Free The Loving Husband by Christobel Kent Page B

hair done.
    Ali put a hand to her own hair and grimaced: she couldn’t even remember when she’d washed it last and their eyes met, just for a second.
    Then it seemed to be winding down, though Ali couldn’t see what they’d got that was new. Gerard yawned, uncrossed his legs, leaned forward and folded his notebook and as he turned to Ed Carswell, started on about the weather and some five-a-side match at the weekend that might have to be cancelled, Ali leaned forwards.
    ‘Do you work, Mrs Hall? I mean, did you, before – work outside the home?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Fran Hall slowly, eyes wide, glancing from Doug Gerard, who had stopped mid-conversation to frown at Ali. ‘Yes, I worked on a magazine. In London.’
    ‘Magazine,’ said Ali, nodding, offering her respect. ‘Nice job, that. Glamorous. You gave up work, all that, to come out here?’ Gerard was looking tetchy. He didn’t like the idea of Fran Hall up in London, Ali could tell, up in London dressed up smart, chippy little Doug Gerard from, where was it? Up to Hull or somewhere. Nowhere. She ignored him. ‘Must have been a hard choice, coming out here,’ she said, quiet. ‘Must have been a sacrifice.’
    ‘Not as glamorous as people think,’ said Fran Hall, and her lips were pale. ‘A lot of travel, and it was the children. I wanted to be home with the children.’
    ‘Just one though, right, when you moved out here?’ Fran Hall’s eyes were wide, and Ali went on, ‘Just the one child. Or were you expecting him already?’
    ‘No, I, no—’ But before Fran could finish her answer, Doug Gerard had pushed back his chair with an impatient scrape and was nudging Carswell to switch off the recorder. He was on his feet and Fran Hall got up too, only looking sideways at Ali a second, a flash of something there then gone, but Ali had seen it all right.
    She looked frightened. That look that would turn a jury against her. She looked guilty.
    ‘Let’s get you home,’ said Doug Gerard, and leaning to lift the baby seat Fran Hall looked at him as if the word meant nothing.

Chapter Eight
    ‘We’ll take her back,’ Gerard had said to the female officer outside the police station. The FLO. Then he’d turned back to Fran. ‘This is DC Compton’s first day back off leave, a half-day by prior arrangement, there’s a certain domestic situation needs some sorting, I believe.’
    Bewildered, Fran said, ‘But she … I…’ Then she caught the look Ali Compton gave him and in that flash she recognised the situation: she had heard it enough times when she’d had a job of her own to go to, like domestic meant sitting by the fire with your feet up.
    ‘If you need me,’ said Ali Compton, quickly, so close Fran could see her roots showing, the mesh of fine lines at her eyes, ‘I’ll be right over. That’s all you need to know.’ She looked strained and tense.
    ‘All right,’ said Fran, reluctant to surrender her.
    ‘You try to get some kip this afternoon,’ said Ali, holding on to her at the elbows. ‘When the baby sleeps, you sleep. All right?’
    Gerard had made an impatient noise but Ali Compton ignored him. ‘If I hear nothing from you I’ll be there in the morning.’ A glance at Gerard, then back at Fran. ‘Is that all right? We can have a bit of a talk then. Go over things.’
    Ben was stirring in the car seat. It had seemed to Fran that she had no choice, so she’d said, ‘Yes. That’d be good.’
    It occurred to her in the back seat of the police car, looking at the back of Gerard’s square head, the rash on Carswell’s neck where he’d gone too close with the clippers, that if Ali Compton had been the first to arrive on the scene last night it would have been very different. She felt as though she was tangled tight in what she’d already said, she’d left out things she couldn’t begin to explain.
    Sacrifice, that was the word Ali Compton had used, looking at her that way. But they said that was what it was all about, having a