by Tony Parsons
This is what they do in the last ditch, when they have realised that their life is about to change forever.
Not me, Officer. I didn’t do it. It was someone else.
I gave Joy the nod.
‘You are under arrest for Conspiracy to Murder,’ she told Snezia.
Adams smoothly lifted Snezia from the sofa, spun her around, snapping the cuffs on behind her back, remembering her training. A formal arrest will always be accompanied by physically taking control. Because some people go fighting mad when the end is near. At Newgate prison, when they had the public hangings that Charles Dickens watched, the corridor that led from the holding cell became narrower as it got closer to the gallows, because the condemned can fight for their life with an inhuman strength.
But that’s not what happened with Snezia. The fight went right out of her. And that can happen too, when the end is near. There are also people who are meekly led to their fate.
Snezia hung her head, and a tendril of her white-blond hair fell over her exhausted face.
‘You do not have to say anything,’ Adams said.
‘What happened to the ballet shoes?’ I asked.
Snezia blinked at me, not understanding.
‘But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court,’ Joy said, checking the locks.
‘When Jessica Lyle was taken,’ I said. ‘You showed me a pair of ballet shoes. Remember? When we were in the old flat. What happened to them?’
She shrugged. ‘I must have lost them during the move.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You placed them on a fresh grave in Highgate Cemetery. Because you thought it contained the body of Jessica Lyle.’
Her head jerked towards me. You thought …
Because she did not know. She still did not know.
‘Anything you do say may be given in evidence,’ Joy said.
There was a massive HDTV on the wall facing the sofa.
I picked up the remote and turned it on and scrolled through the guide for BBC News.
And the return of Jessica Lyle was the top story on the rolling news.
She stood on the doorstep of her family home, her baby son in her arms, her parents pressed against her on either side, her brother holding on from behind, a tangle of arms and love, and they were all one flesh. Her mother was smiling, a broad smile that seemed fixed to her face with stunned disbelief. Tears rolled down the haggard cheeks of Frank Lyle, and the old cop pressed his face into his daughter’s shoulder to hide them from the watching world. And Tommy laughed and baby Michael stirred in his sleep.
And I wondered what she told them. I marvelled at the conversation that I would never hear.
Did Jessica tell her family about the diet of Xanax and fear that had kept her from their side when their hearts were being shredded because they thought she was dead? Did she explain the unexpected mercy of Ruben Shavers? And I could not help but wonder – did they know that Jessica had been seeing another man at the time of her fiancé’s death? Did they think that their perfect girl was painfully human after all? Did they look into those blue eyes and wonder if they really knew her at all?
Or perhaps she told them none of it. Perhaps they just held each other and wept. Perhaps the presence of her was miracle enough for now.
And I was happy for them. Because the family of Jessica Lyle looked restored, intact, and happier than they’d believed they would ever be again.
And Snezia sank back into her new leather sofa, the handcuffs making her arms rise awkwardly behind her, unable to take it in.
Staring at a ghost.
‘Yes, she’s alive and kicking,’ said Whitestone. ‘And as gorgeous as ever, isn’t she?’
‘They didn’t put Jessica Lyle in that grave,’ I said. ‘They put a body in there, under the coffin that it was dug for. But it was not Jessica. Bumpus buried Minky in there.’
‘Minky?’
I nodded. ‘There was no sudden return home for Minky. There was no rich sponsor who discovered her at the Western World. Jessica Lyle was meant to die that night. But Minky died in her place.’
Snezia shook her head. It was not possible.
‘Change of plan,’ I said. ‘Because the original plan fell apart from the start. Who do you think came up with the plan, Snezia? A team of nuclear physicists? The people who do these things, Snezia, they are not smart people.’
‘No,’ she said.
Not to the team of nuclear physicists, but to the idea that the plan could have gone so catastrophically wrong.
