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So commenced their nightly ritual. They never missed the news. Cocoa, biscuits, news, then bed. Been like that their whole lives. The chimes of Big Ben signified the start of the program.
“Wonder what’s been happening today?” asked Eric.
The newscaster announced the headlines, shocking the pair of them. Each lowered their cup of cocoa back onto the table in front of them.
In the studio, the face of the newscaster was solemn. “Detectives in North Yorkshire have today reopened a thirty-five-year-old murder case. It started in the coastal town of Whitby when the bodies of Alfie and Jane Peterson were found at their detached home in Valley Road in 1985.”
“Good God. What the hell’s raked all this up again?” Eric asked.
The action switched from the studio to an outdoor shot of the resort. Unlike years ago, the street was quiet. No flashing blue lights or crime scene tape, or marquees. The reporter continued with the story, but Elsie couldn’t hear anything because of Eric.
“Bloody place is doomed. Have they found someone else dead now?”
“Well we won’t know if you don’t keep quiet, will we, Eric?”
“I tell you, Elsie, love. You’re not safe in your own home these days.”
“I seem to remember you saying something similar when it happened. But we’ve done all right.” But had they? Her son had disappeared at the time of the murder, and she had not laid eyes on him since.
The action switched back to the studio. Eric was still prattling on.
“Will you be quiet, Eric Chilvers? I’m trying to listen here. You’re nowt but a damned nuisance. Drink your cocoa and shut your mouth.”
“You should talk. Can’t hear owt because of you now.”
Elsie shot him a narrow-eyed scowl. When she finally returned her attention to the TV, she heard the jaw dropping line. “Detectives have stressed that Robert Chilvers is armed and extremely dangerous, and should not be approached.”
Elsie’s mouth remained wide open. Her eyes filled with tears as she focused on a picture of her son.
The newscaster finished the lead story and moved on to something else.
Chapter Fifty-one
Manny was back in Bramfield, approaching Carpenter’s Yard. He was pissed, but happier than he had ever been. He’d cut a deal with the police. He wasn’t going down for something he hadn’t done. He didn’t actually want to go down for something he had done, but burglary he could live with. Assault? That was a laugh. The mad bitch had attacked him, tripped him up, punched him, kicked him in the face. She’s the one that should be done. Fucking would be, if he had his way.
But murder? No. He had not murdered anyone. Nor had he kidnapped his beloved Mary. When the police had dropped that one on him, he realised how deep his feelings actually went for her. All the stupid little things she had done for him, and still continued to do: cooking meals, shopping, watching out for him. She was besotted with him. Do anything he asked of her. Maybe she wasn’t a supermodel. But who wanted one of them? Too up their own arses, they were. Stunners – and they knew it. Treat men like shit, saw them as buses. Miss one, and the next would be along in a minute. No. Give him Mary any day of the week.
From what he’d heard, she’d been found. He raised his head to the sky, cheering inside. Life was good.
Manny collided with a blue bin that someone had left out, which in turn caused him to smash into the post at the side of the gate, banging his knee into the frame. He pursed his lips as he fell backwards, hitting the ground with a thump. The chocolates went one way, the flowers the other.
“Clumsy bastard!” shouted Manny at no one in particular. “You wanna watch where you’re putting things.”
He struggled to his hands and knees, grasping at the box of chocolates. Then he fell forward, searching for the flowers. “Oh, Christ. Where the fuck have they gone?”
Eventually he had them both. Then he realised he couldn’t stand up without using his hands, so he had to place everything back on the ground. The exercise lasted nearly five minutes but he finally drifted toward the two bungalows. Mary’s was lit up like a Christmas tree.
“Good old, Mary.” She’d been waiting up for him, probably cooked him another one of them casseroles she was famous for.
He fell the last few steps, crashing into the front door. Manny laughed out loud and farted. “Ooh, fuck me.” He laughed again, realising he should have said, excuse me.
The door opened. Mary was standing there in a dressing gown, a towel wrapped around her head. She glanced down at him.
As he stared upwards, he wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t understand that expression. Manny fell backwards, laughing at the thought of her holding out a rolling pin behind her back, like every good wife.
“Mary, my darling. How lovely to see you. Isn’t life fucking wonderful?”
“For some,” she replied.
