‘Mark, you’re letting your-’
‘I let my family down in many ways, Sergeant. Too many to count, too many to bear. There’s not a lot I can do for them now, but I’ll do the one thing that’s within my power. I’ll refuse to accept your feeble theory. There’s a murderer out there. If you don’t think you can find him, tell me and I’ll pay someone else to do it.’
Kombothekra was starting to look uncomfortable. He never issued direct challenges and hated even more to receive them. ‘Mark, I understand how you feel, but it’s a big leap from a suit going missing to opening a full-scale murder enquiry when there are no obvious leads or suspects, and when a suicide note was found at the scene. I’m sorry.’
‘Have you found William Markes yet?’
Simon tensed. That would have been his next question too. He didn’t like the idea of himself and Bretherick as allies and Kombothekra the outsider, didn’t want to identify too closely with this stranger’s thought processes in case they took him closer to his pain. Bretherick, he knew, was picturing William Markes-insofar as one could picture a stranger-leaving Corn Mill House carrying a bundle of bloodstained clothes and wearing a brown Ozwald Boateng suit. As was Simon. Well, a brown suit, anyway. The fancy name meant nothing to Simon, apart from ‘bound to be ludicrously expensive’.
‘I want to know who he is,’ said Bretherick. ‘If Geraldine was… seeing him…’
‘We’ve found nothing to suggest Geraldine was involved with another man.’ Kombothekra smiled, making the most of this opportunity to say something that was both true and encouraging. ‘So far the name William Markes has drawn a blank but… we’re doing our best, Mark.’
Doing, or have done? Simon wondered. Originally there were three teams working on the case. Now, with Mark Bretherick ruled out as a suspect, nothing to indicate Geraldine wasn’t responsible for both deaths and a suicide note to suggest that she was, the investigation had been scaled down to Simon, Sellers, Gibbs and Kombothekra. With Proust waiting in the wings to shower them with his icy disapproval when they least deserved it-his idea of team leadership. Simon doubted any further attempts would be made to track down the William Markes mentioned in the diary.
He needed a piss, and was about to excuse himself when he remembered: there was no toilet in Corn Mill House apart from those that were in the two bathrooms upstairs. Simon had asked Bretherick during an earlier visit and been told that converting the large pantry beside the utility room into a downstairs shower room had been next on the list of home improvements. ‘Won’t happen now,’ Bretherick had said.
Geraldine’s body had been found in the large, sunken en-suite bathroom, a small flight of steps down from the master bedroom, and Lucy’s in the second, smaller-though still large-bathroom on the landing next to her bedroom. Simon thought about the contrast: the bathtub full of bloodstained water in the en-suite, so red it might have been pure, undiluted blood, and the pristine white marble of the house bathroom, the clear water, Lucy’s unmarked body, her submerged face. The floating strands of hair, like black seaweed in the water. Polished limestone steps leading down to one bath, the other in the middle of the floor… Both focal points. Almost as if the rooms were stage sets, had been designed to present these two monstrous deaths as dramatically as possible.
Simon decided to wait. He wouldn’t go into either of those rooms again unless he was compelled to.
‘My mother-in-law, Geraldine’s mum… she’s asking to read the diary,’ said Bretherick. ‘I don’t want her to. I haven’t told her how bad it is. It’ll destroy her. Unlike me, she’d believe Geraldine wrote those things because the police believe it.’ His voice was full of scorn. ‘What should I say? What normally happens in cases like this?’
There are no other cases like this, thought Simon. He hadn’t seen any, at any rate. He’d seen a lot of stabbings outside night-clubs, but not mothers and daughters dead in matching white bathtubs with funny curled-over tops and gold claw feet… as if the bath might suddenly run towards him, disgorge its contents over him…
‘That’s a tough decision to make.’ Kombothekra was patting Bretherick again. ‘There’s no right answer. You have to do whatever you think is best for you, and for Geraldine’s mother.’
‘In that case I won’t show it to her,’ said Bretherick. ‘I won’t upset her unnecessarily because I know Geraldine didn’t write it. William Markes wrote it. Whoever he is.’
