The Other Woman by Jill McGown

Inspector Lloyd,’ said Finch. ‘ Mr McDonald, sir.’
    â€˜I wanted my boy to be a footballer,’ Lloyd said.
    McDonald raised his eyebrows. ‘And what does he do?’ he asked.
    â€˜He’s a plumber. Well – he will be, when he’s finished his apprenticeship.’
    â€˜Good,’ said McDonald. He took a slightly battered cigarette from his jacket pocket. ‘You don’t have a light, do you?’ he asked. ‘No one smokes any more,’ he added, with a hard look at Finch.
    Lloyd had a book of matches somewhere, because he’d picked them up in a restaurant yesterday. He always did that, though he didn’t smoke either. Judy did. He found them, and handed them to McDonald, who looked pale and upset.
    McDonald struck the match which flared with the alarming suddenness of paper matches, and inhaled deeply, coughing immediately. ‘ I’d given up,’ he spluttered. ‘Until tonight.’
    When the spasm had subsided, Lloyd indicated that Finch should carry on.
    â€˜Can I ask where you had been, Mr McDonald?’
    McDonald released smoke without choking this time. ‘ Nowhere,’ he said. ‘ Walking round in circles.’
    Finch looked puzzled.
    â€˜I was here earlier to cover the opening. I left after about half an hour, but I got lost in the fog,’ said McDonald.
    â€˜And … when did you leave here?’
    â€˜Around eight,’ he said.
    Finch’s fair eyebrows shot up. ‘You were lost in the fog for almost four hours?’ he asked.
    McDonald, cool as you like, nodded. Lloyd didn’t speak. He wanted to see how Finch handled the interview, and he wanted to come to terms with the idea that a hero of his might just have strangled someone. He had been wild, in his youth. Mad Mac wasn’t just a newspaper epithet because it was alliterative. He had gone at everything hell for leather; if he had felt like killing a woman, he would have been quite likely to do it and damn the consequences.
    â€˜You were lost for four hours in a town like Stansfield?’ asked Finch.
    Judy wouldn’t have done that. Finch had asked the last question; Judy would have let it lie there until it got some sort of response other than the nod.
    â€˜I might not have been in Stansfield all the time, for all I know,’ said McDonald. ‘I got good and lost.’
    â€˜You found your way here, though,’ Finch said. ‘When you came to the opening.’
    â€˜Yes. But I tried to go home a different way.’
    â€˜Why?’
    McDonald looked uncomfortable for a moment. ‘ I just wanted to walk for a bit,’ he said. ‘But I got lost. Eventually, I realised I was in the village. I knew how to get home from there.’
    â€˜Where’s home?’
    â€˜Digs,’ he said. His voice was cool, but his hands were agitated, seeking something to do. He fiddled with the wedding ring he wore. He smoked quickly, in short puffs. ‘In Buchan Road.’
    Buchan Road was on an estate which, like the football ground itself, bordered on the bypass, about three miles further down by road. Crossing the pitch and the public playing fields would indeed be a short cut.
    â€˜Where did you telephone from, Mr McDonald?’ Finch asked, as McDonald jettisoned the lit cigarette through the open car window, and drew another cigarette from the packet.
    â€˜What? Oh – to the police, you mean? Here.’ He jerked his head back at the telephone box by the entrance.
    â€˜And … where did you get the cigarettes from?’
    Good, good. Most of the cellophane was still on the packet, including a ribbon overprinted with the words MACHINE PACK . You didn’t get a full twenty from a machine; the pack was obviously new, and he had said he’d given up. Lloyd hadn’t noticed; he felt more confident about the young sergeant now. And the question had fazed McDonald; he was making a business of lighting his