by Susan Lewis
‘Do you think this is the end of your husband’s career?’
‘How did you feel when you found out?’
Beth hunched her shoulders, fixed her vision on her feet and made herself think about the weather. Georgie and a policeman guided her through the mayhem. Tears scalded her eyes as she reminded herself that rain hadn’t been forecast today, but there had been a brief shower around lunchtime. She tried to reconnect with the calm, early summer warmth she’d felt earlier, while walking, unmolested, along this very street. She imagined the blue sky, and struggled with the dreadful weight in her heart. If they’d stop shouting she might hear the birds, or a jet passing overhead en route to Heathrow, or the traffic speeding up and down the Fulham Road. Had she remembered to pop into the stationer’s earlier?
A sob lodged in her throat halting her breath. Yes, she’d got the paper she needed for her printer. She’d kept the receipt for her accountant.
Oh God, Colin! Colin! Colin! It was her own voice, screaming inside her. But mercifully no sound came out, so nobody knew just how afraid and alone she was feeling. Why hadn’t he called?
‘It’s OK, we’re here,’ Georgie said, opening the door of her Mercedes estate.
Beth got into the passenger seat. Someone rapped on the window. ‘Lock the door,’ the policeman warned.
Bodies, cameras, faces loomed up over the bonnet as the car pulled away. The police were battling to gain control, but the mêlée was a near-impenetrable mass.
‘Someone’s going to get hurt,’ Georgie murmured.
‘They’re bound to follow us,’ Beth said, not even daring to look back as they reached the end of the street. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To my house, I think. Get the mobile from my bag, will you?’
After she’d spoken to Bruce, Georgie passed the phone to Beth.
Beth froze. ‘Is he with Colin?’ she asked.
‘I don’t think so. He didn’t say.’
‘Bruce?’ Beth said softly.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure. How’s Colin? Can I talk to him?’
‘I’m not with him.’
‘So what’s happening?’
‘A lot. Too much. Did you call Inspector Jones?’
‘I’ve just seen him. He’s asked me to go to the station tomorrow. What’s he going to ask?’
‘It’s mainly procedure. He’ll probably want to know if you knew about Sophie Long before any of this. Did you?’
‘No. Did you?’
Avoiding the question, Bruce said, ‘I’m trying to get hold of Giles Parker to see if he’ll take the case.’
Beth’s mind reeled away from that. ‘Giles Parker? The QC?’ she said. ‘Does that mean he did it?’
‘No. It just means he should have a good barrister. Hang on.’ A muffled sound told her he’d put his hand over the receiver.
She looked out at the familiar shops and restaurants of the Fulham Road; the flower stall at the end of Callow Street, the Pan Bookshop, the cinema, the scaffolding around the Royal Marsden Hospital. It was as though she was travelling through it in a dream, because nothing seemed real despite the fact she knew it so well. How many times had she and Colin driven this road, eaten at the restaurants, gone to see a film, chosen a book, chatted with the lady on the flower stall? Just last week, the day of their special anniversary when he’d ended up going off to that damned party, he’d actually stopped on the way home to pick up some roses. She’d known where he got them because she’d recognized the wrapping. Besides, they never bought their flowers anywhere else.
It had been hard to believe that twelve years had passed since their first fumbled, though glorious time on the sofa bed of his Pimlico bachelor pad. They’d known each other for five weeks by then, having met because Beth had called his office to complain about the reporters who’d started hanging round the kindergarten where she worked. They were hoping to snatch some shots of the child of a celebrity couple who’d recently joined the school. It turned out that the journalist she’d cornered had lied about which paper he was with, but somehow she’d been put through to Colin Ashby anyway, who had generously offered to see what he could do. To her amazement, the wolves vanished the next day, so she called again, this time to say thank you. She’d then ended up spending the best part of her lunch hour laughing and chatting to him on the phone as easily and flirtatiously as if they actually knew what each other looked like and approved. Before he rang off he invited her for a drink that evening. She didn’t even hesitate, despite the fact she already had a boyfriend whom she’d been seeing for the past four months.
