by Celina Grace
The hand holding the cigarette was shaking.
“Nothing, I…” said Saheed. He dropped his eyes to the floor. “I wasn’t doing any harm. Just parked on the road. That’s not being at the house, is it?” He looked at them fearfully. “I had nothing to do with this, nothing, I’m telling you.” The policemen regarded him with impassive faces. He swallowed. “Do I need a lawyer?”
He accompanied them back to the station with Theo sitting next to him in the back seat of the car. The traffic was heavy, and the journey took an hour longer than it had taken to get there. Olbeck thought of Kate and wondered how she was getting on at the Fullmans’ house, questioning Casey.
Back at the station, they took Saheed into an interview room, accompanied by the duty solicitor.
“I’m telling you, I don’t know anything about this,” he kept saying. “All right, so I drove by a few times. I kept thinking that Casey would–” He was silent for a moment. “That Casey would change her mind.”
“About employing you again as her agent?” said Theo.
Saheed nodded, after a moment.
“I’m assuming that she didn’t, in fact, do this?”
Saheed’s black brows drew down in a frown. “I’d been with her for five years,” he said. “Five years. I got her that TV show, I got her into the papers. Five years and she just throws me away, bye-bye Ali, nice to have known you.”
“That must have rankled,” said Olbeck, non-committedly.
“Yeah,” said Saheed, a trifle uncertainly. Olbeck wondered whether he knew what rankled actually meant. “I was pretty pissed off.”
“So pissed off that you thought you’d do something drastic? Something to get back at her?”
Saheed stared at him. “No. Nothing like that. I told you, I had nothing to do with Charlie going missing – and the nanny – nothing to do with it. You’ve got to believe me.”
“So why were you driving up and down outside her house at all hours of the day and night?”
“I was – I was thinking.” Olbeck looked sceptical. “All right, I was thinking about going back to see her. To try and persuade her to change her mind.”
Olbeck sat back in his chair. Perhaps it was time to try another tack.
“What was your relationship with Mr Fullman like?”
Saheed stared again. “Like?”
“Did you get on well? How did he feel about your relationship with his wife?”
“Okay, I guess.” There was a short silence. “He’s a weird guy, you know. He’s totally obsessed with his work, that’s all he thinks about. Casey got fed up with it, sometimes.”
“So Mrs Fullman would confide in you? You were close friends as well as business associates?”
Saheed half smiled. “I guess. You do get close, you know – when you both know the game…” He dropped his head. “She was lonely.”
Theo and Olbeck exchanged a glance.
“So you’re saying that, perhaps the Fullmans’ marriage was in trouble? Under strain?”
Saheed shrugged.
“For the tape, please.”
“What? Oh–” Saheed glanced over at the recorder. “I don’t know what their marriage was like, we didn’t really talk like that. Casey just used to say that Nick was always working and it pissed her off sometimes, particularly after she got pregnant. He didn’t seem very excited about the baby. That’s what I remember her saying, he didn’t seem excited at all about the baby, and he was the one who’d suggested the whole thing to her.”
Olbeck raised his eyebrows. “Nick Fullman suggested what to his wife?”
“That they have the baby, you know. Casey’s still young, you know, she’s not twenty seven yet. She’s got loads of time to have a baby if she wanted one. Nick was the one who was keen to have one.”
“Is that right? But Mrs Fullman took some persuading?”
“No, Casey wanted kids as well, it’s just that – oh, I dunno – it was more that she would have waited...”
“Do you think the Fullmans are happily married?”
Saheed’s eyebrows went up. “I don’t know.”
“What is your opinion?”
He looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You said Mr Fullman is a ‘weird guy’. Can you explain any further?”
Saheed reached for his cigarettes and then realised that he wasn’t going to be able to smoke. His foot was jiggling up and down on the floor and he put a hand on his knee, obviously to stop it.
