by Karen Cole
‘Well now, there’s no need to be like that,’ she says huffily.
‘Like what, Mum?’
‘Theo is still my son-in-law. I care about him, you know. I can’t just switch off my feelings, unlike some people.’
God knows I’m aware of her feelings about Theo. Mum adores him and refuses to believe anything bad about him. She knows that he was the one that cheated on me, but somehow has rationalised this in her mind as my fault. She assumes that I didn’t treat him right – and I probably didn’t by her standards, if the way she treats my father is anything to go by. My mother subscribes to an old-fashioned view of marriage, where the women look after the men and the men are helpless babies, unable to do simple housework and slaves to their sexual urges.
‘As far as I know he’s fine,’ I say in a conciliatory tone. ‘Harper’s moved in with him.’
My mother makes a strange noise of frustration in her throat. ‘That woman,’ she says.
Mum has never actually met Harper but in her opinion, she is the incarnation of evil and if anyone is more to blame for the break-up of my marriage than me, it’s Harper. In her mind, Harper is a siren who lured in poor, unsuspecting Theo with her promiscuous ways. ‘You need to stop her,’ she adds crossly.
‘How am I supposed to do that?’
‘I don’t know. If you made more effort . . .’ She breaks off. I suppose by making more effort she means losing more weight. ‘I dread to think what all this is doing to poor Dylan,’ she continues, shaking her head. ‘I can’t bear to think of my grandson living with that woman.’
‘Dylan’s okay. Harper is actually quite nice to him to be fair,’ I say. It’s a testament to my mother’s ability to bring out the contrarian in me that I find myself defending Harper of all people.
‘Hmm,’ Mum says doubtfully. ‘And how’s my little grandson settling into his new school?’
‘So far, so good. He likes his teachers, and he seems to be making friends.’
‘Good.’ Mum’s face softens and she slops my coffee down in front of me, then starts taking out cooking ingredients and placing them on the table. ‘You don’t mind, do you darling? I promised Gillian I’d make some lemon tarts for the WI bake sale. It’s in aid of – oh, I forget what it’s in aid of, but it’s a good cause anyway. I’ve got so much to do this morning I don’t know how I’m going to fit it all in.’
‘That’s okay,’ I say, relieved that we seem to have abandoned the topic of my divorce. ‘Do you want any help?’
‘No, thank you. But please don’t put your feet up on the chair, she gives my leg a friendly pat and smiles. ‘And I do wish you’d sit up straight.’ I automatically straighten my shoulders. (It’s another disappointment to her that she has a daughter who always slouches.)
There is a lengthy silence, broken only by the slap of the rolling pin against the dough. Both of us are reluctant to mention the subject that’s really on our minds.
‘There’s a photo I found the other day,’ she says at last. ‘It’s on that shelf there. It’s of you and Charlotte Kent. You must have been about thirteen when it was taken.’
I pick it up and stare at it. It’s of me and Charlie sitting on the bench in Charlie’s garden with our arms round each other. Charlie has a flower in her teeth as if we’re about to do a tango.
‘That girl always was trouble,’ she says, and gives a sigh. ‘You know the police came here the other day.’
‘They came here?’ I repeat with a lurch of dismay.
Mum nods firmly. ‘Yes, and they asked me a lot of impertinent questions. I didn’t like that woman one bit. Now what was she called? Smallforest or Littletrees, something like that.’
‘You mean DI Littlewood?’
‘Yes, I think that was her name.’
‘What did she ask?’
‘Oh, about your friendship with Charlotte Kent – or Holbrooke now, I should say.’
‘And?’ I hold my breath. ‘Did you tell her that I barely know her any more, that I haven’t seen her for over seventeen years?’
‘Um, no, actually I forgot that. It seems like only yesterday you were both sitting in this kitchen here, stuffing your faces with my fairy cakes. I told them that she was always a troublemaker – that she treated you badly.’
I make a small, exasperated sound in my throat. ‘You shouldn’t have told them that,’ I say.
