The Cover Up: A gripping crime thriller for 2018. Marnie Riches

the name and number was a neat handwritten note.

       Call me when the truth becomes too heavy to bear, Mr Khan.

       Chapter 6

       Gloria

      ‘You be careful,’ Leviticus said, cleaning Jay’s hands with a wet wipe before the child could shampoo the mashed banana into his hair entirely. ‘You wanna watch your back, Mam.’

      Gloria eyed her son and grandson disdainfully. ‘I’d be more worried about him getting that banana on the carpets, if I were you. Don’t expect me to cover the cost of a lost deposit because you let him paint the floor with his pudding.’ She turned back to applying her lip liner in the make-up mirror that she’d set up on the kitchen windowsill. The remainder of the autumn daylight was best in there in the evenings. The last thing she needed was poorly applied lip liner. Her lips were her best feature, and first impressions counted.

      ‘Mam! Seriously. The farm’s on red alert. One of the lads spotted a van staking the place out the other day. And M1 House is definitely a target after that meeting between Sheila and Bancroft went tits up.’

      ‘Language, young man! I’m going to an elegant reception for grown-ups in Jack’s Bar. I’m sure nothing untoward will happen whatsoever. You’re being melodramatic.’

      ‘You’re being daft.’

      ‘Shouldn’t a child as little as my Jay be in bed by now?’

      Her remark was pointed, she knew. It was an easy non-confrontational way to respond to her son’s flagrant impudence. Gloria was determined to have a nice evening and neither the perceived threat of Midland-based gangsters nor her cynical, paranoid son would rain on her parade. Speed-dating beckoned. Old Gloria felt like a hussy for even contemplating it; couldn’t stop thinking of how her heart had been smashed into smithereens by that scoundrel, Leviticus’ father and then, more recently, the pastor. New Gloria had relished every second of donning her most flattering Windsmoor dress and couldn’t wait to slip into the fancy matching heels that she could just about squeeze her only slightly swollen feet into. Water retention was a pig, but even that wouldn’t spoil her evening.

      Climbing out of the taxi a while later, she felt a pang of apprehension at ever having agreed to this nonsense. The emotionally daring Gloria of old had been supplanted yet again by the heartbreak-fearing church elder.

      ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t, love!’ the taxi driver shouted after her as she approached the bouncers. ‘You tight old cow.’

      She wondered if the fifty-pence tip had been adequate. Decided it had been, given the taxi had stunk of stale sick. Beastly.

      To her delight, Frank’s bouncers stood to attention, opening the doors for her with some ceremony.

      ‘I’m here for the speed-dating.’ She spoke her intention with an air of secrecy, mouthing the words in exaggerated fashion as though she was hard of hearing. Checking over her shoulder to see she hadn’t been overheard or spotted by anybody she knew who might conceivably be walking around an industrial area at 8 p.m.

      Toying with the strap of her Sunday-best handbag, wishing she hadn’t worn a dress with such a plunging neckline – because she had no intention of meeting anyone anyway – she crossed the lofty main space of the night club. Conscious of the click-clack of her heels on the parquet dance floor. Was she stepping over the spot where Jack O’Brien had breathed his last? She shuddered, suddenly tempted to about-turn and head for home.

      ‘All right, Glo!’ Frank loomed before her like a well-meaning, underfed spectre.

      ‘Hello, Francis,’ she said, her smile faltering as she saw the sign for ‘Speed-dating this way.’

      ‘Come to find a nice feller to keep you warm at night?’ Frank asked, draping his arm over her shoulder in a gesture of friendship that was far too familiar for her liking. ‘Well you’ve come to the right place, then. Love is all you need, right?’

      She shrugged him off, shuddering at the prospect of being judged by strange men. ‘Sheila talked me into it, and I agreed, in a moment of lunacy.’

      ‘Get a drink down you, Glo,’ Frank said, nudging her and winking. ‘Bit of Dutch courage, eh? You’ll be sorted. It’s on the house.’

      As she descended into the basement bar, she was both thrilled and horrified to see so many others of her age, milling around with drinks in their hands. The women were all dolled up to the nines, of course – the smell of their perfume and hairspray rose up to greet her in a heady fug of optimism and trying too hard. Far too much cleavage and leg on show. But the men … Scanning the men, it was immediately apparent that not a single one of them bore any resemblance to the pastor. In fact, the only black man in the room was at least twenty-five stone in weight and, judging by his leper-like complexion, needed the curing hand of Jesus Christ and a better diet far more than a three-minute mini-date.

      Somewhat crestfallen, realising that the notably absent Sheila had cleverly dumped the responsibility for their inaugural speed-dating event onto her by nagging her to take part, she grabbed a flute of prosecco from the bar. Took a sip, followed by a deep breath. The bell rang. Here we go.

      Seated at her own numbered table, as were the other women, Gloria felt like livestock at an auction as the men moved around the room, one by one, to vet her. But even as she nodded politely while being spoken at by Steve, the forty-year-old man from Widnes, whose strange, rubbery face looked as though it had been partially melted by a blowtorch, she felt as though she was being watched. You wanna watch your back, Mam. Lev’s words buzzed in her head like unwanted tinnitus.

      ‘Well, I’d always been interested in ice cream,’ Steve told her breasts. ‘I like the whippy stuff, me. My vans sell a lot of Flake 99s.’ He wiped the sweat from his brow with the napkin from beneath his tumbler of whisky, staining the charcoal tissue black. Gloria noticed then that he had a bogey, suspended on the hairs in his right nostril. ‘I make a packet at the football after a match. Even in winter.’

      ‘Is visible snot considered acceptable in ice cream retail circles, Steven?’ Gloria asked, pointing to his nose. Irritated. Every pore in her skin and every tiny hair on her body became super-sensitive to her environment. She grabbed the number eight sign in the middle of the table, an anchor to her seat, as anxiety whipped the composure from under her feet.

      As Steve poked at his nose with the bitten fingernail of his chubby index finger, wearing a bemused expression, Gloria took the opportunity to scan the room. Everyone was deep in stilted, hopeful conversation, wiping their sweaty hands on their knees beneath the table. Everyone, except the man at the next table to her – an orange man with perfect, gelled white hair, plucked eyebrows and a very smooth face. Though the blonde at his table was speaking, waving her manicured hands animatedly as if what she had to say was hyst-er-i-cal, the man’s bright blue eyes were on Gloria and Gloria alone. He smiled.

      The connection sent a shiver down her spine that was not entirely pleasant. She was certain she recognised this over-groomed dandy from somewhere.

      The bell rang. No time to scroll through her recent memories in a bid to place him. Gloria’s heartbeat escalated to a thunderous pace as Steve, the ice-cream magnate left and her mystery man moved towards her. He held his hand out and remained standing, expecting her to get out of her seat, clearly.

      She stood, shook his hand formally and was surprised when he pulled her into him for a full-on peck on not one but two cheeks.

      ‘I like to faire les bises,’ he said, pronouncing the French like Spanish, spoken with a Lancashire accent.

      ‘How sophisticated,’ Gloria said, taking her seat carefully and hooking her hair behind her ear. Coquettishly smiling down at the table-top.

      ‘My name’s Bob,’ he said,