‘I knew it was trouble,’ said Phyllis Kent. ‘At that first meeting, I told the superintendent. I turned round and said to him, “This’ll be nothing but trouble.” Not for him, not for you lot, so you won’t care. Trouble for me. And I was right, wasn’t I?’
Charlie Zailer allowed the manager of Spilling Post Office to finish her tirade. They stood side by side looking at a photograph of a grinning PC Robbie Meakin. The picture was attached to a small red postbox on the wall, to the right of the post office counter area, and advertised Meakin as one of Spilling’s community policing team. ‘Culver Valley Police-working to build safer communities.’ The slogan, in large bold capitals, looked slightly threatening, Charlie thought. There was a phone number for Meakin beneath the photograph, and an appeal for members of the public to contact him about any topic that might concern them.
‘I turned round and said to the superintendent, “Why does it have to be red? Our postbox outside is red, for proper letters. People’ll confuse it.” And they have. They turn round and say to me all the time, “I think I posted my letter in the wrong box.” Course, it’s too late by then. Your lot have been in and taken everything, and their correspondence has gone missing.’
‘If anything comes to us by mistake, I’m sure we do our best to send it on,’ said Charlie. What sort of idiot would fail to notice the large police logo on the box, the obvious differences between this and a normal postbox? ‘I’ll speak to PC Meakin and the rest of the team and check that-’
‘There was a lady came in this morning,’ Phyllis went on. ‘She was in a right state. She’d posted a letter in there to her boyfriend and it never got to him. I turned round and said to her, “It’s not my fault, love. Ask the police about it.” But I’m the one who gets the aggro. And why won’t the superintendent come in here and talk to me about it? Why’s he sent you instead? Is he too embarrassed? Realised what a bad idea it was? It’s all very well you turning round and saying to me…’
On and on it went. Charlie yawned without opening her mouth, wondering how Phyllis Kent managed to be both in front of and behind everyone she spoke to: ‘I turned round and said, he turned round and said, you turned round and said…’ There was an identical police postbox in the post office at Silsford, and, as far as Charlie knew, there had been no complaints about that one. The market research she’d commissioned last year had proved unequivocally that people wanted as much community policing as possible, as visible and accessible as possible.
Charlie suspected Phyllis Kent savoured grievances. She would have to start going to the supermarket if she wanted to avoid being buttonholed by the woman. It was a shame; Spilling Post Office was also a shop-a rather efficient one, Charlie thought. It was small, L-shaped and sold one variety of everything she needed, so she didn’t have to waste time choosing between rows of the same thing. Sliced white bread and mild cheddar could be found alongside more unexpected items: tinned pickled octopus, pheasant pâté. And it was on Charlie’s route home from work. All she had to do was pull in by the side of the road, get out of her car, and the door of the post office was right in front of her. It couldn’t have been more convenient. Charlie had started to base her day-to-day planning around what she knew Phyllis stocked: Cheerios for breakfast, a bottle of Gordon’s gin and a box of Guylian chocolates as birthday presents for her sister Olivia. For a bath, Radox Milk and Honey-the only bath oil Phyllis sold. It lived beside the freezer cabinet, on the third shelf down, between Colgate Total toothpaste and Always extra-long sanitary towels with wings.
‘I’ll make sure PC Meakin
returns any post that comes to us by mistake,’ Charlie promised, once Phyllis’s rant had ground to a halt.
‘Well, it’s no good returning it to me, is it? It wants posting in a proper box, like the one outside.’
‘Anything with a stamp and an address on it that’s clearly not for us, we’ll undertake to send on to its rightful owner.’ Charlie didn’t know how to sound more reassuring. She had no grander, more impressive promises up her sleeve, so she hoped Phyllis would be content with this one.
But the post office manager was not a woman to whom contentment came easily. ‘You’re not going, are you?’ she said, as Charlie started to inch towards the door. ‘What about the lady?’
‘Lady?’
