by Fiona Barton
The Reporter
KATE WATERS SHIFTED IN her chair. She shouldn’t have had that cup of coffee earlier– what with that and the tea, her bladder was sending distress signals and she might have to leave Jean Taylor alone with her thoughts. Not a good idea at this stage of the game, especially as Jean had gone a bit quiet, sipping her tea and gazing into the distance. Kate was desperate not to damage the rapport she was building with her. They were at a very delicate stage. Lose eye contact and the whole mood could change.
Her husband Steve had once compared her job to stalking an animal. He’d had a glass too many of Rioja and was showing off at a dinner party.
‘She gets closer and closer, feeding them little bits of kindness and humour, a hint of money to come, their chance to give their side of the story, until they are eating out of the palm of her hand. It’s a real art,’ he’d told the guests round their dining-room table.
They were his colleagues from the Oncology department and Kate had sat there, wearing her professional smile and murmuring, ‘Come on, darling, you know me better than that,’ as the guests laughed nervously and sipped their wine. She’d been furious during the washing up, sloshing suds over the floor as she threw pans into the sink, but Steve had put his arms around her and kissed her into a reconciliation.
‘You know how much I admire you, Kate,’ he’d said. ‘You’re brilliant at what you do.’
She’d kissed him back, but he was right. It was sometimes a game or a flirtatious dance, to make an instant connection with a suspicious – even hostile – stranger. She loved it. Loved the adrenalin rush of getting to the doorstep first, ahead of the pack, ringing the bell and hearing the sounds of life inside the house, seeing the light change in the frosted glass as the person approached and then, as the door opened, going into full performance mode.
Reporters had different techniques on the doorstep; one friend she’d trained with called it his ‘last puppy in the basket’ look to get sympathy, another always blamed her news editor for making her knock on the door again, and one had once stuffed a pillow up her jumper to pretend she was pregnant and asked to use the loo to get in.
Not Kate’s style. She had her own rules: always smile, never stand too close to the door, don’t start with an apology, and try to distract from the fact that you’re after a story. She’d used the bottle-of-milk thing before, but milkmen were a dying breed. She was very pleased with herself for getting through this door with such apparent ease.
In truth, she hadn’t wanted to come in the first place. She needed to get to the office and finish her expenses form before her credit-card bill came through and cleaned out her bank account. But her news editor was having none of it.
‘Go and knock on the widow’s door – it’s on your way in,’ Terry Deacon shouted down the phone above the radio news headlines blaring out beside him. ‘Never know. Today might be your lucky day.’
Kate had sighed. She knew immediately who Terry meant. There was only one widow everyone wanted to interview that week, but she also knew it was a well-trodden path. Three of her colleagues at the Post had already tried – and she was sure she must be the last reporter in the country to knock on this particular door.
Almost.
As she reached the turning into Jean Taylor’s road, she automatically checked for other press and immediately spotted the man from The Times, standing by a car. Boring tie, elbow patches and a side parting. Classic. She edged her car forward as the traffic crawled along the main road, but kept one eye on the enemy. She’d have to go round the block again and hope he’d have left by the time she got back.
‘Bloody hell,’ she muttered, signalling left and swinging down a side street to park up.
Fifteen minutes and a flick through the dailies later, Kate put her seatbelt back on and restarted the car. Her phone rang and she dug deep into her bag to find it. Fishing it out, she saw Bob Sparkes’ name on the display and turned off the engine again.
‘Hello, Bob, how are you? What’s happening?’
Detective Inspector Bob Sparkes wanted something; that was obvious. He wasn’t the sort of bloke to ring for a chat and she bet herself the call would last less than sixty seconds.
‘Hi Kate. Good, thanks. Quite busy – you know what it’s like. Got a couple of cases on the go, but nothing interesting. Look, Kate, just wondered if you were still working on the Glen Taylor case.’
‘Christ, Bob, have you got me on CCTV or something? I’m just about to go and knock on Jean Taylor’s door.’
Sparkes laughed. ‘Don’t worry, you’re not on the surveillance list as far as I know.’