Memories of that evening now flooded her with such an awful sadness she could hardly bear to visit them. How delighted they’d been with each other. Not even in those first moments of setting eyes on him had she minded that he had to be at least ten, if not fifteen years older than she was. As it turned out, at the time she was twenty-six and he was thirty-nine. He was very distinguished and good-looking, with intense, humorous eyes that took almost no time at all to lull her into believing that she might just be the most special and fascinating woman alive. How many women had fallen for that charm before, and since? She had no idea, but she did know that she’d never, in all their years together, been able to resist it. Nor back then had she been able to believe he wasn’t married. Finally, to convince her, he’d made their seventh date a drive to Worcester to meet his parents, who had laughingly sworn that there was no wife that they knew of, nor any long-term girlfriends. There was only Jane, whom he’d been with for almost seven years, before they’d broken up back in February – and they’d recently heard that Jane was already planning her wedding to somebody else.
Where was Jane now, Beth wondered. Had she heard the news yet today? Would she consider she’d had a lucky escape? Or had she thought that a long time ago?
That night, after the visit to his parents, Beth had made no attempt to stop Colin making love to her. She wanted him so much and now she was ready to give herself completely. Though she hadn’t been a virgin, she was nowhere near as experienced as he was, which had made her shy and awkward at first, until somehow he’d made her laugh and relax until he was filling her so gently and so powerfully that it was as though her entire existence had never been about anything more, or anything less, than being with him.
She’d never met his father again. The old man died a few weeks later, and Beth had often wondered if it was Colin’s grief that had prompted him to propose soon after the funeral. She’d asked him once, and though he’d agreed that it might have made him ask sooner rather than later, she’d surely known by then that it was only a matter of time. She guessed she had known, since they’d become virtually inseparable, and were already allowing their views on marriage and children to start creeping into their love talk. And the truth was, she’d never really doubted his love, not even through all the bad times that had followed – and, God knew, there had been plenty of them …
‘Beth? Are you still there?’ Bruce said into the phone.
‘Yes,’ she answered.
‘I’m sorry, I have to go. Tell Georgie to take you to Charlie Sheldon’s.’
‘Your partner, Charlie Sheldon? Why?’
‘Because the press know we’re good friends. They’re bound to turn up at our place if they aren’t there already. Charlie’s wife is expecting you.’
‘Bruce, before you go, I still don’t know what happened. I mean, how did she …?’ Dread of the answer made it impossible to finish the question.
‘She was strangled,’ he answered.
Beth’s hand moved unconsciously to her throat. It wasn’t easy to strangle someone, or so she’d been told. ‘Do you think he did it?’ she whispered, picturing her husband’s long, elegant hands and wanting to cry so hard that God would take pity and turn back the clock.
‘He says he didn’t,’ Bruce answered.
‘But what do you say?’
‘That he didn’t.’
A la
wyer’s answer, which told her that maybe he did think Colin had done it, but it was his duty, his job to defend him. ‘Why do they think he did it?’ she asked.
Bruce hesitated. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I have to go,’ he said finally. ‘Tell Georgie to take you to Charlie’s. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
Beth rang off and relayed the message to Georgie. ‘Apparently the girl was strangled,’ she said, after a while.
Georgie’s expression was steeped in sympathy as she glanced over at her.
‘I guess that means no blood. Did you imagine blood?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Georgie answered.
Beth covered her face with her hands. ‘Where’s Blake?’ she said suddenly, referring to Bruce and Georgie’s one-year-old son.
‘In Gloucestershire with my mother. We might need to take you there for a while until all this dies down a bit.’
Beth turned away. Georgie’s words were a bewildering reminder that this wasn’t going to look better in the morning. It was only going to get worse – and worse. ‘When will I be able to see him?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Bruce.’
A few seconds ticked by. ‘Tell me, does he strike you as someone who could commit murder?’ Beth said.
Georgie shook her head. ‘No.’
‘But even serial killers look normal until you know who they are.’
