A Question of Identity (Simon Serrailler 7)

by Susan Hill

  ‘I went everywhere. To the fuse box first – it’s in the passage, same as in all of them. But then everywhere.’

  ‘Sitting room?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mrs Sanders’s bedroom?’

  ‘Yes. I checked everything everywhere, I just said.’

  ‘So by the time you’d been round you had a pretty good idea of the layout of Mrs Sanders’s bungalow?’

  ‘I had that anyway, didn’t I? I mean, I’d worked on them and basically they’re all the same.’

  ‘So you didn’t have to go back that evening to fix in your mind how to break into Mrs Sanders’s bedroom?’

  ‘Hang on – what are you talking about? I didn’t break in. When I went in that evening, it was through the front door and she let me in. What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Where do you keep your tools, Matt?’

  ‘In the van. There’s some in the shed behind the house I live in, but everyday stuff I use all the time is in the van. Why? Anyway, for the bungalows, they supplied all the stuff.’

  ‘So you didn’t use anything of your own there?’

  ‘I did use some of my own tools. Always do. But this was a subcontract job so it was just the tools.’

  ‘Who supplied the electrical flex?’

  ‘They did.’

  ‘Where is it kept?’

  Matt’s face went ash-pale. ‘Now listen . . . listen . . .’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘If you think . . . She was strangled with electrical flex, wasn’t she? Now listen –’

  ‘Sit down.’

  Matt was standing, leaning across the table, his face scarlet with rage now, one fist up in front of Ben Vanek’s face. Ben did not flinch.

  ‘I said, sit down.’

  A pause.

  ‘You touch me, you so much as put one finger on me, and I’ll have you in a cell quicker than you can say ten thousand volts. This isn’t going down too well, Matt.’

  The room seemed to crackle with tension. But then Matt Williams slumped in the chair, the anger and defensiveness out of him like a gas.

  ‘I want a drink.’

  Ben poured him some water, and handed the plastic cup over.

  ‘That all you’ve got?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  Matt glared at the cup.

  ‘Why did you go back to Mrs Sanders’s bungalow, Matt?’

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘You know, I’m not sure I really buy this. You tell me you’re a great electrician, take a pride in your work and so forth, but not only do you race round there when someone reports a fault – fair enough, I suppose, things do happen – but when you’ve sorted it, you then worry enough to go all the way back to double-check that one bungalow. You said the power going out was down to a faulty lamp in Mrs Sanders’s sitting room?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re absolutely sure about that?’

  ‘Yes, I bloody am, I told you – I’m a good electrician.’

  ‘So . . . you mended it, you checked everything, no one reported any further problems. Why did you go back?’

  ‘I didn’t want them all to be without power in the night, did I? If they had, whose fault would that have been? Who’d have been off the case? There are far too many freelance sparks as it is. You’re only as good as your last job.’

  ‘So you didn’t go back in order to kill Mrs Sanders? Perhaps you didn’t leave her bungalow at all. Perhaps you stayed in there? Made yourself comfortable. Hid yourself even.’

  ‘Where the fuck would anyone hide in those rabbit hutches?’

  ‘You tell me, Matt.’

  Matt shook his head.

  ‘Did you walk in through the door? Did you ring the bell in the middle of the night? Or did you break in through her bedroom window?’

  ‘Fuck off. I’m not having any of this.’

  ‘You see, the odd thing was that no one actually broke in through the front door or the kitchen door or through a window. Someone had actually left the bedroom window unlocked so it wasn’t secure and the arm was loose. It only took a bit of fiddling and pushing to open – no need for any noisy glass-breaking. Mrs Sanders didn’t bother to check properly. She obviously felt safe. But she wasn’t safe, was she? Because you’d played about with the window and when you came back in the middle of the night, by which time she was in her bed and asleep, you –’

  This time, Ben was ready for Matt Williams as he lunged, kicking over his chair. Both officers were on their feet trying to pin him face down, arms behind his back. The solicitor was standing too, but poised to run, not to pitch in and help.