‘Anything I should know before I see her?’ Kate asked. ‘Anything new since Glen Taylor died?’
‘No, not really,’ She could hear the disappointment in his voice. ‘Wondered if you’d heard anything. Anyway, I’d appreciate a heads-up if Jean says anything.’
‘I’ll give you a call afterwards,’ she said. ‘But she’ll probably slam the door in my face. That’s what she’s done to all the other reporters.’
‘OK, speak later.’
End of. She looked at the phone and smiled. Forty-one seconds. A new record. She must tease him about it next time she saw him.
Five minutes later she’d cruised down Jean Taylor’s newly media-free street and walked up the path.
Now, she needed the story.
Oh for God’s sake, how can I concentrate? she thought, digging her nails into her hand to distract herself. No – no good.
‘Sorry, Jean, but would it be all right to use your loo?’ she said now, smiling apologetically. ‘Tea goes straight through you, doesn’t it? I’ll make us another if you like.’
Jean nodded and rose from her seat to guide the way. ‘It’s through here,’ she said, standing aside so Kate could edge past into the peachy haven of the downstairs loo.
Washing her hands with the perfumed guest soap, Kate glanced up and caught her expression in the mirror. She looked a bit tired, she thought, smoothing her unruly hair and tapping the bags under her eyes with her fingertips as instructed by the girl who did her occasional facials.
In the kitchen on her own, she idly read the notes and magnets on the fridge while she waited for the kettle to boil. Shopping lists and holiday souvenirs; nothing much for her here. A photo of the Taylors taken in a beach restaurant showed the couple smiling and raising their glasses to the camera. Glen Taylor, all tousled dark hair and holiday smile, and Jean, dark blonde hair done for the occasion and tucked neatly behind her ears, going-out make-up slightly smudged by the heat, and that sideways glance at her husband.
Adoring or in awe? Kate wondered.
The last couple of years had clearly taken their toll on the woman in the photo. Jean was sitting waiting for her in cargo pants, baggy T-shirt and cardigan, her hair escaping from a stubby ponytail. Steve was always teasing her about how she noticed the little things, but it was part of the job. ‘I’m a trained observer,’ she’d joked and delighted in pointing out tiny, telling details. She’d immediately spotted Jean’s rough and cracked hands – hairdresser’s hands, she’d thought to herself – and the skin around the nails, frayed from nervous chewing.
The lines around the widow’s eyes told their own story.
Kate took her phone out and photographed the holiday snap. She noted that everything in the kitchen was immaculate – nothing like her own, where her teenage sons would, no doubt, have left a trail of detritus from their abandoned breakfast – stained coffee mugs, souring milk, half-eaten toast, a lidless jar of jam with a knife sticking out of it. And the obligatory filthy football kit festering on the floor.
The kettle – and thoughts of home – clicked off and she made the tea and carried the mugs through on a tray.
Jean was staring into space, her teeth working on her thumb.
‘That’s better,’ Kate said, plonking herself down. ‘Sorry about that. Now, where were we?’
She had to admit, she was beginning to worry. She’d spent nearly an ho
ur with Jean Taylor and had a notebook full of bits and pieces about her childhood and early married life. But that was all. Every time she edged a bit closer to the story, Jean would change the subject to something safe. They’d had a long discussion at one point about the challenges of bringing up kids, and then there had been a brief interlude when Kate had finally taken one of the insistent calls from the office.
Terry was beside himself when he heard where Kate was. ‘Brilliant!’ he yelled down the phone. ‘Well done. What’s she saying? When can you file?’
Under Jean Taylor’s watchful eyes, Kate muttered, ‘Hang on a minute, Terry. The reception isn’t very good here,’ and slipped into the back garden, signalling mock irritation to Jean with a weary shake of her head.
‘For God’s sake, Terry, I was sitting next to her. I can’t talk now,’ she hissed. ‘It’s a bit slow, to be honest, but I think she’s beginning to trust me. Let me get on with it.’
‘Have you got her under contract yet?’ Terry asked. ‘Get her under contract and then we can take our time getting the full works.’