“Don’t know,” he said. “All I know is that Nick does what he wants all the time. It’s always about him. He gets his own way a lot of the time, seems to me. He always gets what he wants. One way or the other.”
*
Olbeck got home later than he’d expected, and unfortunately, about two hours later than he’d promised. As he put the key in his front door, he braced himself. Joe was such a tempest, sometimes. There’d be storms of tears, shouting, even the odd plate thrown now and again. Then, just as quickly, calm again, all the energy dissipated. Olbeck knew he didn’t deal with it very well. He’d tried being placatory and unruffled as he was berated for his wrongs, both real and imaginary. He’d tried shouting back. He hadn’t thrown anything yet, but it was sometimes a near thing. It was exhausting, this relationship business, a constant battle between the compromises demanded by Joe and his own, selfish inclinations.
Joe was in the kitchen, clattering about with pots and pans. A rich, garlicky smell hung in the air, reminding Olbeck of the length of time that had passed since he’d last eaten. Joe was a fantastic cook; it was one of the things Olbeck loved about him.
“You’re late,” said Joe, not looking around.
“I know.” Olbeck hesitated and then wrapped his arms around his partner, kissing the back of his neck. “You know how it is when I’m on a case. I’m sorry.”
“You’re always on a case. You are a case. Headcase.”
“Nutcase.”
“That too.” Sighing petulantly, Joe turned around and kissed him properly. Despite his hunger and his tiredness, Olbeck felt a stir of interest. His boyfriend really was very nice looking, after all...
Then Joe moved away from him, stomping to the fridge. Olbeck sighed. Play this wrong, and it wouldn’t only be separate beds tonight, he’d been lucky not to be wearing his dinner. Be nice, be calm, be interested... Trouble is, he didn’t want to be interested. What he wanted to do was have a quick and dirty shag, something to eat and then hit the sack without any more conversation whatsoever.
“Guess what?” said Joe, in a slightly-less-annoyed tone. He was stirring a bubbling pot on the stove, bringing the spoon to his lips to taste. “Ouch, hot. Anyway, guess what?”
“What?”
“Mandy and Sarah are getting married. Well, civil partnership, you know.”
“Oh right,” said Olbeck, scrolling frantically through his mental contact list to try and place Mandy and Sarah. He remembered – Mandy was an actress friend of Joe’s and Sarah was her girlfriend. “That’s nice.”
“Isn’t it? They’re such a fabulous couple. I bet they’ll do the big white wedding thing, that’s Mandy’s style at least.”
“Right,” said Olbeck, trying not to yawn.
Joe glanced sideways at him. “That’s the kind of thing I’d like, as well.”
“What is?”
“The big white wedding.”
Olbeck’s heart sank. “Okay,” he said, not really sure where this was going but not liking the sound of it.
“Don’t you want that?”
No, I don’t. Olbeck knew he couldn’t say that out loud. Instead he muttered something like “Of course, but it’s not the right time at the moment…”
Joe was pouting. “You could at least sound a bit more enthusiastic.”
“Do we have to talk about this now? I’m tired and it’s been a long day.”
“No,” said Joe, ominously quietly. “We don’t have to talk about this now. God forbid that you want t
o talk about making a commitment to your partner, God forbid that I might actually want to talk to you for a change instead of getting your voicemail all the fucking time.” His voice began to rise. “God forbid that I’ve been here all day cooking for you and you promised to get home on time, promised and yet a-fucking-gain you don’t!”
“Okay–” said Olbeck, trying to head off the inevitable, but it was too late.
“I’m fucking sick of it!”
The wooden spoon went flying across the kitchen, trailing drips of sauce. Seconds later, Joe slammed out of the kitchen and Olbeck heard his footsteps pound up the stairs and then the more distant slam of the bedroom door.
Olbeck remained standing for a moment with his eyes shut, breathing deeply. Then he got himself a plate from the cupboard and helped himself to the stew. He sat at the table, eating methodically, refusing to get upset. Joe would calm down. Merely a storm in a tea-cup. The stew was so good he had second helpings before he stacked the plate into the dishwasher – there, who could say he never did anything around the house? – and went through to the front room to watch television.