  ‘Ring the bell,’ Vanek shouted. Williams was as strong as a bull.

  When two uniforms burst in, it took the four of them to handcuff him.

  ‘Matthew Williams, I am arresting you on the charge of murdering Elinor Sanders, on 28 February 2012. You do not have to say anything . . .’

  Williams went on bellowing, long after he had been put into a cell.

  Thirty-two

  ‘WHO’S THAT?’

  Sam glanced up from the sheet he was cutting out of a magazine. ‘MYOB.’

  Hannah leaned over his shoulder. ‘“Damian Lewis”. Who’s Damian Lewis?’

  ‘He’s about the most famous actor on television right now.’

  ‘Well, I‘ve never heard of him.’

  ‘Shows what you know. Ever heard of Dominic West then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Benedict Cumberbatch?’

  ‘You just made that up.’

  ‘Ha.’

  ‘Who are they then?’

  ‘I said. Famous actors.’

  ‘They can’t all be the most famous actor on television.’

  ‘No. Duh.’

  Hannah turned away.

  ‘You’re crying.’

  ‘I am so not crying.’

  Sam jumped up, grabbed her arm and spun her round to face him. ‘Ha. So what’s that on your face – dishwater?’

  She bent her head and bit him on the hand. Sam yelped.

  ‘You little weasel.’

  ‘Shut up, shut up . . .’

  ‘Look, you made tooth marks.’

  ‘Teeth marks. Yes and I’m glad and I hope it bleeds and you get HIV.’

  Sam snorted.

  ‘Or tetanus.’

  ‘Well it would be something pretty evil if I caught it from you.’

  Hannah grabbed the magazine on the table and ran out of the room with Sam after her. In the hall, both of them crashed into Felix who was on his way to find them. His wail of fright as he hit the ground had Cat flying out of her study. ‘What in heaven’s name is going on here? Sam, what were you playing at?’

  She dusted Felix down and inspected the knee he was rubbing. It was turning red and had a small scratch. ‘All right, I‘ll put some cream on that, sweetheart. Sam?’

  ‘Look at that . . .’ Sam held out his bitten hand. ‘That little bitch did it. And now she’s stealing my magazine.’

  ‘Sam!’

  Hannah was already halfway up the stairs. Seconds later, her bedroom door slammed.

  ‘Sam, come here.’

  ‘I’m doing something.’

  ‘I’m not interested. All right, Felix, sit still, I’m only putting a dab of cream on, you’re fine.’

  ‘And a Bob.’

  ‘Yes and a Bob.’

  ‘Baby.’

  ‘Sam, I don’t know what any of this is about but it has nothing to do with Felix. How did he come to be on the floor with you two on top of him?’

  ‘Hannah’s fault.’

  ‘I doubt that. There.’

  Cat pressed a Bob the Builder plaster onto Felix’s scratch and lifted him down from the worktop beside the sink. He inspected his injury closely, beamed, and wandered off to the den.

  ‘Right, sit down, and tell me exactly what was going on and why you were speaking to Hannah in that way. I won’t have it, Sam. What happened?’

  ‘Nothing.
She’s only sulking.’

  ‘No, she is disappointed and upset and are you really surprised?’

  ‘And jealous.’

  ‘Of course she’s jealous. Think about it. She was hoping – no, she was pretty much expecting – to get a part in a film. She didn’t get it, so she was gutted . . . and this is what she loves doing, what she’s good at. But what’s worse is you, into whose head the words film and acting had never entered, who didn’t ask for any of it, just swan into a much bigger role in a much bigger film. She could even cope with that, eventually, but not if you gloat and lord it over her. Which is what you’ve been doing for over a week, and you should be ashamed of yourself. You aren’t four, Sam, but you’re behaving like a spoilt brat.’

  ‘She’s the spoilt brat, if you ask me.’

  ‘I’m not asking you. I don’t want to hear one more word from you to Hannah on this subject. And if I do, or if Hannah tells me that you’ve started up again –’

  ‘You’ll do what?’ Sam sighed.

