The Widow(25)

“Bloody hell, Eileen. What’s the matter with you? No one is talking about you, about our house. I’m talking about a suspect. I thought you’d be interested.” But the damage was done. Eileen retreated into the kitchen and some loud cleaning. Another quiet week, he thought, and turned the telly up.

“Mr. Glen Taylor?” Sparkes asked quietly and courteously.

“Yes, that’s me,” Taylor replied. “What can I do for you? Are you selling something?”

The officer stepped closer, Ian Matthews at his heels.

“Mr. Taylor, I’m Detective Inspector Bob Sparkes from the Hampshire Police Force. Can I come in?”

“Police? What is this about?” Taylor asked.

“I would like to talk to you about the case of a missing child I’m investigating. It’s about the disappearance of Bella Elliott,” he said, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. The color drained from Glen Taylor’s face, and he stepped back as if recoiling from a punch.

Taylor’s wife came out of the kitchen and was wiping her hands on a tea towel when the words “Bella Elliott” were spoken. A nice, decent-looking woman, Sparkes thought. She gasped and her hands flew up to her face. Strange how people react. That gesture, to cover your face, must be hardwired into people. Is it shame? Or an unwillingness to look at something? he wondered, waiting to be shown through to the sitting room.

Odd really, he thought. He hasn’t looked at his wife once the whole time. It’s as if she isn’t there. Poor woman. She looks like she’s going to collapse.

Taylor quickly pulled himself together and answered the officers’ questions.

“We understand you were making a delivery in the area where Bella was taken, Mr. Taylor.”

“Well, I think so.”

“Your friend Mr. Doonan said you did.”

“Doonan?” Glen Taylor’s mouth tightened. “Not a friend of mine, but hang on a minute. Yes, I think I was.”

“Try to be sure, Mr. Taylor. It was the day Bella Elliott was abducted,” Sparkes insisted.

“Right, yes. Of course. I think I had one drop early afternoon and then came home. About four, as I remember.”

“Home at four, Mr. Taylor? You made very good time. Are you sure it was four?”

Taylor nodded, forehead creased as if miming thinking hard. “Yes, definitely four. Jean will bear me out.”

Jean Taylor said nothing. It was as if she hadn’t heard, and Sparkes had to repeat the question before she made eye contact with him and nodded.

“Yes,” she said as if on autopilot.

Sparkes turned back to Taylor. “The thing is, Mr. Taylor, your van matches the description of a vehicle that was noticed by a neighbor just before Bella vanished. You probably read about it—it was in all the papers—and we’re checking all blue vans.”

“I thought you were looking for a man with a ponytail. I’ve got short hair, and anyway, I wasn’t in Southampton. I was in Winchester,” Taylor said.

“Yes, but are you sure you didn’t take a little drive after the delivery?”

Taylor laughed off the suggestion. “I don’t do any more driving than I have to—not my idea of relaxation. Look, this is all a terrible mistake.”

Sparkes nodded to himself thoughtfully. “I’m sure you understand how serious this matter is, Mr. Taylor, and I’m sure you won’t mind if we have a look around.”

An immediate search of the house began with the officers moving quickly through the rooms, calling Bella’s name and looking in cupboards, under beds, behind sofas. There was nothing.

But there was something about the way Taylor had told his story, something rehearsed about it. Sparkes decided to take him in for further questioning, to go over the details once more. He owed it to Bella.

Jean Taylor was left weeping on the stairs while the other officers finished their work.





FOURTEEN


The Widow

THURSDAY, JUNE 10, 2010


They let me rest for a bit, and then we have dinner by the big windows in Kate’s room, overlooking the gardens. The waiter wheels in a table with a white tablecloth and a vase of flowers in the middle. The plates have those fancy silver domes on them. Kate and Mick had ordered starters, mains, and desserts, and they’re stacked on a shelf under the table.

“Let’s push the boat out,” Kate says.

“Yeah,” Mick says. “We deserve it.”

Kate tells him to shut up, but I can see they’re really pleased with themselves. They’ve won the big prize—an interview with the widow.

I have chicken and play with it for a bit. Not hungry for it or their celebrations. They pile into the wine and order a second bottle, but I make sure I don’t drink more than a glass. Must stay in control.

When I feel tired, I pretend to cry and say I need some time alone. Kate and Mick exchange a look. Obviously, this isn’t going to plan. But I stand and say, “Good night. See you in the morning.”

They scrape their chairs back and stumble to their feet. Kate walks me to my door and makes sure I’m safely inside.

“Don’t answer the phone,” she tells me. “If I need to talk to you, I’ll knock on the door.”

I nod.

It’s boiling hot in my room, so I lie on the enormous bed, with my windows open to let out the heat of the radiators.