by Susan Lewis
Beth was thinking about the man with the crew cut. ‘He didn’t utter a word,’ she said, after describing him, ‘but there was something about him …’
‘There was someone sitting in on my interview like that too,’ Georgie said. ‘He didn’t say anything, just watched the whole thing and listened. I thought he was probably some kind of assessor. You know, one of those psychologist types who’s working on new interrogation techniques.’
‘Could be,’ Beth responded. The idea of there being anything sinister attached to the two men’s observation wasn’t one she was willing to run with right now so Georgie’s answer would do. Life was already complicated enough.
After a while Georgie said quietly, ‘They seem pretty convinced he did it, don’t they?’
Beth sighed wearily. ‘Can you blame them, when from what we’ve heard so far they’ve got enough evidence to throw away the key?’
‘So why would he?’ Georgie asked.
Beth took a breath and held it. ‘I wish to God I knew,’ she said finally. ‘But if he did, I can tell you this much: it wouldn’t have been because he was afraid of me finding out about his affair, the way the press currently seem to think.’
Georgie didn’t respond to that, for knowing Colin as she did, she strongly doubted that motive too.
‘What about you?’ Beth said. ‘Why do you think he might have done it?’
‘I’ve got no idea. But if he didn’t, I just wonder how on earth he’s going to prove it when they found him right there.’
Beth’s eyes closed as though to block out the image of Sophie Long’s lifeless body lying on a bed, and Colin’s ridiculous semi-nudity as he sat beside her, having throttled her with a pair of tights. Dear God, it was so burlesque it might actually be comical were it not so tragic.
‘That could be Bruce,’ Georgie said as her mobile rang.
Beth answered it.
‘Hi, it’s me,’ Bruce said.
‘It’s Beth,’ she informed him, her insides stretching with nerves. ‘What happened?’
‘It went the way we expected.’
‘You mean –’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘So where is he?’ she said, the words barely making it past her throat.
‘They’ve taken him to Wandsworth.’
She pictured him in a sealed prison van, travelling through the city he knew so well, unable to see out, not knowing when he would again. She opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly she had no breath. She gulped for air, but her lungs wouldn’t work. She looked at Georgie with bulging, panicked eyes.
Georgie swerved the car fast on to the hard shoulder. ‘It’s OK,’ she said, grasping her. ‘Just take it steady. One breath at a time. That’s it. Slowly. Slowly. In. Out.’
Beth’s skin was like ice, while her head roared like a fire. Some air was getting through now, but still not enough to speak. Then her limbs started to judder.
‘Beth!’ Georgie cried. ‘Oh my God, what’s happening to you? Is it your heart?’
‘No,’ Beth managed to gasp. ‘I’m OK. It’s just …’
‘Take it easy,’ Georgie insisted. ‘Don’t try to speak. I’ll call an ambulance.’
‘No, I’m OK,’ Beth whispered. ‘I’m sorry … I don’t know what … I’m not dealing with this very well …’
‘You’re still in shock,’ Georgie declared forcefully, as though to convince them both. ‘It’s shock!’ she repeated. ‘You’ll be all right.’
Beth nodded, and continued to fight for air. The struggle was becoming easier now, the terrible shaking slowly subsiding. ‘They’ve taken him to prison,’ she said finally.
‘Oh God,’ Georgie murmured, stroking Beth’s hair. They’d known it would probably happen, but being prepared had obviously not lessened the blow. ‘I’m sorry,’ she soothed. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Beth looked down at the phone, still there in her hand.
Georgie took it. ‘Bruce?’ she said.
‘What’s going on?’ he demanded. ‘Is she all right?’
‘She’ll be fine. I think it was some sort of panic attack.’
‘Speak to Dr Howard when you get home,’ he told her. ‘There might be something he can give her. Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. More to the point, how’s Colin?’
‘Between you and me, he was pretty shaken up by it too.’
Georgie kept her eyes away from Beth. ‘What happens next?’ she asked.