Georgie’s hands tightened on the wheel. ‘Does that mean you think he could have done it?’ she said incredulously.
Beth’s face was colourless. Her eyes were blind. ‘No. I don’t know what it means,’ she said. Then, after a pause, ‘I wish I didn’t have to speak to this detective. I’m afraid it’s going to make it seem too real. Right now, it still feels like a dream.’
‘It’s probably best to get it over with,’ Georgie said.
Beth turned to look at her. ‘Did you know about Sophie Long?’ she asked.
‘No. I never heard her name before today,’ Georgie answered truthfully. ‘What about you?’
Beth shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea who she is,’ she said, ‘but he wasn’t exactly in the habit of telling me their names.’ A vague note of bitterness had crept into her voice.
‘It might not be what we’re thinking,’ Georgie offered lamely.
Beth made a noise like laughter. ‘I won’t hold you to that,’ she said.
After a while her eyes filled with tears. The foreboding in her heart was becoming so black it was as though it was shutting all the light from her life. ‘I should call his mother,’ she said. ‘She’s bound to have heard by now. I wonder why she hasn’t called me.’
Georgie had no answer to that, so she said nothing as Beth picked up the mobile and dialled Phyllis Ashby’s number.
‘Phyllis?’
‘Oh. I wondered when you’d get round to calling me.’
Beth’s eyes closed. How could the woman keep up this absurd competition of who called whom first when her son had just been arrested for murder? ‘Have you spoken to Colin?’ she asked.
‘Of course. You don’t think he’d call his mother?’
Beth’s heart tightened. So he’d managed to ring Bruce and Phyllis, but not her. Why not her?
‘I suppose you’re happy now,’ Phyllis snapped.
‘What are you talking about?’ Beth cried. ‘How the hell can I be happy about something like this?’
Phyllis was silent, then Beth realized the old lady was crying. ‘He didn’t do it,’ she spluttered. ‘I know he didn’t.’
‘Of course he didn’t,’ Beth reassured her.
‘He told me she was already dead when he got there.’
Beth allowed herself to imagine the body lying on the bed, twisted, blue and lifeless, while Colin approached in his navy Savile Row suit and Cartier cufflinks. ‘Do you know what he was doing there?’ she said abruptly. ‘Do you know who she was?’
‘No.’
‘He didn’t tell you?’
‘We couldn’t speak for long. He just wanted me to … He was concerned about …’
Beth was hardly listening. ‘Would you like me to come and see you?’ she offered.
‘No. I’m fine. You’ll have enough on your plate without worrying about me.’
‘Has the press found you yet?’
‘I’ve had a few calls. I’ve got nothing to tell them.’
‘Maybe you should go and stay with your sister Dolly for a while.’
‘Yes, I’ll probably do that.’
There was a long pause, then Beth said, ‘If he calls you again …’ Phyllis waited, but Beth’s throat was suddenly too tight to say more. ‘Nothing,’ she finally managed. ‘I just …’ She knew she was going to break down. ‘I’ll be in touch soon,’ she said hastily, and ended the call.
For several seconds she struggled to steady her breathing and reduce the swelling emotion in her chest. Then to Georgie she said, ‘All I’ve ever done is love that woman’s son, and she treats me as though I’m the worst thing that ever happened to him. Does she have any idea how he’s treated me all these years? Does she even care?’ Her breath had become ragged again as fear whipped up her anger and pushed tears on to her cheeks. ‘He can do no wrong as far as she’s concerned, and if he can’t stay faithful then it must be my fault, because God forbid anyone should suggest there might be something wrong with her precious boy, like sex addiction, or serial adultery, or some psychotic kind of misogyny! Jesus, she’s as bad as my own mother,’ she seethed, banging her fists on her knees. ‘Poor Colin, married to that boring, unaccomplished kindergarten teacher, who never was going to amount to anything. She doesn’t even know how to dress properly, never mind hold her own in Society.’ She was sobbing now. ‘But if I was so wrong for him why did he keep coming back? Answer me that. Why didn’t he stop loving me? Why didn’t he just divorce me? We don’t have any children, so it wouldn’t be hard.’ Struggling for breath, she dashed away her tears. ‘No one gets it, do they?’ she cried. ‘Despite everything, all our differences, our rows, his adultery, my insecurity, we’ve always loved each other, and nothing’s going to change that. Not even this is going to change that.’
