Who Sent Clement? Page 3

  I finish my omelette and settle down on the sofa to watch the soaps. Maybe an hour of mindless escapism will reboot my imagination.

  Halfway through Coronation Street, I hear the front door open. It’s then slammed shut before heavy feet stomp up the stairs. Clearly Karl is home. I pause the TV and listen. He’s in our bedroom, directly above the lounge, and I can hear drawers being opened and closed with increasing force. I’d guess he’s probably lost something but I can do without his childish tantrums this evening. He can find whatever it is without my assistance.

  I return to Coronation Street.

  Five minutes later he storms in, looking harassed.

  “I left an envelope on the chest of drawers. You seen it?” he snaps.

  “And a good evening to you too.”

  “Not now, Beth. I need to find that envelope.”

  “Alright, calm down,” I plead. “What does it look like?”

  “Like a fucking envelope,” he blasts back. “What do you think it looks like?”

  Karl rarely gets angry but he’s currently approaching an apoplectic breakdown. Whatever he’s lost, clearly it’s important and I don’t wish to stoke his fire.

  “Try the top drawer in the kitchen, next to the fridge.”

  He darts out of the lounge without thanking me.

  The Case of the Missing Envelope by Beth Baxter — Desperate.

  Karl returns to the lounge a few minutes later.

  “Sorry, babe. I didn’t mean to snap. It’s been a stressful day.”

  “It’s okay. Did you find it?”

  “Yeah. Where you said it was.”

  He leans over and kisses me on the forehead.

  “Thanks.”

  “So why has your day been so stressful?” I ask. “Did your meeting not go well?”

  He flops down on the sofa and stares blankly at the TV.

  “Actually, I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind?” he replies.

  “Okay. Whatever.”

  “Tell me about your day.”

  “Dull. Although I did have an odd enquiry at lunchtime.”

  “Really?” he says, paying more attention to the TV than me.

  “This young woman came into the shop looking for a specific book — Lies in Plain Sight.”

  “Right,” he says, as he scowls at something on the screen.

  “Funny thing was, she thought the author was called K Patterson.”

  “Yeah, funny. Have you eaten?”

  “I have. Do you want an omelette?”

  “Please.”

  I think I might be wasting my time trying to engage my fiancé in conversation. I try one last time before I head off to make his dinner.

  “This girl was so thick she didn’t even know her name was the same as the Sioux tribe.”

  “Eh? Right. Tribe.”

  “Karl. Are you actually listening to me?”

  He’s still staring at the TV as he answers. “Yeah, yeah. Woman wanted a book and her name was Sue.”

  I lean across and slap his shoulder. “Karl, at least pretend you’re listening to me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I didn’t say her name was Sue. I said her name was the same as the Sioux tribe.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “Her name was Dakota, like the Sioux tribe,” I groan. “Oh, just forget it.”

  I get up to head for the kitchen but Karl grabs my wrist.

  “What did she look like, this Dakota woman?” he asks, his attention now firmly fixed in my direction.

  “Mid-twenties, I guess. A few inches taller than me, dark hair, trashy dress sense. Why?”

  “Um…doesn’t matter. Forget it.”

  “Karl?”

  “Sorry. I…I thought it might be one of the girls from the office playing a prank.”

  “She didn’t strike me as a typical council employee, unless you’ve recruited a former lap dancer recently?”

  “No,” he laughs nervously. “Just an odd coincidence I suppose. Forget it.”

  He stares off into the distance, not focused on either me or the TV.

  “Are you okay? Karl?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Work stuff,” he replies in a low voice.

  He seems unsettled. I’m about to ask why when he springs up from the sofa.

  “Forget the omelette, babe. I have to drop some paperwork off to an architect. I was going to do it on the way home but it slipped my mind.”

  “But Karl, it’s nearly eight o’clock,” I protest.

  “It’s a set of plans. They need them for a meeting first thing tomorrow. Won’t be long.”

  He darts out of the lounge before I can argue.

  And this is the man I have agreed to marry. For all the boyish charm and his romantic gestures, Karl can also be flighty and erratic. I suppose they’re traits from opposite sides of the same coin. Better than the alternative, though. I tried dull and dependable with Stuart and nearly died of boredom.

  You can’t have your cake and eat it, Beth.

  I disagree with myself and head into the kitchen, intent on having my wicked way with Mr Kipling.

  I consume two slices of lemon drizzle and a hundred pages of an Ian Rankin novel before Karl eventually returns.

  “Two hours to drop off some plans? Really?” I chide.

  “I’m sorry, babe,” he pouts. “I got a call while I was out. Toby had some work issues he wanted to discuss out of the office, so we met for a couple of pints.”

  “You could have called.”

  “I know. I just lost track of time.”

  I do my best to look cross but it’s unconvincing.

  “I might get an early night. I’m shattered,” he adds.

  He shuffles over and kisses me on the cheek. He does look tired, and his chocolate-brown eyes are circled with dark rings.

  “Okay, honey. Night.”