‘We should know the date for crown court by the end of the week. That’s where he’ll be committed for trial unless it can be demonstrated that there is no case to answer. Unless, by some miracle, we can prove he didn’t do it. All hope at the moment is on the results of the forensic tests.’
‘When are they due?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. Weeks probably.’
Georgie shifted the phone to her other ear. ‘Are you coming home tonight?’ she asked.
‘No. I’ll stay in London.’
‘Then call us later. Beth’ll want to talk to you again.’
‘Of course. There’s one other thing you should know,’ Bruce said, before she could ring off. ‘The press have got hold of Colin’s state of dishabille when the cleaner walked in. They’re going to have a field day with it, we know that, and it won’t be pleasant, so it might be a good idea to keep Beth away from as many papers and TV as you can.’
‘Of course.’
‘How was it with the police, by the way?’
‘Not an experience I’d care to repeat. It was worse for Beth.’ She glanced at Beth, and squeezed her hand. ‘We’ll get through it, though,’ she said to them both.
Beth took the phone. ‘Bruce, will he be allowed to make any calls?’ she asked, wiping tears from under her eyes.
‘He should be able to. We’re taking him a supply of phone cards tomorrow.’
‘What about visits?’
‘I think he’ll be allowed two or three a week. I’ll check.’
The need to touch him, hear him, smell him suddenly rose up in her with such urgency she couldn’t bear it. ‘When you see him,’ she said, failing to keep her voice steady, ‘please tell him … Tell him I don’t care what he has or hasn’t done. It’s not important. What matters is that I see him, or at the very least speak to him.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ Bruce promised.
An hour later Beth was gazing blindly out of the window as they joined a small stream of traffic heading off the motorway towards the roundabout that opened south towards Bath, and north towards Stroud. Georgie indicated right, and circled round to the north. They stayed on the main road for some time, passing through the centre of a large, rambling council estate, where Beth watched the rows upon rows of identical houses passing by and wondered what the women inside would say if she told them how she envied their uncomplicated lives and faithful husbands. Her assumption was no doubt as wrong as it was condescending, but whoever those women and their husbands were, behind all those ruched net curtains and tidy front lawns, she knew they would almost certainly have an opinion on her husband, and her life, by now, thanks to the press. She wondered if it would even occur to them that they might be wrong.
Soon after the estate Georgie steered the car off the main road and began winding through the narrow country lanes that would eventually lead them to her and Bruce’s South Cotswolds home.
Beth was thinking about her mother now, as she watched the passing green and yellow fields, turning gold in the early evening sunlight, and the lusciously dense hedgerows and trees that occasionally hemmed them into a sparkling tunnel of leaves. Joyce had surely heard the news by now, but as far as Beth knew she’d made no attempt to call. Nor had Beth any inclination to either. But she wasn’t going to worry about it when she had plenty to worry about already. Just thank God for Georgie and Bruce, or she’d be truly alone right now, since there were no other friends she felt as close to, and no relatives who’d care.
Not wanting to wallow in the depres
sing truth of how few people there were who mattered in her life, she turned her thoughts to someone she’d hardly allowed herself to consider during this nightmare twenty-four hours. Thinking about her now she felt a tremor of anticipation coast through her heart. She was someone, Beth felt sure, who’d be able to help her through this in a way maybe no one else could. She’d discuss her with Georgie later, certain Georgie would have confidence in her too. In the meantime, as they pulled up outside the gates of the smart, double-fronted Queen Anne house, she felt a renewed and comforting sense of safety enfolding her.