‘I know,’ Georgie said softly. ‘And no one’s ever doubted how much he loves you.’
‘But everyone’s so critical! So damning of me and the way I hold him back. At least that’s how they see it; just because I hate the limelight and despise his colleagues means I’m standing in his way. But he’s right at the top, for God’s sake. Do they seriously think he got there without my support? Even he says he couldn’t have done it without me, so who the hell do they all think they are, spouting off on things they know nothing about? For Christ’s sake, I love him. I’ve always been there for him, just like he’s always been there for me. They’re all so damned quick to judge, accusing me of resenting his success, wanting him all to myself and I don’t even want to think about where all this is going to end, because I just can’t imagine my life without him.’ She gasped and choked, and her voice became a thin, high-pitched whisper as she said, ‘The bastard. Doesn’t he ever think about anyone but himself? He has to know what I’m going through. So why doesn’t he call? For God’s sake, it’s making me think he really did do it!’
‘He didn’t,’ Georgie assured her.
‘But he was there, wasn’t he? Whatever he did or didn’t do, he was there, in her flat. So tell me, how the hell’s he going to explain that away?’
‘I don’t know,’ Georgie answered. ‘Maybe someone else was there too. Someone we don’t know about yet.’
Beth pressed her fingers to her eyes and held them there until she could feel herself starting to calm down. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said finally, her voice thickened by tears. ‘It’s just that I’m so afraid … I suppose I’m trying to prepare myself for the worst, when really I should know he could never have done it.’
‘Of course he couldn’t,’ Georgie said warmly. ‘We both know that. You’re still trying to get over the shock of it all.
’
After a while Beth gave a dry, anguished laugh. ‘What makes you think this is all?’ she said, closing her eyes.
Georgie frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Beth shook her head. ‘Well, Colin obviously knew the girl, or why else would he have been at her flat? And whoever killed her must have done it for a reason. So maybe what I should be preparing myself for now is just how messy that reason is going to get.’
Chapter 2
COLIN ASHBY WAS thinking about irony and coincidence and symmetry, and how they related to the last time he’d been in this very cell. Was it twenty-five, maybe even thirty years ago? It had been the morning after a rock singer who was still famous today had been banged up for the night for trying to steal a police car. Having got an early tip-off to the story, Colin, with his young reporter’s dubious flair for the different angle, had thought it would be interesting, after covering the judicial process, to write about the cell that had housed this icon. So a friendly officer here at Notting Hill had indulged his request and allowed him to see for himself what the cell in question looked like. He remembered now how severely it had tested his powers of description, since there’d been nothing to describe, beyond the knobbly grey-green walls whose graffiti, over the course of time, had been painted over and over, leaving only faint shadows of its existence, ghostly reminders of its writers who had long since been discharged back into the mêlée of life, or death or other, more permanent, prisons. Then there was the small meshed window cut into the wall above eyelevel, a stone sarcophagus-looking slab which was covered by a thin, waterproof mattress, and the inevitable steel door with its built-in food and communication trap. In the end the cell article had been cut anyway.
How ironic that he should find himself in that very cell all these years later, reflecting on how simple life had been back then, in the starting paddock of the ambition race. How utterly complicated and frightening it was now.
It was probably some time between two and three in the morning, he guessed. Bruce and Giles Parker had left hours ago, looking almost as haggard as he felt. Since they’d gone, there had been little distraction beyond the inevitable sound-only entertainment of a couple of drunken arrests, and the occasional scrape and clatter of his communication trap, as the duty officer checked to make sure he hadn’t hanged himself. Since they’d confiscated his belt, shoelaces and Hermès tie on arrival, checking for that eventuality was a perversely morbid waste of time.
