Читать книгу The Cover Up: A gripping crime thriller for 2018 - Marnie Riches, Marnie Riches - Страница 9

‘Is he looking?’ Gloria asked Winnie, who, as usual, was sitting to her right at the end of the pew. No response. She elbowed the old woman gently. Whispering loud enough so that a couple of the elderly men in front turned around and grimaced at her disapprovingly. ‘Is he looking?’

‘No, dear.’ Winnie shook her head, tickling Gloria’s ears with a flurry of petrol-coloured feathers. Waving a lace fan slowly up and down in the stuffy place.

It was a wonder she could see anything from under that hat. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m old, dear. Not blind. Hush! Pastor’s speaking.’

Irritated that her studied cool and feigned disinterest wasn’t working, Gloria faced forward again. Trying desperately to catch the pastor’s eye once more by pushing out her chest and batting her eyelashes.

No response.

The fine man standing in the pulpit, preaching to the swollen ranks of the congregation with vim, vigour and pleasantly developed triceps when he raised his hands to praise Jesus, had not cast so much as a glance her way since the start of the Sunday morning service. And there was Kitty Fried Chicken, still sitting at the front in the spousal hot-seat, wearing a beret, looking like some cross between Jabba the Hut and a black Che Guevara in BHS’ best. Still clinging on to that fine man of God like the oniony stink of sweat clinging to that ghastly polyester ensemble she was wearing.

Smoothing down her own pure silk Hobbs dress, Gloria wondered what had gone wrong in her grand plan. The pastor, by rights, should have been hers now. She’d been giving it her best shot for years, praying to the good Lord that fate would finally bring her the true love with this wonderful man that she so needed and deserved. But despite her best efforts, his marriage to a woman who smelled of four-day-old chicken was no closer to disintegration, and Gloria was no closer to the union of holy souls with the pastor that she desired.

‘Praise Jesus!’ the congregation intoned. ‘Praise him. Oh yes!’

Amid much fervour and hubbub, singing started up. ‘Father Can You Hear Me?’ Naturally, Kitty Fried Chicken was out of her seat, clutching a microphone, her chins wobbling and a sweat breaking out on her forehead as she worked her way up from a delicate soulful whisper to a growling fever pitch. Belting the hymn out, with the choir answering her every worshipful stanza in glorious harmony; the band playing along with enough skilful dynamism to usher a host of angels into the church. The hall was thrumming with love for the Lord Jesus Christ, but Gloria felt only cold and loneliness and bitterness inside, for she saw the truth.

At that moment, the adoration visibly poured out of the pastor, directed not at Gloria but at his dumpy, fugly wife who sang better than any soprano in the Royal Opera House, and who had more soul than any two-bit R&B singer on the television. Gloria realised the game was up.

‘I’m wasting my time,’ she told Winnie.

Winnie popped a mint on the end of her tongue and fanned herself nonchalantly. ‘You give it a good go,’ she said, squeezing Gloria’s arm, like the mother she wished she’d had. ‘But it is time to move on, love.’

‘But she stinks of stale chicken, Win.’ Gloria could feel tears prick the backs of her eyes. ‘I smell of Christian Dior.’

‘Some men just don’t have a very good sense of smell, darling.’ There was sympathy in the milky-ringed irises of Winnie’s brown eyes. ‘He might have blocked sinuses.’

‘But she’s boring!’

Winnie offered her a mint. Speaking the quiet wisdom of the elderly, just audible above the jubilant singing, she said: ‘The only difference between her and you, Gloria, is that she got there first. And he obviously needs his eyes testing, because Kitty has got a face like tripe and beans gone wrong. Or maybe she’s got a diamond-encrusted tutu hidden in those big knickers of hers. Who knows? You can do better, love. Honestly. Pastor’s not all that. He had bad breath last Sunday.’