‘The one who came in this morning. She reckons there’s a letter to her boyfriend in there, in your box. No one’s been to empty it for days, and she wants her letter. I turned round and said to her, “Leave it to me, love. I’ll make sure that superintendent comes and gets your letter out for you. This mess is all his fault in the first place!” ’
Charlie swallowed a sigh. Why didn’t Phyllis’s lady phone her boyfriend? Or e-mail him? Or put a brick through his window, depending on the nature of the message she wanted to convey. ‘I’ll make sure PC Meakin comes as soon as he can.’
‘Why can’t you open the box?’ said Phyllis. ‘I thought you said you were a sergeant.’
‘I don’t have the key.’ Charlie decided to risk being honest. ‘Look, this postbox isn’t really my responsibility. I only offered to come because Robbie Meakin’s off on a week’s paternity leave and… well, I needed to do my shopping.’
‘I’ve got the key,’ said Phyllis, a triumphant gleam in her eye. ‘I keep it here behind the counter. But I’m not allowed to open the box. A police officer has to open it.’
Charlie could no longer hold her two bulging carrier bags. She lowered them to the floor gently to avoid breaking the eggs and lightbulbs. So Phyllis had the key. Why did she have to be so irritatingly law-abiding? She could easily have opened the box, fished out the letter to the boyfriend and left the rest of the contents untouched. Why was she bothering Charlie when she could have dealt with it herself?
And if Phyllis hadn’t been such a stickler for the rules… There would be nothing to stop a less scrupulous person having a nosey in the box whenever they fancied, perhaps even stealing letters when the police weren’t around-which, let’s face it, was most of the time. Whose ludicrous idea was it to leave the key at the post office? Charlie would have liked to turn round and say a few things to that person.
She rubbed her sore hands while Phyllis went to fetch the key. Her fingers were numb; the handles of the carrier bags had cut off her circulation. While she waited, she pulled her phone out of her handbag and deleted a dozen saved text messages which, in an ideal world, she would have liked to keep. But it was something to do. She was terrified of being unoccupied. There was no danger of that at work, or at home, where there was more than enough DIY to keep her busy. Charlie had stripped the walls and floors of her house just over a year ago and was rebuilding the rooms one by one, starting from scratch. It was a long, slow process. So far she’d done the kitchen and made a start on her bedroom. The rest of the house was plaster and floorboards. It looked abandoned, as if it was waiting for vagrants and rats to move in.
‘Couldn’t you have kept the old furniture until you bought new?’ her sister regularly grumbled, wriggling on a wooden kitchen chair that was understudying indefinitely for the comfortable armchair Charlie would one day buy for the lounge. Olivia was ideologically opposed to slumming it. The round contours of her figure were not suited to right angles and hard seats.
‘I wouldn’t have kept myself if there’d been any choice,’ Charlie had told her. ‘I’d have replaced me with someone better.’
‘No shortage of candidates there,’ Olivia had shot back merrily, trying to goad Charlie into sticking up for herself.
The truth was, Charlie didn’t want to get the house finished; what would happen after that? What would be her project? Could she find anything big enough to leave no room for thinking or feeling? Old wallpaper was easy to strip down and replace with something more cheerful; despair wasn’t.
Phyllis Kent emerged from the back office with the key in her hand. She passed it to Charlie and stood back, ready to make an infuriating comment as soon as one occurred to her. Charlie wondered if Phyllis had read about her in the papers last year. Some people had, some hadn’t. Some knew, some didn’t. Phyllis seemed the sort who might make an ill-judged remark if she did know, and she’d said nothing so far, but Charlie wasn’t going to allow herself to imagine she was in the clear. She’d done that too many times before and been floored when, almost as an afterthought, whoever she was talking to had suddenly mentioned it. It felt a bit like being shot in the back-the emotional equivalent.
Most people Charlie knew well were understanding, non-judgemental. Every time she was told it wasn’t her fault, something inside her faded. They didn’t even think enough of her to be honest and say, ‘How the hell could you have been so stupid? ’ Charlie knew what they were all thinking: It’s too late, so we might as well be nice.