‘I don’t want to scare her off by pushing things, Terry. I’ll do my level best. Speak later.’
Kate pressed the Off button on the phone with feeling and considered her next move. Maybe she just needed to mention the money straight away. She’d done the tea and sympathy and now she had to stop dancing round the edge.
After all, Jean might be hard up now her husband was dead.
He wasn’t there to provide for her any more. Or to stop her talking.
Chapter 4
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
The Widow
SHE’S STILL HERE, an hour later. Before today, I’d have asked her to go. I’ve never had a problem before telling the press people to get lost when they knock. Easy when they are so rude. ‘Hello,’ they say, then they’re straight into their questions. Horrible, intrusive questions. Kate Waters hasn’t asked anything hard. Yet.
We’ve talked about all sorts of things: when Glen and I bought, the price of property round here, what we’ve done to the house, the price of paint, the neighbourhood, where I grew up and where I went to school, that sort of thing. She chimes in with everything I say. ‘Oh, I went to a school like that. I hated the teachers, didn’t you?’ That kind of thing. Makes me feel I’m chatting to a friend. That she’s just like me. Clever really, but maybe it’s what she does every time she does an interview.
She’s not so bad really. I think I could quite like her. She’s funny and seems kind, but maybe it’s all an act. She’s telling me about her husband – her ‘old man’ as she calls him – and how she must give him a ring later to let him know she might be late home. Not sure why she’ll be late – it isn’t even lunchtime yet and she only lives thirty minutes round the South Circular – but I tell her she needs to ring straight away or he’ll worry. Glen would’ve worried. He’d have given me hell if I stayed out without telling him. ‘It’s not fair on me, Jeanie,’ he’d have said. But I don’t tell her that.
Kate is laughing and says her old man is used to it now, but will complain because he’ll have to deal with the kids. She’s got teenagers, she tells me, Jake and Freddie, with no manners and no respect.
‘He’ll have to cook dinner,’ she says. ‘But I bet he orders a pizza. The boys’ll love that.’
The boys are driving her and the old man mad, apparently, because they won’t clear up their bedrooms.
‘They’re living in a pigsty, Jean,’ she says. ‘You won’t believe how many cereal bowls I found in Jake’s room. Practically a dinner service. And they lose socks every week. Our house is like the Bermuda Triangle of footwear.’ And she laughs again because she loves them, pigsty or not.
All I can think is: Jake and Freddie, what lovely names. I stash them away for later, for my collection, and I’m nodding like I understand how she feels. But I don’t, do I? I’d have loved her problems. I’d have loved to have a teenager to nag.
Anyway, I find myself saying, ‘Glen could be a bit difficult when I let the house get in a mess,’ out loud. I just wanted to show her I had my own fair share of problems, that I was just like her. Stupid, really. How could I ever be just like her? Or anybody? Me.
Glen always said I was different. When we were going out, he’d show me off, telling his mates that I was special. I couldn’t figure it out really. I worked in a salon called Hair Today – Lesley, the owner’s, little joke – and spent all my time shampooing and making cups of coffee for menopausal women. I thought hairdressing was going to be fun – glamorous even. Thought I’d be cutting hair and creating new styles, but at seventeen I was bottom of the ladder.
‘Jean,’ Lesley would call across to me, ‘can you shampoo my lady and then sweep up round the chairs.’ No please or thank you. The customers were all right. They liked telling me all their news and problems because I listened and didn’t try and give them advice, like Lesley. I nodded and smiled and daydreamed while they rabbited on about their grandson and his glue sniffing or the neighbour who was throwing her dog mess over the fence. Whole days would go past without me giving an opinion beyond ‘That’s nice’ or making up holiday plans to keep the conversation going. But I stuck at it. I did the courses, learning how to cut and colour, and started getting my own clients. It wasn’t very well paid but I wasn’t really fit for anything else. Didn’t work at school. Mum told people I was dyslexic, but the truth is I couldn’t be bothered.
Then Glen showed up and I was suddenly ‘special’.