‘The open grave was waiting at Highgate Cemetery,’ I said. ‘But when Shavers and Bumpus arrived with Jessica, there was a squad car parked outside the gates. Because you know what, Snezia? There often is. It’s parked there to discourage the local youth from partying among all those precious old tombstones. And it’s there to watch for drivers using their phones at the wheel. And it’s there because it’s a good spot for a couple of tired coppers to park up and take a breather. So they kept driving to Bumpus’s flat in Camden, where the ex-girlfriend who still had a key was collecting some stuff.’
‘Minky.’
‘Minky. Poor Minky. And she was unhappy when they walked in with Jessica – this stunning new woman – and Bumpus was unhappy that she had seen them with Jessica. A witness. The plan would not work with a witness. And somewhere between all that sexual jealousy and all the fear of getting arrested, Minky got hurt and then she died. Jessica went home with Ruben Shavers and Minky went into the grave. But you didn’t know that when you left the shoes and the flowers, did you? You thought the plan had worked. You thought Jessica Lyle was dead and gone.’
She still couldn’t take her eyes from the TV.
‘You set her up,’ I said. ‘Your friend in your car. You made it look like someone wanted to abduct you. And for what? Because you got dumped for someone younger and prettier? We all get dumped, Snezia. You know what happens after that? We find someone better. Nicer, hotter, kinder. That happens to everyone in the world.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Whitestone said. And then to Snezia: ‘You actually wanted Jessica Lyle dead just because she took Harry Flowers from you?’
Snezia’s milk-white face twisted with contempt.
‘I didn’t care about losing my boyfriend,’ she said. ‘Is that what you think? I can always get another boyfriend. I can always get another sponsor. I cared about losing my flat.’ Her eyes teared over. ‘I really loved that flat.’
We stared at her in disbelief. Now it was our turn to stare in wonder.
‘That’s your motivation for Conspiracy to Murder?’ Whitestone said. ‘The housing shortage?’
And I saw it was true.
For a woman like Snezia, it was easy to find a boyfriend in the city.
But almost impossible to find somewhere decent to live.
Adams began to lead her away.
‘It wasn’t my idea!’ Snezia said, desperate to tell us everything. ‘I would have found another flat! I would have got another sponsor! But she told me – she promised me – that things could stay the same only if Jess was gone.’
Whitestone placed a gentle hand on Snezia’s arm and I saw the same bleak light in her eyes that had been there when Jackson showed her the handgun in the back of that van.
‘We know, sweetheart,’ she said, a soft reassurance, almost maternal, as if all debts were about to be paid.
‘Jessica was my friend,’ Snezia said, something else on her face now, getting over the initial shock. ‘But she was the kind of friend who gets everything she ever wants. She was the kind of friend who is in a different league to you. Look at her! Just look at her!’
We all looked at the Lyles as they retreated back into the family home, the press calling questions and the cameras flashing and the uniforms holding them all back. Even as the family passed through the door, Jessica still held baby Michael in her arms and her parents and her brother still held her. I never saw a family look so compl
ete, and I never saw a woman so loved.
‘Bitch,’ Snezia said.
36
There were leaflets in the waiting room of the Harley Street clinic and I read their titles while we were waiting.
Give In to Your Exhaustion. Involve Your Partner. Don’t Suffer in Silence. Get Your Partner to Give You a Soothing Massage. Talk to Your Partner.
Good advice to prepare you for your new life, your changed life, and the new life that was coming into the world.
The receptionist glanced up at us, wishing us away, embarrassed by the uniformed officer who could be seen through the frosted glass of the clinic front door, determined to act as if it was another day at the office.
And I remembered the special day my wife and I – and Anne was still my wife then – came to a place like this for her twelve-week scan, and I remembered how we held hands and prayed silently and believed with all our hearts that if we could just get through this day then we could face anything. It was so vivid in my mind – Anne on her back, flinching and laughing as the nurse applied the cold gel to her bare belly, and the white knuckles of our held hands and our eyes no longer just for each other, our gaze now fixed on that black-and-white monitor, and lit by a cone of light coming down from above, illuminating the unborn baby, shining down on our daughter.
