stand it came with.
Standing back, admiring my work, I try to imagine Claudia’s newborn baby sleeping in this cot. For some reason, I can’t.
*
‘What are you doing in my room?’
I turn. My hands are shaking. She’s caught me even though I was doing something nice for her. I’m not rummaging through her private belongings.
‘This was delivered earlier,’ I say. ‘Isn’t it lovely? I thought I’d surprise you and set it up. The packaging was badly damaged and I wanted to make sure that whatever was inside was OK. Thought I might as well bring it upstairs for you.’ I step aside from the Moses basket. Claudia’s curtains are still closed and it’s dark outside now. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’ I say again as she silently walks up to the basket. I’ve put it beside her bed.
‘Yes,’ she says vaguely, squinting at me as if she doesn’t trust me. She’s still wearing her coat and leather driving gloves. Her handbag is slung over her shoulder and she smells of winter. She gives the basket a little wobble then stares straight at me, straight into my eyes. I see the tiniest muscle twitch on her cheek.
12
LIAM RIDER SAT in the waiting area with his legs spread and an elbow resting on each knee. His head was dropped forward and his black and grey hair was mussed and unwashed and thinning at the crown. At first glance, he appeared nothing more than a Saturday-night haul, albeit on a weekday, a drunken misfit who was teetering on the edge of either vomiting or passing out. It took several moments for him to look up when Lorraine called his name. The others in the waiting room glared at him. The pierced woman with the irate toddler, the man in a suit, the couple of lads in tracksuits – they’d all happily queue-jump and take his place.
‘Mr Rider,’ she repeated. ‘I can see you now.’
Lorraine held the security door wide open until Rider got his act together and realised he was needed. He stood slowly with all the effort required by a man whose life was about to fall apart. Lorraine couldn’t help the little inward smile. He’d come here of his own accord, after all, so she’d made herself promise to be . . . to be
nice
to him, see what he’d got to say. He walked through the door and Lorraine caught the faint whiff of a man on the brink, a man whose bathroom habits had been bumped down the list of priorities. And all for what? A few shags with one of his students. She wondered if he thought it was worth it now.
‘Take a seat,’ she said once they were inside the interview room. It was a grey and dull space with not very much natural light. She didn’t bother flicking on the fluorescent strips. ‘What is it you want to see me about?’ she asked, perched on the corner of the second, smaller table in the room. Sitting down opposite him would have somehow signalled her approval of his presence and, in turn, his behaviour. She couldn’t condone that. If he’d come to say something helpful to the investigation, fine. If not, she would make this quick.
‘I am Sally-Ann’s baby’s father,’ Rider said quietly, shaking Lorraine from her thoughts. His hands were clasped together – fingers entwining like hopeless lovers – as they poked out from the ends of tweed sleeves. ‘She wasn’t sleeping with anyone else.’
What a total caricature
, Lorraine thought as she absorbed the smugness of what he’d just said. How did he know Sally-Ann hadn’t been sleeping with anyone else? The same way his wife no doubt believed in her husband’s fidelity, Lorraine supposed. She imagined him mixing with university professors and getting up to endless scholarly antics and jolly japes. Then she remembered he was just a teacher at the local community college – hardly an Oxford professor – and the leather elbow patches, untamed hair and thin-rimmed glasses suddenly lost their intellectual appeal. She wondered what on earth Sally-Ann, a pretty young woman, had ever seen in him.
‘I already know
Standing back, admiring my work, I try to imagine Claudia’s newborn baby sleeping in this cot. For some reason, I can’t.
*
‘What are you doing in my room?’
I turn. My hands are shaking. She’s caught me even though I was doing something nice for her. I’m not rummaging through her private belongings.
‘This was delivered earlier,’ I say. ‘Isn’t it lovely? I thought I’d surprise you and set it up. The packaging was badly damaged and I wanted to make sure that whatever was inside was OK. Thought I might as well bring it upstairs for you.’ I step aside from the Moses basket. Claudia’s curtains are still closed and it’s dark outside now. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’ I say again as she silently walks up to the basket. I’ve put it beside her bed.
‘Yes,’ she says vaguely, squinting at me as if she doesn’t trust me. She’s still wearing her coat and leather driving gloves. Her handbag is slung over her shoulder and she smells of winter. She gives the basket a little wobble then stares straight at me, straight into my eyes. I see the tiniest muscle twitch on her cheek.
12
LIAM RIDER SAT in the waiting area with his legs spread and an elbow resting on each knee. His head was dropped forward and his black and grey hair was mussed and unwashed and thinning at the crown. At first glance, he appeared nothing more than a Saturday-night haul, albeit on a weekday, a drunken misfit who was teetering on the edge of either vomiting or passing out. It took several moments for him to look up when Lorraine called his name. The others in the waiting room glared at him. The pierced woman with the irate toddler, the man in a suit, the couple of lads in tracksuits – they’d all happily queue-jump and take his place.
‘Mr Rider,’ she repeated. ‘I can see you now.’
Lorraine held the security door wide open until Rider got his act together and realised he was needed. He stood slowly with all the effort required by a man whose life was about to fall apart. Lorraine couldn’t help the little inward smile. He’d come here of his own accord, after all, so she’d made herself promise to be . . . to be
nice
to him, see what he’d got to say. He walked through the door and Lorraine caught the faint whiff of a man on the brink, a man whose bathroom habits had been bumped down the list of priorities. And all for what? A few shags with one of his students. She wondered if he thought it was worth it now.
‘Take a seat,’ she said once they were inside the interview room. It was a grey and dull space with not very much natural light. She didn’t bother flicking on the fluorescent strips. ‘What is it you want to see me about?’ she asked, perched on the corner of the second, smaller table in the room. Sitting down opposite him would have somehow signalled her approval of his presence and, in turn, his behaviour. She couldn’t condone that. If he’d come to say something helpful to the investigation, fine. If not, she would make this quick.
‘I am Sally-Ann’s baby’s father,’ Rider said quietly, shaking Lorraine from her thoughts. His hands were clasped together – fingers entwining like hopeless lovers – as they poked out from the ends of tweed sleeves. ‘She wasn’t sleeping with anyone else.’
What a total caricature
, Lorraine thought as she absorbed the smugness of what he’d just said. How did he know Sally-Ann hadn’t been sleeping with anyone else? The same way his wife no doubt believed in her husband’s fidelity, Lorraine supposed. She imagined him mixing with university professors and getting up to endless scholarly antics and jolly japes. Then she remembered he was just a teacher at the local community college – hardly an Oxford professor – and the leather elbow patches, untamed hair and thin-rimmed glasses suddenly lost their intellectual appeal. She wondered what on earth Sally-Ann, a pretty young woman, had ever seen in him.
‘I already know
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