Chapter Seven
Kate parked the car in her usual spot, four doors down from her mother’s house. She sat for a moment, ostensibly checking her handbag for various items but actually steadying herself with some deep breaths. Being here brought back so many memories.
She stared at the shabby grass verge, the litter piled in the gutter, the mean little front gardens that were either littered with garish plastic toys or paved over to become parking spaces. The houses were the usual charmless 1960s square boxes: windows slightly too small for the walls, concrete roof tiles, white plastic cladding.
Looking around, Kate realised the area had actually improved slightly – clearly, most of these houses were now privately owned including, incredibly, her mother’s home. Kate had given her the deposit to enable her to take advantage of the Right to Buy scheme back in the mid nineties. Kate had delayed her own house purchase by a few years because she gave up that chunk of hard-earned savings. Now, looking at the peeling paint, the cracked window pane, the overgrown front garden, Kate thought she might as well have thrown that money down the toilet. Loo, Kate, loo. At least if her mum’s property was still council-owned, it would be in better shape. She straightened her shoulders, locked the car and went up to the front door. She had timed this visit carefully. Too early, and her mum would be hungover and grumpy and unwelcoming, too late, and she’d be half-cut and sloppily sentimental. Now, at half past two in the afternoon, Mrs Redman would be as rational and as normal as she could be. So Kate hoped.
She was halfway to the front door when it opened violently and someone came stampeding out, her mother’s screamed profanities following them. Kate flinched. The person running down the path was a teenage girl, hair teased up into a beehive, thick black eyeliner, stomping boots on the end of long legs. She pushed past Kate, scowling murderously. Kate’s mother stood at the door, screaming after her. “And don’t come back, you little whore!”
“Mum!” said Kate. She grabbed her mother’s arm and wheeled her around, pushing her back into the house. She was rocketed back to her teenage years, feeling the neighbours’ scorn and disapproval beaming out from the surrounding houses as her mum embarrassed her yet again. “What on earth? What’s going on? Who was that?”
Her mum looked at her with a disbelieving expression.
“What d’you mean, who was that? That was Courtney, wasn’t it? Little whore. Who’d she think she is, coming round here and trying to hit me up for cash?”
Kate felt a quick jab of shame. Courtney was one of her six half-siblings. Her own sister, and she hadn’t even recognised her. When had she last seen her? Over a year ago, at least.
“Oh,” she said feebly. Then, collecting herself, “Well, Mum, here I am.”
“Yeah.”
“I was going to ask what’s been going on but I see that plenty has.”
Her mother tottered off into the messy living room.
“Where’s my fags?” she muttered, hunting amongst the detritus of the coffee table.
“How about a cup of tea?” said Kate. She wanted to deflect the inevitable offering of “a glass of something.”
Mary Redman had found her cigarettes and lit one. A thin ribbon of smoke rose towards the ceiling, stained ochre by twenty year’s worth of exhaled fumes. Kate turned towards the tiny galley kitchen that lay at the end of the hallway.
She hunted for teabags and mugs amongst the chaos. Mary leant against the doorframe, watching her.
“That cupboard,” she said, eventually. Kate opened it and was nearly brained by a landslide of tins and cardboard boxes.
“Oh, leave it,” said Mary, as Kate scrabbled about on the floor, picking things up. “What’s up with you, then? What you been up to?”
Kate stood up. She mentioned the Fullman case, just the bare bones of it, all she was able to say.
“Awful,” said Mary, taking a long drag. She shook her head. “Don’t know what I would have done if one of you had been taken. And that poor girl with her head smashed in!” Kate winced. “Poor little baby. His mum must be frantic.”
Kate poured boiling water onto the teabags and nodded. She thought of Casey in her expensive prison, hemmed in by paparazzi, lost and alone in her glossy kitchen. A greater contrast to the one that she was in could scarcely be imagined.