She unlocked the box and took out the four envelopes and one loose scrap of lined paper that were inside. Two of the envelopes were addressed to Robbie Meakin, one had no name or address written on it, and a bulging one that looked as if it might burst at the seams was addressed to a Timothy Lush and had a first-class stamp on it. ‘Here’s your lady’s letter,’ said Charlie, pitying poor Mr Lush. He’d have to wade through at least seven pages of-don’t leap to premature conclusions, Charlie-aimless emotional snivelling, and try to work out what to do next. Charlie had been tempted, many times since last spring, to write a letter of exactly that sort to Simon. Thank God she’d restrained herself. Telling people how you felt was never a good idea. It was bad enough feeling it-why would you want to let it loose in the world?
Phyllis whipped the envelope out of Charlie’s hand and dropped it in the metal tray under the counter’s glass window, as if prolonged contact with human skin might cause it to burst into flames. Charlie threw the two Meakin envelopes back into the box and unfolded the lined sheet of paper. This was also a letter to Meakin, from Dr Maurice Gidley FRS OBE, who had been out for a meal at the Bay Tree in Spilling last week and been pestered by teenagers on his way back to his car. The youths hadn’t attacked him but they had taunted him in a manner that he described as ‘unacceptable and intimidating’. He wanted to know if anything could be done to prevent ‘ne’er-do-wells’ loitering outside his favourite restaurants, which, he informed Meakin, were the Bay Tree, Shillings Brasserie and Head 13.
Ah, yes, Doctor, of course. The 2006 Ne’er-do-wells Act… Charlie smiled. She’d have liked to tell Simon about Dr Gidley’s absurd note, but she didn’t have that sort of conversation with him any more. And now she didn’t even have his text messages. She regretted deleting them already, even though she could remember many of them word for word: ‘It’s a serious one. Time to sober up and face the music.’ This had been Simon’s reply to an enquiry from Charlie about his hangover after a particularly boozy work night out. ‘Walking, floating, air, sky, moonlight, etc’: that had been her favourite of Simon’s texts. She’d been mystified when she’d got it, hadn’t understood it at all. Later, she’d asked him what it meant.
‘The Snowman was looking for you. Those are the lyrics from The Snowman. You know, Aled Jones. I mixed the words up to make it cryptic, in case your phone fell into the wrong hands.’
Charlie had deleted it. Stupid idiot. Stupid for pressing a button that would destroy something she knew she wanted to keep, stupid for wanting to keep it in the first place. Simon’s unspectacular, no longer relevant words from over a year ago. God, I’m a pathetic cow.
She put Dr Gidley’s letter back in the box and used her thumbnail to open the fourth envelope, the one that wasn’t addressed to anybody. It was probably hate mail or p
orn, Charlie guessed. Blank, sealed envelopes were usually bad news.
‘Are you allowed to open that?’ Phyllis’s voice floated over her shoulder.
Charlie didn’t answer. She was staring at the short, typed letter, at first aware of nothing except that it was a chance. To reestablish contact. Too good to miss. Charlie blinked and looked again to check that the words ‘Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick’ were still there. They were. This was current, the case Simon was working on at the moment. Him and the rest of the team.
Charlie missed them all. Even Proust. Standing in his office, being patronised and hectored by him… Sometimes when she walked past the CID room she could feel her heart leaning towards it, straining to go in, to go back.
‘Please forward this to whoever is investigating the deaths of Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick,’ the letter said. It was only one paragraph long, printed in a regular but small sans-serif type-face. ‘It’s possible that the man shown on the news last night who is meant to be Mark Bretherick is not Mark Bretherick. You need to look into it and make sure he’s who he says he is. Sorry I can’t say more.’
That was it. No explanation, no name or signature, no contact details.
Charlie pulled her phone out of her bag. She highlighted Simon’s number on the screen, her finger hovering over the ‘call’ button. All you need to do is press it. What’s the worst that can happen?
Charlie knew the answer to that one from past experience: worse than you can possibly imagine, so there’s no point trying. She sighed, scrolled up, and rang Proust instead.
3
Tuesday, 7 August 2007
Someone followed me this morning. Or else I’m going insane.
I head for my desk, keeping my eyes down and reminding myself to take deep breaths as I cross the large, open-plan office. The advantage of everybody being so visible is that we tend to go out of our way not to notice one another, to pretend we work in closed, private rooms.
The Wrong Mother Page 6