‘What? Why?’ My mother looks affronted.
‘Well, don’t you think they might construe that as a motive?’
‘For murder?’ She gives a small, tinkling laugh. ‘You are joking, aren’t you, Catherine? They can’t seriously suspect you.’
‘Well, I think they do.’
She puts her spoon down and stares at me.
‘Nonsense, darling,’ she says. She starts cutting the dough into small circles, frowning. She’s placing it in the category of things she doesn’t believe because she doesn’t like them. My mother is good at that. For example, she doesn’t believe in automatic checkouts in shops and she doesn’t really believe that Theo and I are going to get a divorce.
‘I never liked that girl,’ she continues. ‘I told you she would get you into trouble one day. Do you remember when she drove my car and dented it? We never did get the money for the repairs. And then there was the time you both nearly got arrested for trespassing.’
I remember.
‘Yes, but that wasn’t Charlie’s fault,’ I point out. ‘The house looked derelict. How were we supposed to know there was a crazy old man living there? Besides, I don’t think we can really blame her for getting herself killed.’
‘Hmph. Can’t we?’ Mum purses her lips. ‘She probably had it coming to her. I’ve no doubt she was mixed up with the wrong people. Drug dealers, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Mum, she smoked marijuana when she was a teenager. Big deal. By all accounts, she was a perfectly respectable young woman. She’d just married and had a thriving business – you know the shop in town, Charlie’s Choice. You must have been there.’
Mum gives a disapproving sniff. ‘Never been there. Lots of overpriced trinkets and all that New-Age stuff: crystals and joss sticks and whatnot. Load of stuff and nonsense, if you ask me. There used to be a lovely wool shop there. Now you can’t get wool anywhere.’ She sighs. The modern world has never agreed with my mother.
‘Anyway –’ she frowns – ‘I don’t understand why the police think you were involved. Do you know anything about why she was murdered?’
‘I really don’t. As you know, I haven’t seen her since we left school.’
‘I told the police, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was her husband,’ she sighs. ‘I don’t understand why they aren’t investigating him, instead of wasting time bothering you. It’s almost always the husband or partner in murder cases.’
‘You’ve been watching too much true crime,’ I say.
My mother looks annoyed. ‘I certainly haven’t. Nasty exploitative programmes. But I’m serious, Catherine. Charlotte inherited that house from her mother. It must be worth quite a lot of money now. And there was her business; that was doing well, as far as I know. They should look at her will. Who benefits?’
‘The police should hire you,’ I say sarcastically.
‘I’m just trying to help.’ My mum sniffs.
And though I hate to admit it, my mother has a point. The police seem to be getting nowhere with this investigation. Why haven’t they been looking at money as a motive for her killing? Why isn’t the husband a serious suspect? Charlie was stabbed four times, according to the news reports, which suggests a crime of passion, which, in turn, suggests that she was killed by someone close to her. Why not the husband?
When I get home, I ignore a message from my editor politely asking when I will be finished with the Embers sequel, and if I need to extend the deadline. Instead of replying, I type t
he name Adam Holbrooke and Gloucestershire into my search engine. He’s the first person to come up on LinkedIn. In his profile photo, he looks handsome and clean cut with floppy blond hair, dimples, white teeth and a pleasant, friendly smile. I peer closely at his face, trying to decide if he looks like a wife killer. It’s a pointless exercise. Psychopaths and serial killers look just like anyone else. You might as well try to tell if an egg is rotten just by looking at the shell.
Perhaps I could find out more by meeting him in person. But how, without arousing his suspicion? I still have my press card from when I used to work at the Gazette. I could pretend I want to write a piece on Charlie. But I imagine he’s sick of reporters by now and there’s no guarantee he would agree to meet me. I decide it’s probably better to approach him in a professional capacity. According to his profile, he’s a clinical dietician and nutritionist and he has a wealth of experience in treating all kinds of disorders. On the website there’s a quote from a satisfied customer who suffered for a long time from depression and abdominal bloating. ‘Adam has literally transformed my life,’ she says.