‘Have you got any names?’ the nurse asked.
‘There’s only one name,’ Anne said. ‘Scout.’
‘Like the book,’ the nurse said. ‘To Kill a Mockingbird. I love that book.’
And we smiled in the darkness, our eyes never leaving the screen, and our grip on each other had tightened as though we would never let go.
‘Here they come,’ Whitestone said.
A door opened at the end of the thickly carpeted corridor that was more like a hotel than a hospital, and Meadow Flowers and her husband came out, smiling with relief and joy. I remembered that feeling. It was the best feeling in the world.
Their smiles faded when they saw us waiting.
And Mrs Charlotte Flowers came behind them, holding a black-and-white photograph of her unborn grandchild, and she smiled at me with that same polished charm she had shown on her daughter’s wedding day, she presented me that same charming mask, and it did not begin to slip until I spoke.
‘Snezia told us everything,’ I said. ‘You have to come with us now, Mrs Flowers.’
And I was prepared for denial, that was what I was expecting, that would have been the standard response from the ordinary sociopath.
But there was nothing ordinary about Charlotte Flowers.
And even as her mouth was still turned into an almost-smile, she came at me without warning and pressed her thumbs into my eye sockets, trying to blind me.
And now the receptionist was struggling to pretend this was just another day at work because Charlotte Flowers and I were writhing on the floor in a tangle of thrashing limbs, my hands on her arms as she tried to gain leverage to push my eyes into the back of my brain. Then I had her off me and I was on my feet again, but her mouth was snapping at me, attempting to bite off my nose, my ears, my lips, her jaws and teeth so close to my face that I could smell the floral bouquet of her lipstick. Whitestone and Adams were pulling at her limbs and a uniformed female officer had come in off the street but Flowers fought with a strength that came from somewhere other than muscle and bone. And even when she was in cuffs she kicked and she spat and bit and cursed us all to hell.
But in the back of the car to West End Central she began to weep. We thought she was crying for herself, for the life that was ahead of her, which is why they usually cry, but that was not why she wept. While resisting arrest, and attempting to push my eyes out the back of my skull, she had lost the photograph she had been carrying.
And that was the only time I ever saw Charlotte Flowers cry.
Tears that were not for herself, but for the grandchild who was waiting to be born.
Charlotte Flowers sat in the interview room at West End Central.
The chair beside her, the chair for a lawyer, was empty.
‘Before the start of this interview, I must remind you that you are entitled to free and independent legal advice either in person or by telephone at any stage,’ I said.
I paused. She was smiling at the black-and-white photograph in her hands. The receptionist had found it and handed it to a uniformed officer. We had given it back to her in her holding cell. Now it felt like the image of that unborn child was more real to her than an interview room in West End Central.
And I could not tell if she was at peace or insane.
‘Do you wish to speak to a legal advisor or have one present during the interview?’ I said.
She looked up at me and smiled and shook her head.
‘Out loud for the tape, please.’
‘No.’
Charlotte Flowers did not want a lawyer.
She wanted to talk.
And so we let the tape roll.
‘She doesn’t want to see Harry,’ she said, unable to resist a smile, her voice thick with triumph. ‘I saw the news. She’s with her family, isn’t she? Harry was just a rebound thing. After her fiancé died. Harry did not understand the deal. You see, Harry is one of those men who has had a lot of women – a lot of women – but who doesn’t understand the first thing about them. But with this one – he doesn’t understand that she doesn’t need his money. Not really. She can make her own money. And her family can look after her. And she can find a man her own age – look at her! She’s stunning! She’s a ten! She will be spoilt for choice. Harry doesn’t understand that it’s nothing for a woman to bring up a child alone these days.’ She nodded at me. ‘Maybe nothing for a man.’