  It’s not unusual for Karl to be in bed before me. I’m not sure if it’s a scientifically proven fact or an old wives’ tale, but apparently the time of day you were born determines if you’re a morning person or a night person. I was born at ten at night while Karl entered the world just as the sun was putting its socks on. I’m happy to sit up past midnight while Karl is usually dead to the world by then. It’s a contributory factor to the dwindling frequency of any bedroom-related antics.

  I return to my book and read for another hour.

  I finally head upstairs at eleven thirty. Karl is snoring away, louder than ever. I climb under the duvet and try to block out the noise.

  Every time I get close to drifting off, Karl mumbles something unintelligible or throws out an errant limb. This goes on for almost an hour before I give up.

  I grab my pillows and traipse across the landing to the spare bedroom. The mattress on the guest bed might be lumpy but at least the room is quiet. This is not the first time I’ve resorted to sleeping in here. Every time Karl has a major planning project nearing a deadline, his sleep becomes increasingly disturbed. I’ve long since given up trying to wake him as it only serves to put us both in a bad mood the next day.

  I fall asleep within a few minutes.

  Six hours later, I wake up; disorientated, and with a crick in my neck courtesy of the lumpy mattress. I head straight to the bathroom and take a shower before returning to our bedroom. The duvet and fitted sheet are in a twisted ball in the centre of the bed. Karl must have been thrashing around in his sleep like a fish on a hook. God forbid he’d have the decency to make the bed.

  I get dressed and waste five minutes untangling the twisted linen before I make the bed. I stomp down to the kitchen with every intention of venting my annoyance at Karl.

  He’s not there.

  There’s a scribbled note on the table, next to a mug containing coffee dregs, and a bowl encrusted with remnants of cereal. I snatch the note up and read it.

  Had to be in the office early. Sorry about the mess. Love you xxx

  That man infuriates me sometimes. I screw th
e note up and throw it in the bin.

  Breakfast is eaten through gritted teeth.

  I don my jacket and check the contents of my handbag before leaving the house, irritation still niggling.

  When I pulled into our road last night, I had to park the car almost sixty yards from our front door. As much as I love my house, the road in which it’s situated is a nightmare for parking. There are seventy terraced houses along our road and every home possesses at least one car. That equates to over one hundred cars requiring a parking space along a narrow Victorian road. It’s a constant bone of contention among the residents.

  I stomp along the pavement, car keys in hand. I activate the remote central locking and the indicator lights flash a greeting. I climb in, drop my handbag onto the passenger seat, and turn the ignition key. A deep breath to calm my irritation and I pull away from the kerb.

  Barely fifty yards later, I realise something isn’t right.

  There’s an odd rumbling noise coming from below the car and the steering is all over the place. I pull over to the kerb.

  Some of the more militant residents try to protect their parking spaces by placing traffic cones in the road. I wonder if I’ve inadvertently run over one. I get out of the car to check.

  I’m about to kneel down and inspect the underside of my car when I spot the problem — both tyres are flat.

  I dart around to the other side and, to my horror, find two equally flat tyres. All four tyres are as flat as a witch’s tit.

  This must be the work of kids. The little shits.

  I stand on the pavement, unsure of what to do, other than to cuss several times. I consider calling Karl but I know I’ll regret it later. I pride myself on being a strong, independent woman and I don’t need a man to solve my problems. All well and good, but sometimes I hate my own bloody-mindedness.

  I traipse back to the house and return five minutes later with a foot pump.

  I kneel down and unscrew the dust cap from the first wheel. As I affix the pump valve, I spot the problem; a problem the foot pump won’t solve. I bend down and inspect a four-inch-long slit in the tyre wall. Some bastard has slashed the tyre with a knife.

  I scramble to my feet and check the other tyres — all three have also been slashed.

  I cuss again, with a slightly more coarse selection of swearwords. What type of low-life arsehole would do such a thing?

  I’m now late for work and in need of four new tyres. It’s time to swallow my feminist principles.

  I call Karl.

  It rings a dozen times before he picks up.

  “It’s not a good time, babe. I’m just going into a meeting,” he blurts.

  “Screw your meeting. Some bastard has slashed the tyres on my car.”

  “What? You sure you haven’t just got a puncture?”

  “No, Karl. I might not be mechanically minded but even I can spot a four-inch slash in a tyre.”

  The line goes quiet.

  “Karl?”

  “Yeah, alright,” he snaps. “Just get a taxi to work. I’ll sort it out later.”

  “Why would somebody do that to my car?”

  “Beth, just go to work will you. I’ve gotta go.”

  He hangs up.

  If it were not for the fact I’m in full view of my neighbours, I’m pretty sure I’d be stamping my feet and screaming by now. If I wasn’t livid before, I certainly am now. Bloody kids. Bloody fiancé. Bloody, bloody, everything.

  I take a moment to regain my composure and ring a cab firm. They don’t have a car available for at least half-an-hour.

  More cussing ensues.

  I throw the foot pump in the boot, lock the car, and stomp towards town.

  Woe betide anyone who gets in my way.

  4

  It takes me twenty five minutes to walk to the shop and I open the front door at quarter past nine. Opening late only adds to my irritation.