I note down his contact number and call straight away before I have the chance to chicken out.
‘Hello, Holbrooke Nutrition, how can I help you?’ Adam has a slight Northern accent. I can’t place it. Maybe he’s from Manchester.
‘Hello, yes,’ I say nervously. ‘I’d like to make an appointment for a consultation. Um, I’ve been suffering from bloating and . . .’ I might as well stick to the truth. ‘I’m trying to lose weight.’
‘Sure, I can help you with that. Can you give me your name?’
‘Er, yes. It’s Catherine Bayntun.’
‘I give consultations in my home. I hope that’s not a problem.’
‘No, that’s okay.’ Even better, I think. It’s an opportunity to see where Charlie died. Perhaps seeing their home will help me get a feel for their relationship and enable me to assess the viability of Adam as a suspect.
‘So how about Friday at eleven o’clock?’
‘That’s perfect,’ I say. ‘See you then.’
‘Wait. Don’t you want the address?’
Damn. I need to be more careful. I give a light, silly-me laugh. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Where are you coming from?’
‘Uh, Swindon,’ I lie.
He gives me some long- winded instructions on how to get to his house from Swindon, which I pretend to write down.
As soon as the call ends, the phone leaps to life in my hand. It’s DI Littlewood.
I answer, my heart in my throat. What does she want now? Have they found Luke?
‘Hi Catherine,’ she says sounding polite and briskly efficient. ‘Sorry to bother you. I hope this is a convenient time?’
‘I was about go and pick up my son, but I’ve got a few minutes.’
‘I’ve got some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?’
‘The good news, please.’
‘Well, the good news is we managed to track down the man you met on Friday night.’
‘Great.’ I say, hope surging. ‘That’s fantastic. How did you find him?’
‘We examined the security footage of the Black Bear and when we showed his picture to the bartender, he was able to identify him.’
I exhale with relief. ‘Does that mean I am no longer a suspect? He told you he was with me that night?’
DI Littlewood doesn’t answer straight away.
‘Not exactly,’ she sighs. ‘He confirmed that you met and chatted at the Black Bear and that he gave you a lift home. But the bad news is that your accounts of the evening from that point on differ. He claims that he dropped you off at your house and then drove straight home.’
‘What? But that’s bullshit!’ I exclaim, outraged. ‘I’m sorry about my language, but he’s obviously lying.’ I’m trying to breathe, trying to stay calm, but my mind is spinning. Why would he lie?
‘I’m just repeating what he told us,’ says Littlewood calmly.
‘But if you look at the security footage,’ I say, ‘you’ll see that his car was parked outside my house all night.’
‘I’m afraid we don’t have any CCTV coverage of your street.’
‘What about his drive home? Did you see his car? Because I’m willing to bet that you didn’t.’
‘We don’t have cameras on the route he took either.’
He must live close by, I think. Otherwise, surely it would be a route with at least some surveillance.
‘What’s his full name?’ I demand. ‘I need to speak to him.’ I need to give him a piece of my mind, I think. I’m furiously angry. How dare he?
‘I’m afraid that information is confidential.’
I sigh with frustration. ‘Where does he live, then? Can you tell me that?’
‘Unfortunately not. I’m sorry, Catherine,’ Littlewood clears her throat. ‘We’d like you to come in for an interview at the police station to give your side of the story. An official statement. Can you come tomorrow at ten o’clock?’
I turn the phone call with DI Littlewood over in my mind as I walk to Dylan’s school. Why did Luke, assuming, of course, that Luke is his real name, lie to the police? I can think of only two possible reasons: one, that he’s married or in a relationship and doesn’t want his partner to find out that he was cheating; two, that he’s setting me up for some reason. The thought shudders through me. Could Luke be the person who gave the police the photofit?
Ten
The reading corner has been transformed overnight into a magical forest with paper leaves trailing from realistic-looking branches. There’s a grass carpet and cushions that look like logs.