“Here you go,” she said, handing her mother a steaming mug.
Mary placed it precariously on the counter.
“Surprised you’re doing this case,” she said, watching Kate closely. “Thought it might bring back a few bad memories.”
Kate felt her shoulders stiffen. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“Don’t you?” said Mary.
“No,” said Kate. She could hear it in her voice: the shut-down, the freezing of emotion.
There was a moment’s silence.
“Oh, well,” said Mary. She picked up her tea and turned away. “Don’t know how you did it, myself. That was proper cold, Kelly, it weren’t natural. Couldn’t have done it myself. Don’t know how you–”
“That’s enough.”
Kate’s voice made them both jump. She stood for a moment, breathing deeply, trembling, trying to keep herself together. Her mother was looking at her in an odd way, sympathy and spite mixed together.
“Want a glass of something?” said Mary, after a moment.
“No thanks,” said Kate, automatically. She looked out of the small kitchen window into the uninspiring garden: concrete paving slabs, a dying shrub in a pot, a handkerchief-sized, balding lawn. There was a white plastic table out there, with an empty whisky bottle on top of it, an inch of dirty water in the bottom of the bottle.
“What did Courtney want?” she asked, after a moment.
Mary sniffed. “Money. As usual. As if she don’t already get enough from her dad.”
“But is she okay?”
“’Course she is. Just being a teenager, that’s all. All she cares about is boys and Bacardi Breezers and getting her nails done.”
Kate lifted her shoulders. “I cared about more than that, when I was her age.”
Mary looked at her with her mouth quirked up at the corner.
“Yes, love,” she said. “But you weren’t normal.”
When Kate closed the door of her flat behind her a few hours later, she stood for a moment, drinking in the peace and serenity of her home. More so than usual, she could feel the calmness that its order inspired in her – the well-being that the neatness, the cleanliness, the carefully-chosen fixtures and ornaments and furniture evoked.
Kate paid for a cleaner to come every week, and she cleaned the place herself, just a quick once-over, every day. It didn’t take long. She walked slowly through the small flat, relishing the peace and solitude, the joy of being surrounded by things that she’d chosen with care and attention. She moved about the living room, touching the back of the sofa, the w
ell-filled bookcases, the silver framed photograph of herself on her graduation day from Hendon. She picked it up and regarded it closely, noting her beaming, proud smile, her younger, eager face. Top of the class, Kate. You couldn’t have done that if – if things had been different. You made the right decision – for both of you.
She went into her small but sparkling bathroom and undressed, dropping her clothes into the wicker laundry basket in the corner. Her jeans and jumper had been clean, but they felt tainted by the hours spent in her mother’s house, smelling of smoke and whisky fumes and something else, something indefinable but awful. Kate checked that a clean, white towel hung from the hook by the shower door, ready for her when she stepped out of the cubicle and saw that the clean bathmat was laid on the shining tiles of the floor. She cleaned her teeth and cleaned her face. Before the bathroom mirror clouded over with steam, she regarded her naked body. You couldn’t tell. There was nothing on the surface that showed.
For the thousandth time, she pushed away the memories. Shut them away, push them back into the dark. She stepped under the hot gush of water, closing her eyes against the spray. The hot water against her back and neck was so comforting. She watched the foam-laden water stream away from her and down the plughole, and imagined all the mistakes and regrets of the past being carried away with it.
Chapter Eight
Gemma Phillips lived in a very small townhouse. It was one of a recently-built estate so new that the lawn of the tiny front gardens was like a small, green patchwork quilt, the lines of earth showing between each strip of sod. The houses were what Kate would term “cheaply smart.” They looked fresh and desirable because the new paint gleamed, the tiles shone and the windows sparkled. Give it five years, thought Kate as she parked the car, and they’d look considerably less attractive, as the shoddy materials and second-rate design began to show.
