasn’t easy being old. Once the ageing bones had set in the same position for more than a few minutes, they rebelled at being moved.
Partygoers drank, yelled, and played darts and pool. They danced as another pop anthem started on the jukebox. It was the run up to Christmas and he loved every minute of it. As he straightened his tie and buttoned his overcoat, he gazed through the leaded window, into the darkness. In a moment, he’d be out there getting drenched, leaving the warmth of the roaring fire behind. Grabbing his stick off the back of the chair, he shuffled through the crowd, thanking anyone who moved as he neared the door.
‘Bye, old Albert,’ shouted Jeff, one of the bar staff, as he pulled a pint for a man in a light-up Christmas jumper
‘Less of the “old”,’ Albert replied with a smile, winking. He watched as Jeff wiped his forehead on his sleeve before continuing to serve the revellers. He pushed the door open and gasped for breath as a gust of wind hit him face on. Water soaked his shoes as he waded through the puddle that had gathered at the doorstep. He knew his shoes were cheap, but they were all he could afford and they looked smart. A real man needed a collar and a shiny pair of shoes. He was amazed at how many youngsters would go out in tracksuit bottoms and T-shirts. That attire was for exercising in, not for making an impression. He smiled as he remembered the night he first cast his eyes on his Lillian.
Cleevesford Village Hall on the seventeenth of December 1954. It was the first Christmas without rationing for as long as he could remember. Wearing his only suit, he entered the hall and paid his fee. The room was filled with bodies dancing to ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll.’ His heart fluttered as he searched for a place to stand. Every man seemed to have a girl on his arm or be on the dance floor. He watched as they rock-and-rolled and lindy-hopped.
At eighteen, he’d had a couple of dates but he hadn’t been lucky enough to find someone to see again or go further with. He was the skinny, spotty boy that most girls avoided. He grinned, remembering his mother’s warning when he’d left earlier that evening: ‘Don’t you go getting some poor girl into trouble.’
The dancers moved closer as a woman stepped forward to sing ‘Secret Love’ by Doris Day. Albert bit his bottom lip and began nervously twiddling his fingers. He placed his empty glass on the table and turned. As he looked up, his gaze locked onto the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen in his life. She looked like an auburn-haired Marilyn Monroe. Well, the rest was history. He’d married his Lillian a year later, and they had two beautiful girls soon after.
He inhaled and all he could smell was pie as he squelched across the road, passing the chip shop. Steak and kidney pudding, he thought as he smiled. His socks were waterlogged and it began to bucket down once again. Raindrops bounced off the gurgling gutters and pummelled the windows of the terraced houses opposite. Water dripped off his cap and drizzled onto his nose before dripping off his chin. He shivered and scooted past the car park, towards Cleevesford Library – or Cleevesford Village Hall, as he’d always refer to it. Once again, his mind was filled with the music of that night.