  I don’t know why I’m so concerned about opening on time. It’s just a symbolic gesture; something to remind myself that I do still have a business to run, albeit a struggling one. If I let myself become complacent with opening and closing times, it’ll become a habit, and start to manifest in other ways. I’ll stop caring about how the stock is displayed or if it’s properly categorised. I’ll stop changing the displays in the window. I’ll stop hoovering the floor or dusting the shelves. Bad habits are the hardest to break so for the sake of my own pride, I try to keep the shop functioning like a proper shop.

  I make myself a cup of camomile tea in the hope it will ease my rising blood pressure.

  I dig around under the counter and unearth a classical music CD. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata feels appropriate; soothing, yet mildly sombre. I slip the CD in and hit the play button. The sound of a piano echoes around the shop as I sip my tea and try to calm down.

  I can’t.

  I hate feeling helpless and I need to do something. I call the local police station to report the damage to my tyres.

  I’ve never had cause to report a crime before and I’m not sure what to expect. Maybe a swarm of crime scene investigators will descend upon my road and put a white tent around the car. Perhaps forensic experts in paper overalls will dust for prints and swab for DNA samples. Maybe a seasoned detective inspector will corral his best investigators and demand the culprit is found before their shift ends.

  A six-minute call suggests none of those things will happen.

  An uninterested desk jockey gives me a crime reference number and tells me that an officer will be in touch within the next few days. Far from putting my mind at rest and easing my irritation, the call leaves me incensed.

  Vandalism in any guise has to be the most pointless of crimes. What possible motive can there be? I can understand why people steal things. I can understand how emotions can push a person towards violence. But vandals? As far as I’m concerned, they should all be burned at the stake. Yes, that’s what should happen.

  I picture the scumbag who slashed my tyres, tied to a stake and screaming for forgiveness. It’s a horrid thing to think but it does make me feel slightly better.

  An hour later I’ve calmed down a little. I’m about to head into the stockroom in search of some old promotional posters for my Fifty Shades of Grey window display, when the door opens.

  It’s Eric again, with yet another box of cast-off books.

  “Morning, Eric,” I sigh. “I wasn’t expecting you again this week.”

  “Morning, Beth,” he chirps. “We had a visit from the fire safety officer yesterday and got a slap on the wrist for having too much stock out back. We spent all evening yesterday sorting through it, and I’ve got another two boxes of books in the car.”

  This is all I need.

  “Look, I’m really sorry, Eric, but I’ve had a few problems with my car this morning. I can’t really afford to shell out another thirty pounds.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. Pay us when you’ve got the money. We have to get this stuff out of the shop.”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  Eric stacks the box on top of the one from yesterday, still sitting by the counter, and returns to his car.

  Once all three boxes are deposited, Eric departs. Mercifully, he didn’t ask for tea this time.

  I stare at the boxes and decide to leave them be. I need to get the window display sorted before I restock the shelves.

  It takes me a while to locate the stash of promotional posters, buried in a box at the back of the stockroom. When the shop used to stock new books, we’d receive promotional material from the publisher with every order of a new release. The posters are a painful reminder of better times. Indeed, Fifty Shades was one of the final promotions I ran before I decided to give up on selling new books. I distinctly recall scraping every last penny I had to acquire thirty copies, in the hope it would sell like proverbial hot cakes. I sold them all but the profits were a drop in the ocean. Too little, too late.

  Little did I know that one day I’d have enough of
the damn things to create my own library of mummy smut.

  I pull the posters from the box and carry them out to the shop.

  My merchandising skills aren’t great, but I manage to create something resembling a half-decent display. Finally, I stick two of the posters in the window together with a printed sign, knocked-up on the computer — This Week Only: Fifty Shades for Fifty Pence.

  As I take a step back to admire the display, my mobile rings.

  “Hello.”

  “Is that Miss Baxter?” a male voice enquires.

  “Yes it is.”

  “Ah, good. I’m PC Kane. I understand you’ve got a problem with some damage to your car?”

  “That’s correct. My tyres have been slashed.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Have you got a few minutes to talk?”

  I confirm I have, and my initial disappointment with the police eases a little as PC Kane lends a sympathetic ear. He agrees to meet me at the house after work to take a statement and look at the car. Quite what he’s going to do about it is anyone’s guess, but at least he’s making an effort.

  Once I’ve tidied up a little, the lunchtime trickle of customers begins. I’ve long since given up trying to understand why one day’s trade is so different from the next, but today I take almost eighty pounds in just over two hours. I even manage to sell seven copies of Fifty Shades.

  If it were not for the awful start to the day, I’d actually be feeling quite buoyed by now. However, I know a large bill for four new tyres is heading my way.

  With more hope than expectation, I check my insurance policy and, as I feared, I discover I have to pay the first two hundred pounds of any claim. My fault for buying the cheapest policy I could find.

  Disappointed, I file it away.

  I then get a cloth from the staffroom and begin dusting the shelves. It’s a tedious task but it keeps me busy.

  My phone rings again just before three o’clock. It’s Karl.