‘Only joking, man. How did that come about, then?’
Reggie didn’t feel like telling him now. He felt instead like reporting him to management for being an idle bastard who took too many smoking breaks.
‘My sister set it up. Someone she works with.’
‘Gotcha. How did it go? Did you get your leg over?’
Reggie suddenly wished he hadn’t begun this tale. Not only had he not managed to get his leg over, he hadn’t even reached first base. In fact, to continue the baseball analogy, he’d been stuck on the bus on the way to the stadium.
‘She’s not a girl for rushing into things,’ Reggie said. Then, when he noticed the knowing look on Denzil’s face, he quickly added, ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not sure I want to see her again.’
‘Yeah? Why’s that, then?’
‘She was dissing the job we do. To be honest, I don’t think she really got it.’
Denzil shrugged. ‘What’s to get? We dig a hole, we put rubbish in it, we cover it over again. It’s not rocket science.’
And now Reggie wanted to throw Denzil in front of one of his compactor’s massive spiked wheels and drive it over him.
His homicidal thoughts were interrupted by a muffled blast of music.
‘Is that you?’ he asked.
‘Not me,’ Denzil said. ‘Maybe it’s Julie.’
Reggie realised the noise was coming from one of the bags lying in front of them. Realised too that this was an opportunity to exact a tiny revenge.
‘It’s coming from there. In you go.’
The speed at which the smile evaporated from Denzil’s face was satisfying.
‘Who, me?’
‘Hurry up. This might be your opportunity to return some poor old lady’s lost phone.’
Denzil sighed and waded in. Reggie smiled inwardly at the comical sight of Denzil pulling out bags and listening to them.
‘It’s this one,’ Denzil announced, just as the ringtone ended.
‘Open it up, then.’
He waited with glee for Denzil to start pawing through mouldy vegetables or used nappies. But all that fell out as Denzil ripped open the bag was a balled-up item of clothing. A jacket, by the looks of it.
Reggie took a drag on his cigarette. ‘Search the pockets,’ he said.
Denzil reached down and opened up the jacket, and it was as if the act released a shockwave that sent him back-pedalling with a yelp.
Reggie sniggered as Denzil fell backwards into a layer of crap, but a voice in his head warned him that the man might be up to something.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
Denzil clambered to his feet, pointing and jabbering. ‘L-look! C-come and see!’
Reggie tossed his cigarette aside and began to climb the mound in front of him. He thought, If this is a practical joke . . .
And then he saw the new face staring back at him, a face without a body, and he realised this was no laughing matter.
12
It occasionally entered the mind of Detective Chief Inspector Ray Devereux that his wife might be having an affair.
The notion always dissipated as swiftly as it arrived, though. The real reason she was always pushing him out of the house was ambition. Hers, rather than his. She wanted him to rise up through the ranks like a moon rocket. The very fact that he had reached the level of DCI was largely down to her, constantly pushing him and bolstering his ego and telling him how he needed to ‘fulfil his potential’. She was like a motivational speaker on steroids.
Yes, that’s the real reason I’m here, he told himself. Not an affair. No one else would have her.
He was in the plush surroundings of the Blackstone Private Members’ Club. All oak panelling and leather chesterfields and shelves of musty unread books. He wouldn’t mind the eye-watering membership fees if he loved coming here, but the truth was that enclaves like this made him feel uncomfortable. He experienced the same lack of enthusiasm about golf – knocking a small ball into a hole with a stick while walking in the rain for miles held little appeal – but it was something else he had taken up recently.
‘It’s where the real business is done,’ his wife had told him. ‘Not at the station. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know. Mix with them. Do what they do. Show them you’re one of the gang. That’s how it works. That’s how everything in life works.’
He had no idea where Fiona had picked up these shiny nuggets of wisdom, but he was willing to play along. To an extent.
He glimpsed Peter Fletcher sitting in an armchair in front of the roaring fire, his head buried in The Times. Ray could almost feel Fiona at his elbow, nudging him to go and speak to the man.
Although younger than Ray, Fletcher was already a chief superintendent. Rumour had it that he was lined up to be the next assistant chief constable. He was clearly a go-getter, a man who knew better than most how to exploit the system. Probably the sort of man with whom Fiona would love to have an affair.
Ray sidled up to him. Coughed discreetly.
‘Ray!’ Fletcher said, putting out his hand.