With the service over, Gloria’s heart thumped insistently inside her ribcage. Time to get face-to-face with the pastor and see for certain, now that the filter of hope had been removed from her sight, if there was any longing for Gloria Bell in his eyes. Just one last double-check. Maybe she could even whisper in his ear that she loved him, just in case he was too stupid to have sussed it after all these years. She knew men were often slow on the uptake like that. But the realisation that her dream was dying settled in her stomach like an accumulation of heavy metal, rendering her optimism nothing more than a giant, unwanted malignancy.

Gloria filed out into the cold vestibule with the other worshippers, buffeted along by her ever-thankful trafficked workers, looking like jewel-coloured parrots in their Nigerian wraps and skirts.

‘Hello, Aunty Gloria! Blessings to you!’

‘Coming for cake, Aunty G?’

‘Loving your dress, Mrs Gloria!’

Kind words from her cleaners. At least somebody loved her, even if their love had been bought by offering them slave labour and free cramped living conditions as an alternative to prostitution in Benin City or destitution in the DRC.

‘Greetings and blessings, ladies!’ Gloria could hear that her voice was tremulous. It didn’t do to appear weak in front of her employees. She opted not to say anything more.

But her legs almost buckled with adrenalin as she caught sight of the pastor’s handsome face in amongst the crowd. Clyde, who owned the soul food takeout, was shaking his hand by the large, arched doorway. Was Pastor alone? No. Clyde stepped aside to reveal the short, squat Kitty Fried Chicken by the pastor’s side. Fleetingly, Gloria wondered if there was a passage in the Bible that would excuse ramming a ricin patty into Kitty’s fat face at the next church mingle.

She muttered under her breath. ‘Beat your plowshares into swords and your pruning hooks into spears; let the weak say, “I am a warrior!” If it’s good enough for Joel, it’s good enough for me.’

By the time Gloria had reached the vestibule to be thanked by the pastor, her anger had started to morph into sadness. She could see the lumpy bad skin of Kitty’s cheeks, yet still the pastor had his arm around her. Rubbing her shoulder encouragingly, as the churchgoers heaped praise on her for her soulful singing.

Stepping forwards, Gloria held her hand out to the handsome man who had taken up residence in her heart with his flirtation and mixed messages. My, how he looked like Luther Vandross in his thin days. Even now, he caused the butterflies in her stomach to take flight. But as this heavenly man reached out to reciprocate her greeting, Gloria realised the pastor was not looking into her eyes at all. His radiant smile was not for her. She followed his gaze, glancing over her shoulder, whereupon it dawned on her that he was ogling fresh meat. Pat Nicholas’ girl, Kendra. Wearing a miniskirt and stilettos, though she couldn’t have been more than seventeen.

Gloria gripped the pastor’s hand so tightly, he had no option but to make eye contact with her, finally. In a strong voice, she said, ‘I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith – 2 Timothy 4:7,’ and walked briskly out onto the street, before he had chance to see her first tear fall.

Making haste along the high street of Parson’s Croft before the affable gang of illicit cleaners had the chance to sweep her up into their ranks and into the cake shop, as was the usual post-church arrangement, Gloria eventually came to a halt outside the Western Union money shop. She looked around the busy, scruffy street through blurred, watery eyes. Disoriented by the traffic that whipped past and the group of youths that were pushing by her, five abreast, one doing wheelies on his mountain bike on the pavement. Ordinarily, she’d have shouted after him to get on the road where he belonged. But now …

‘Are you okay, Mrs Bell?’ one of the boys asked her. ‘Are you crying?’

Gloria shook her head vociferously, treating the lad to a hard stare. Who was he? She didn’t recognise him. He looked like a younger Leviticus. She didn’t need sympathy from a little toerag like him. ‘Conjunctivitis,’ she said, aggressively wiping the tears away with the back of her hand. Clutching her coat close and her handbag closer. ‘And tell your mate to get off his bike. Pavements are for pedestrians.’

Where had she left her Mazda? There it was, on Samuel Street. Had she had any breakfast? She couldn’t remember. Get yourself together, Gloria Bell, she chided herself. Right, where am I going? Where are my car keys? She turned over the engine. Why has Jesus forsaken me and made a barren wasteland of my heart yet again?