‘But Michael is Harry’s child,’ I said. ‘Harry wants to bring up his son. It’s the most natural thing in the world.’
She chuckled.
‘That baby is not Harry’s son. Because it can’t be. After Junior was born, Harry had himself done.’ Her long fingers made a snip-snip scissors gesture in the air. ‘Harry had a vasectomy because it was just so hard – on both of us – with Junior. Our son started crying when he was born and he never really stopped. On and on and on! A most demanding child. Two children was enough. Two was plenty. I insisted. So the baby must belong to the boy on the bike. The boy who died. Her fiancé. Lawrence?’
‘Perhaps Harry doesn’t care who the father is,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he is so crazy about Jessica Lyle that, given the chance, he would be happy to bring up the boy as his own.’
She sighed, as if that was a technicality, but I saw her mouth twist with suppressed rage.
‘Perhaps. But the baby is not Harry’s baby. OK? And he knows it.’ Again with the snip-snip gesture. ‘And so does she.’
‘Can’t you say her name?’ Whitestone said. ‘Can’t you call Jessica Lyle by her name?’
Charlotte Flowers stared at her with haughty contempt, the amusement fading, like the lady of the house confronting an obdurate servant, and I saw the steel in her.
‘I think she’s quite enjoying her new-found fame, don’t you?’ she said. ‘She doesn’t need Harry any more. Harry’s out. Cut off. Dropped. Dumped from a great height. Services no longer required, thanks very much. And Harry thought he was the tough one in that relationship!’
Whitestone glanced at me. Charlotte Flowers was acting as if she had won. And my boss was wondering if she was insane.
‘Mrs Flowers, you should have a lawyer present,’ Whitestone said.
She shook her head, as if it made no difference.
‘Oh, Charlotte,’ I said, and she took her eyes from the photograph in her hand to look up at me. ‘All this for just another one of his girls,’ I said. ‘All these lives ruined. And for what? For just another one of Harry’s women. One among dozens. Hundreds.’
She sneered at me.
‘You’re wrong,’ she said. ‘This one was never just another girl. This one was never going to be content with being a bit on the side. Exclusive fucking ri
ghts for a nice apartment and a generous allowance – that was never going to be enough for this one, a sponsor who has to be home for Christmas, weekends and all the major holidays. This one was never going to be grateful for the usual deal. She was special.’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Everyone loves Jessica.’
Charlotte Flowers stared at me levelly. ‘When did you first know?’ she asked me. ‘It was before Snezia started opening her big mouth.’
‘Not until we met with Liam Mahone,’ I said. ‘Liam saw that picture of Derek Bumpus on the news and something stirred, something he had buried deep, something that had been eating away at him for a lifetime.’
She raised a wry eyebrow.
A smug smile began creeping across her face.
‘Liam remembered that it was a woman who came to see his family at that Sunday lunch,’ I said. ‘A woman who gave the order for the Mahone family to be marinated in petrol. A woman who made them believe they were going to be burned alive. Harry’s reputation – and his business – was built totally on fear. People were – are – terrified of him because of what he threatened to do to the Mahone family. But Harry Flowers never threatened to burn the Mahones. Because you did. Harry wasn’t even there that day. It was you and some hired goon. My guess – Derek Bumpus, back when he was a damaged kid from care, probably a clinical psychopath, and half in love with you, and ready to do anything for you.’
She pouted. ‘Big Del was only half in love with me? You’re such a hard man, Detective!’
She smiled at the memory and gazed fondly at the image of her daughter’s unborn baby, as if they were sharing a happy moment they would treasure forever.
‘You played it very well,’ I said. ‘The pantomime of throwing Harry’s clothes out of the window. Playing the hurt wife. It was all very convincing. It certainly convinced me. As if you didn’t know about Snezia Jones. As if you didn’t know about Jessica Lyle. As if you didn’t know that your husband has had something going on the side for years. When a woman as smart as you, Charlotte – you would have known all along.’