  ‘I’ll contact the film company and tell them you can’t take part. That’s all. Now go and get on with your homework.’

  ‘You wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Try me.’

  Sam attempted to stare her out and, failing, slouched away upstairs.

  Which child to see first? Cat was about to check that Felix was happy constructing another tower block with his Bob the Builder Site Kit, then go to Hannah, when she had one of her increasingly rare moments of feeling alone. The life of a single parent was far worse for most other women, without adequate housing, money, family, friendships, but the lonely responsibility was the same. She had support, enjoyed her work. Then came evenings like this one and she struggled to know which way to turn, and longed for the presence of just one other adult. Any other adult.

  She checked on Felix, who barely looked up from his massive fibreboard building site, made herself a coffee and rang her brother.

  ‘Serrailler.’

  ‘Hi, you in the middle of something?’

  ‘Sorry, didn’t check it was you. How’s stuff?’

  ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘Ah . . . not all that long actually.’

  ‘The case?’

  ‘No, I’m off tonight. It’s looking good.’

  ‘You’ve got him?’

  ‘Think so. Problem of lack of evidence but we’ll find it. So, I’m in a small towel, having had a shower, and I was just choosing a shirt.’

  ‘Aha. Date then.’

  ‘Yes and I’m running a bit late . . . You all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ Cat said. ‘Just wanted a catch-up but we can do that another time. Supper tomorrow night?’

  ‘Great. Thanks. Can we have roast chicken?’

  ‘Sure. And maybe you can have a word with Sam at some point.’

  ‘See? Knew there was something. What’s the new Daniel Radcliffe done now?’

  ‘You may jest, but it’s gone to his head in a really unpleasant way.’

  ‘OK, I’ll have a word.’

  ‘Thanks, bro. Have a great evening. Love to Rachel.’

  She thought about Rachel as she finished her coffee. Felix was singing ‘Can We Fix It?’ happily in the den. Upstairs was silent. Even Hannah’s Radio 1 didn’t seem to be playing.

  Occasionally, Cat worried about Rachel, because she was so vulnerable and because of Simon’s track record with women. She wondered if he had ever seriously loved any of them and then checked herself – yes, he had loved Freya Graffham, she was pretty sure. And Rachel? Yes. He had not talked very much about her, but when he had there was a seriousness in his voice, a depth of emotion he had rarely displayed before. He was sensitive to her situation and to how difficult it was for her to split her time and her loyalties between him and her invalid husband. Kenneth might have accepted her relationship with Simon but, even so, guilt would be there, and anxiety, worry about the future. Kenneth was in the late stages of Parkinson’s but that did not mean he was going to die any time soon. They had snatched hours and the occasional weekend. They would have this evening and tonight. And then? Besides, she wondered if Rachel understood just how committed he was to his work, how much it took up not only of his time but of his mental, physical and emotional energies and commitment.

  She sighed, putting her mug in the dishwasher. She loved her brother completely, but sometimes she saw a time ahead when he was still the bachelor uncle, still playing the field, in his sixties and heading for retirement. And then what?

  ‘I think I’ll be put to bed now,’ Felix said, coming in.

  ‘I see – is the builder’s work over for the day then?’

  ‘Yes, but tomorrow, we are doing a demolition job so I need a lot of sleep.’

  He was the only one of her children who had ever voluntarily suggested that it was bedtime and he did so often. At the top of the stairs, he glanced round at her and she caught a flash of her brother’s looks on his five-year-old face, the same slow half-smile. ‘I wish Molly would come back.’

  ‘She will, but not quite yet.’

  ‘Does her mummy still need to have her?’

  ‘Yes. And she needs to have her mummy.’

  ‘She sent me a particular crane I needed for the job so I love her.’

  Cat laughed. ‘I know. But you love her anyway, even without the particular crane.’

  She watched him strip off his shirt and jersey as he went into the bathroom, putting them neatly together on the chair. He was the easiest of her children in every respect, by a country mile.