Nothing much changed at work. But I didn’t socialize with the three other girls because Glen never liked me going out on my own. He said the other girls were single and out for sex and booze. He was probably right if their Monday-morning stories were anything to go by, but I just made excuses and in the end they stopped asking me.
I used to enjoy my work because I could drift off in my head and there was no stress. It made me feel safe – the smells of chemicals and straightened hair, the sounds of chatter and running water, hairdryers roaring and the predictability of it all. The appointment book, marked up in blunt pencil, ruled my day.
Everything was decided, even the uniform of black trousers and white top – apart from Saturday when we all had to wear jeans. ‘Demeaning on a woman of your experience. You’re a stylist, not a junior, Jeanie,’ Glen had said later. Anyway, it meant I didn’t have to decide what to wear – or do – most days. No grief.
They all loved Glen. He’d come and pick me up on a Saturday and lean on the desk to talk to Lesley. He knew so much, my Glen. All about the business side of things. And he could make people laugh even when he was talking about serious stuff.
‘He’s so clever, your husband,’ Lesley would say. ‘And so good-looking. You’re a lucky girl, Jean.’
I always understood that she couldn’t believe Glen had chosen me. Sometimes, I couldn’t either. He would laugh if I said it and pull me in to him. ‘You are everything I want,’ he’d say. He helped me see things for what they were. He helped me grow up, I suppose.
I didn’t know the first thing about money and running a home when we got married, so Glen gave me housekeeping each week and a notebook to write down everything I spent. Then we’d sit and he’d balance the figures. I learned so much from him.
Kate is talking again, but I’ve missed the start. It’s something about an ‘arrangement’ and she’s talking about money.
‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘I was miles away for a minute.’
She smiles patiently and leans forward again. ‘I know how difficult this is, Jean. Having the press on your doorstep, night and day. But honestly, the only way to get rid of them is to do an interview. Then they’ll all lose interest and leave you alone.’
I nod to show I’m listening. but she gets all excited, thinks I’m agreeing to it. ‘Hang on,’ I say in a bit of a panic. ‘I’m not saying yes or no. I need to think it through.’
‘We’d be happy to make a payment – to compensate you for your time and to
help you at this difficult time,’ she says quickly. Funny, isn’t it, how they try and dress things up. Compensate! She means they’ll pay me to spill the beans, but she doesn’t want to risk offending me.
I’ve had lots of offers over time, the sort of money you win on the Lottery. You should see the letters that’ve been pushed through my letterbox by reporters. They’d make you blush, they’re so false. Still, I suppose it’s better than the hate mail that gets sent.
Sometimes people tear out an article from the papers about Glen and write MONSTER in block capitals with lots of underlining. Sometimes they underline it so hard their pen goes through the page.
Anyway, the reporters do the opposite. But they are just as sickening, really.
‘Dear Mrs Taylor,’ – or just Jean sometimes – ‘I hope you won’t mind me writing to you at this difficult time, blah, blah, blah. So much has been written about you, but we would like to give you the chance to tell your side of the story. Blah, blah, blah.’
Glen used to read them out in one of his funny voices and we’d laugh and I’d stick them in a drawer. But that was when he was still alive. There was no one to share this offer with.
I look back down at my tea. It’s cold now and there’s a bit of a skin on the top. It’s that full-fat milk that Glen insists on. Insisted. I can get low-fat milk now. I smile.
Kate, who’s doing her big sell on how sensitive and responsible her newspaper is and God knows what else, sees the smile as another positive signal. She’s offering to take me to a hotel for a couple of nights, ‘To get away from the rest of the reporters and all that pressure,’ she says. ‘To give you a break, Jean.’
I need a break, I think.
As if on cue, there’s a ring on the front-door bell. Kate peeps through the net curtains and hisses, ‘Bloody hell, Jean, there’s a bloke from the local TV station outside. Keep quiet and he’ll go away.’
I do as I’m told. As usual. You see, she’s taking over where Glen left off. In charge. Protecting me from the press outside. Except, of course, she’s the press too. Oh God, I’m in here with the enemy.