Driving away from the city, she found herself bypassing the quiet cul-de-sac on which she was living with her son and grandson. She continued on through the shower of falling golden leaves to Bramshott. Pulled up outside the high gates of Sheila’s sprawling house, where she spotted the dogged detective, Ellis James, ensconced on the opposite side of the road in his foetid Ford – a sinner’s vehicle, if ever there was one. He was clearly staking out the place. She paid no heed to the white van that was parked yet again outside the neighbour’s pile.

‘Let me in,’ she shouted through the intercom through tears that simply wouldn’t let up.

‘Hey! Hey! What’s all this for?’ Sheila asked, ushering her through to the kitchen, draping a comforting arm around her shoulders.

Unable to stem the flow of heartbreak, Gloria sobbed openly, stumbling across the marble floor and throwing herself onto a bar stool.

‘I’ll put the kettle on and rustle up some cheese toasties,’ Conky said, donning an apron as though he wasn’t a murdering henchman at all but rather some Northern Irish alternative to Paul Hollywood. He wasn’t wearing his hairpiece or sunglasses today. If anything, his kindness made Gloria sob harder. ‘Let you ladies talk. Don’t mind me.’ He chuckled.

Five minutes and half a kitchen roll later, the tears were replaced by hiccoughs and fatigue. Running her work-worn fingers along the gleaming granite worktop of the island, Gloria sighed heavily. Turned to Sheila. ‘I give up, Sheila. The pastor, I mean. He’s a cad. Nothing but a broken, unhappy man with bad breath and an eye for the ladies.’

Sheila’s carefully plucked brows furrowed. She squeezed Gloria’s hand in solidarity. ‘You’ll get over it. Honest.’

Conky set a coffee down before her on a coaster, leaning in to offer her the dubious wisdom and sincerity behind those bulbous thyroid eyes. ‘You’ve got to find someone new, Gloria. Someone better. Sure, I don’t know what you saw in some attention-seeking Bible-basher anyway!’

‘Man shall not live by bread alone, Conky, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God – Matthew 4:4.’ She tried to treat him to a disapproving scowl but hadn’t the energy to screw her features into the correct shape.

‘Aye. Oh, well,’ he simply said. ‘Some things just aren’t meant to be.’

Feeling her resolve weaken and her lip tremble, Gloria whispered. ‘He was the love of my life. I’ll never be able to rid myself of these feelings. I know it.’

‘Bullshit!’ Sheila said, smiling encouragingly. Glancing at the clock. Clearly, her sisterly support was on a time limit. How very Sheila. ‘You’re a fighter and a survivor, Gloria Bell. A successful entrepreneur! You’re worth more.’

Conky set a plate full of perfect golden cheese toasties onto the worktop. Fidgeting at their side, as though he were waiting to hatch some nugget of manly advice. Sure enough …

‘You have to push your feelings aside for this eejit and start again, Gloria,’ he said, waving a well-meaning spatula in her direction. ‘Don’t make a fool of yourself over a man that has the glad eye for every bit of skirt that comes his way.’

At her side, Sheila suddenly started to clap her hands like an excited seal. She encircled Gloria’s wrist in a cage made from those shellac talons. ‘You, my dear, are going speed-dating!’

‘What?’ Gloria said, biting into a triangle of toastie. Noticing Sheila’s plate remained empty.

‘You’ll be a guinea pig for our first speed-dating night!’

‘Beezer!’ Conky said, grinning. ‘Sure, you’ll find yourself a nice man that way. An emotionally available man, for a start.’

‘I am not going speed-dating!’ Gloria slapped her snack onto her plate in disgust.

‘Yes you bloody well are,’ Sheila said. All smiles. Eye on the clock. ‘Now, get your skates on with that cuppa because I’ve got a meeting with a Brummie who reckons he’s got the answer to all my problems.’