As they moved slowly along the gravel driveway Beth looked around at the high stone peripheral walls, and thick, shimmering green foliage of the overhanging oaks and horse chestnuts. Even if the press were to find her here the walls would keep them at a distance, while the house itself would protect her from all those brazenly invasive lenses. She grimaced inwardly, and ironically, as she recalled her earlier pretence of celebrity. She thought of how easily and readily Colin had always risen to the reality of it, and how desperately he must be cringing from it now. She wondered if that was how it was going to be: as Colin sank into disgrace she would soar to her own success, show the world that she was someone who mattered too. She smiled wryly to herself. What fanciful roads opened up to a mind in crisis. She’d taken so many since all this began. They were like escape routes, and though they might eventually turn into dead ends, how much easier they were on her psyche than the despair and fear that were almost constantly overwhelming her.
A sudden screech of delight broke her reverie. It was Blake, Georgie’s adorable year-old son, who’d appeared at the front door and was teetering dangerously on the first step. Beatrice, Georgie’s mother, was right behind him, showing her pleasure too that Georgie was home.
As she watched them Beth felt the unbearable ache of her own childless state – years of IVF that had resulted in two devastating miscarriages. Then seeing Beatrice coming towards her, she made herself smile.
‘Hello, dear,’ Beatrice said, embracing her warmly. ‘Isn’t it jolly pleasant weather we’ve been having?’
Just those few words were enough to bring tears to Beth’s eyes even as she started to laugh. ‘Beatrice, it could be dangerous to be nice to me right now,’ she warned.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Beatrice assured her, her dense brown eyes, that were so like Georgie’s, glowing with mischief. ‘Come along in now. I expect something stronger than tea is required. I hope so, because it’s time.’
Beth turned to Georgie and only just caught Blake as he suddenly launched himself into her arms. ‘Hello you,’ she cried, kissing his mop of tousled blond curls. ‘What have you been up to?’
‘Mummy,’ he gurgled happily. ‘Mum, mum, mum.’
Beth laughed, then laughed again as he cried, ‘Meh! Meh. Meh,’ which was his best attempt so far at saying Beth. But now wasn’t the time to be thinking about the babies she’d lost, or she never would get through this.
‘I’ve prepared your usual room,’ Beatrice told her, leading the way inside.
Beth smiled her thanks. It would be the room she and Colin always shared when they came to visit. It was even known as Colin and Beth’s room, and had its own en-suite bathroom, combined TV and video unit, king-sized bed, antique wardrobes, chests and dressing tables and a private telephone line.
The TV, she noticed almost as soon as she entered the room, had been removed. She guessed Bruce had called ahead to tip Beatrice off. They were doing it for her own good – she knew that, and even appreciated it, despite the near-frantic desire to immerse herself totally in all the debates, updates and wall-to-wall coverage the case was currently receiving. How peculiar it felt, to know that her husband’s life, and her own too, were being discussed, analysed, criticized and no doubt horribly vilified by the world at large while they remained remote from it all. Everyone would have an opinion, many would even claim to be experts, on psychology, criminology, the law in general, the law in precedent, the law in anything they could make fit. Marriage, mistresses and all aspects of infidelity would become red-hot topics. Absolutely nothing would be missed. By now they’d probably even dragged someone in from her kindergarten, her old school, previous jobs, even from her aerobics class, or her dentist’s surgery. Had they found any of Colin’s other mistresses yet? If not, they’d be there by tomorrow, or maybe they were being whipped up into Sunday exclusives. She knew how it went: no comment would be viewed too trite, and no source left untapped.
She thought of Colin and felt a debilitating sadness sweep over her. It was as though something huge and intransigent was rising up between them. They were both a part of this – he much more than her, it was true – but it was as though they were being pushed inexorably apart by a force that was running out of control.
She sat down on the edge of the bed. Outside the tall, half-open windows the garden was basking in the nostalgic warmth of a mid-evening sun. She could hear the birds singing, and smell the pungent scent of jasmine and roses. She looked at the phone, and tried to imagine herself picking up the receiver and doing what she had to.
It was already past seven o’clock, so there wasn’t really much chance she’d get through now. Before trying, though, she had to get the number from the notes at the back of her dog-eared Filofax. Having found it, she lifted the receiver and listened for the dialling tone. To her surprise it was there. So they weren’t cutting her off from the outside world entirely.