‘Isn’t it fantastic?’ Mrs Bailey agrees when I compliment it. ‘Ms Hamlyn was here until late last night creating it. ‘She’s so artistic, isn’t she?’
Ms Hamlyn looks up and smiles. She and Dylan are huddled together over a book on one of the log cushions, Dylan leaning against her and her long, overgrown puppy legs stretched out in front of her.
‘It’s your mum, Dylan!’ Ms Hamlyn announces, snapping the book shut. Dylan lets out a yelp of happiness, jumps up and launches himself at me, his little head butting my stomach, trying to wrap his arms around me.
‘He’s been a very good boy,’ Ms Hamlyn beams as Dylan fetches his bag. ‘And he drew a great picture of a dinosaur, didn’t you, Dylan?’
Dylan smiles up at her adoringly and I feel an irrational twinge of jealousy. I should be happy that Dylan is bonding with his teachers – that he’s happy at school. And I am. But I suppose Dylan and I have spent so much time alone together since Theo left that I feel a little possessive.
‘He’s got a new book in there for you to read with him,’ Mrs Bailey says, running a frazzled finger through frizzy grey hair, and I’m reminded of the photo of the park. I rummage in my handbag and show it to her.
‘I found this in Dylan’s book bag yesterday,’ I say. ‘Is it homework? I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do with it. There weren’t any instructions.’
Mrs Bailey frowns and peers at the picture through her reading glasses.
‘We didn’t give them any homework, apart from the reader,’ she says. She calls to Ms Hamlyn, who has wandered off and is tidying up toys on the windowsill. ‘Any idea what this is?’ she asks.
Ms Hamlyn shakes her head. ‘That’s odd,’ she says.
‘It was probably in the scrap paper box. We try to get them to reuse as much as possible.’
‘Maybe. Or perhaps someone else put it in there by accident. One of the parents?’ I hazard.
Mrs Bailey shrugs. ‘I suppose it’s possible. We hang them up on their pegs outside the classroom so anyone could easily pop something inside when they come to pick up their kids. But why would they?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe it was intended as a gift for
someone else and they got the wrong bag.’
‘Mm, could be. I’ll ask around, see if anyone knows.’
‘Thank you.’ I take Dylan’s hand. ‘Say goodbye, Dylan.’
As I’m leaving, closing the gate that separates off the little ones from the rest of the school, Ms Hamlyn comes running up after me.
‘Mrs Bayntun, I’m sorry to bother you – I almost forgot, I need to talk to you,’ she says breathlessly. She clears her throat and blushes slightly. ‘This is a bit awkward, but I felt you ought to know that some of the parents have complained . . .’ she tails off.
I bristle. ‘About what?’
She looks at Dylan and lowers her voice. ‘About the murder investigation – the woman killed on Cecily Hill. There are rumours—’
‘That I’m a suspect?’ I say, losing patience with the way she’s pussyfooting around the subject.
Ms Hamlyn looks startled. ‘Well, yes. Apparently, there was a photofit on the news and some of the parents have got it into their heads that it looked like you. Ridiculous of course but . . .’ She gives me an anxious look.
I feel a pressure in my chest. It feels like all the suspicion is closing in on me like a clenching fist and it’s suddenly hard to breathe.
‘It’s true,’ I say sharply. ‘The police came to talk to me, but it was just a formality and they haven’t arrested me.’ I can feel my voice rising, anger overcoming caution. ‘And do you know why they haven’t arrested me?’
Ms Hamlyn shakes her head and takes a step back. She looks alarmed and I realise that she’s a little afraid of me. With an effort, I try to control my temper and lower my voice.
‘Because they’ve got absolutely no evidence – that’s why.’
‘I’m sure, I’m sure,’ she murmurs soothingly. ‘It’s just that some of the parents aren’t happy about you being around their children. It’s nonsense, of course.’ She takes a breath. ‘But just to keep the peace, I was wondering if maybe Dylan’s father could come and pick Dylan up from school instead? Just until this all dies down.’