  Twenty minutes later, he had fallen asleep in the middle of Horrid Henry. Cat switched off his light, went across the landing and listened. A slight sound from Sam’s room – probably a page turning. Sam read more books than anyone she knew apart from Judith. She decided she wasn’t yet ready to have things out with him. That would almost certainly involve a full-scale row and she needed to prepare herself carefully for what she would say, to minimise the damage it might do to them both.

  Let Sam stew.

  ‘Hanny?’

  Silence.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  Silence. Then a muffled voice.

  Hannah was sitting up on the bed, fully dressed but with her duvet pulled up around her, and her diary open on her knees.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more and don’t tell me I have to be loving and forgiving because no way.’

  Cat sat down and put out her hand. Hannah ignored it.

  ‘Don’t take it out on me, Han.’

  ‘He’s mean and I hate him. He didn’t even want to be in a film, he doesn’t even do drama, so what’s fair about that?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘And don’t say sometimes life is unfair because I’m not listening.’

  Cat wondered what there was that she could say to help and decided probably nothing at all. Hannah was right – it was unfair, life often was, and Sam had indeed been mean. She hadn’t got the part in the film after longing for it so much; he had a bigger part in a bigger film he hadn’t so much as tried for. What was there to be said about any of it?

  ‘I just wish I could do something to help. I wish I could make it up to you.’

  ‘Well, you can’t and buying me stuff won’t work so don’t bother.’

  ‘Han . . .’

  Hannah flung herself across Cat suddenly, her arms tightening round her, and sobbed and sobbed, and Cat saw that it was the only thing she could do and all Hannah wanted, even if it did not and could not change what had happened, or the unfairness of it all.

  I’m laughing. That’s all. I heard it and I started to laugh. Not aloud. Inside. It all happens inside. Laughing like that, to myself, cracking up to myself inside, with a normal face, it has to be the best thing.

  I always used to smile afterwards. I couldn’t keep the grin off my face. I had to be careful with that one.

  But laughing, I can do that inside and no one will ever know.

  So tonight, I laughed u
ntil I had a pain in my belly.

  Laughed and laughed and laughed.

  Because what could be funnier? I ask you. ‘Police today issued a statement . . . Police have charged . . . Police have charged . . . in connection with . . . Police have charged . . .

  I’m in bits. I really am.

  In bits.

  Laughing.

  Thirty-three

  ‘THERE’S A TUNA pie in the fridge for your supper, and cheese if you want to grate it on top, and the boys have got fish fingers –’

  ‘Karen . . .’

  ‘– and don’t forget to stand over Harvey while he brushes his teeth or he won’t.’

  ‘Karen . . . have I looked after my sons for a night before? Have I?’

  ‘Well, yes, only—’

  ‘Or fed them, and fed myself, and watered that bloody plant . . . just go.’

  ‘Right. I’ve rung Mum and she sounded all right.’

  ‘She’ll be fine, they’ve arrested someone, stop worrying.’

  ‘Does that mean there won’t be any police up there now?’

  ‘I’d think so. If they’ve got him why would they waste resources – public money and all that?’

  ‘Just for peace of mind, I suppose. Listen, if she rings you –’

  ‘She won’t, she’ll ring you. She knows you’re going to Topsham, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Oh yes, I‘ve got a bagful of stuff from her for Shona and the baby. Just think . . . Mum’s a great-granny!’

  ‘You’ll get caught up in traffic if you don’t move. And watch the roads, they forecast black ice in the morning . . . Look, ‘I’ll ring your mother first thing.’

  ‘That’d be kind, love, she’ll appreciate it. She’s very fond of you.’

  Harry laughed. ‘Yes, well . . .’

  ‘No, she is. Right . . . thanks.’ She leaned over and kissed him.

  Harry pointed at the door.

  ‘I’m gone,’ Karen said.

  Harry turned on the television, but the arrest of the electrician Matt Williams was yesterday’s news and there was only a brief report that Williams had been remanded by Lafferton Magistrates until a later date, bail having been refused.

  Harry marked up a couple of programmes and a film he wanted to watch later, then turned over to Sky Sports.