Taking her time, she punched in the number, then turned to the mirror and held her breath.
After the fourth ring a female voice answered.
‘Hello,’ Beth responded. ‘Am I too late to speak to Robin Lindsay?’
‘Not at all. Can I say who’s calling?’
Beth hesitated, then staring hard at her reflection she said, ‘Yes, please tell him it’s Ava Montgomery.’
Chapter 4
LAURIE FORBES WAS at her desk, a slight, focused figure in the midst of newspaper bedlam. Shouting, phones, printers, TV and radio broadcasts swirled around her in a deafening cacophony, though she barely heard it as she rapidly pounded her computer keyboard reworking and researching the many megabytes of information she’d gathered on the Ashbys since Colin’s arrest. From the moment she’d received the tip-off her life had been consumed by the affair. Even now she could hardly believe her luck, finding herself first on the scene, ahead of the tabloids, and the police. Actually, it was only luck that had got her there, since she’d been covering a thwarted robbery at a nearby convenience shop – which might have made the smallest paragraph of page seven – when her mobile had rung, so she probably hadn’t received the first call, she’d just been closest to hand.
Well, that was the way it went, and she certainly hadn’t wasted any time worrying about how she’d got her break, when this story was about as front page as they came. So far it had everything except drugs – and she was still working on that. But as far as sex, politics, glamour, crime, passion and intrigue were concerned, it was so far out there she hardly knew which angle to take next. She was literally wallowing in a surfeit of scandal, not to mention personal fame, for her by-line had appeared every day since the murder had happened, and other reporters and newscasters were calling her regularly to interview her about how she’d broken the news to Mrs Ashby and how Mrs Ashby had taken it. And all this for the new kid on the block, who’d only just got her stripes as a full news reporter after five years’ graft out in the sticks, then a year’s frustration at a desk in this glossy Canary Wharf tower, where not only one respectable broadsheet was housed.
Laurie knew very well that stumbling into such an exclusive could easily put her on the fast track to big time, provided she handled it right. Of course, all the heavyweight politicos were on the case too, so were the department editors, crime correspondents, features writers and any number of guest columnists. And then, of course, there were the tabloids, and since the broadsheets didn’t have the kind of resources their smaller
friends could boast, the two reporters from news who’d been working with her had now been reassigned to the daily grind. But battling on alone was OK with Laurie. She could handle it, despite the snootiness and noncooperation of her more experienced colleagues, who, frankly, were just plain pissed off that she alone had shared that intensely traumatic moment with Beth Ashby when she’d learnt of her husband’s arrest, while those far more seasoned and acclaimed than she had clamoured at the door, pleading for just one word, one shot, one small piece of the private hell.
OK, it was true she hadn’t exactly managed to get much out of Beth Ashby, which she was seriously hacked off about now, but, boy, had she managed to spin those few minutes into a sensation. Who did he kill? With those four immortal words Beth Ashby had all but condemned her husband and launched Laurie’s career. Of course, getting caught in the act had done considerably more to incriminate Ashby than Beth’s words, but that unpremeditated question had told the world that even his wife believed he was capable of murder. What the world and Laurie Forbes didn’t know yet, though, was what Ashby’s boss thought.
‘Hello,’ she snapped into the receiver, the speed of her hand sending a pile of cuttings cascading to the floor.
‘Hi. It’s me,’ the voice at the other end responded. ‘Bingo. Tonight. Six o’clock at Benitos. Do you know it?’
‘Yep. I’ll be there. Who are we talking about?’
‘The bloke you were looking for.’
Laurie frowned. ‘Remind me.’
‘Minicab driver?’
‘Laurie! Five minutes. My office.’
She gave the thumbs-up to Wilbur, the news editor, then ending the call returned to her computer. As she read the screen she absently slid a scrunchy off her already messy ponytail, stuck it in her mouth as she scooped up a few loose strands, then twisted it back on again.
