The Widow(29)

“’Course I do. Who doesn’t like children?” His arms were crossed now.

“You see, Mr. Taylor, there are some people who like children in a different way. Do you know what I mean?”

Taylor tightened his grip on his upper arms and closed his eyes, just for a second, but it was enough to encourage Sparkes.

“They like children in a sexual way.”

“They are animals, aren’t they?” Taylor spat.

“So you don’t like children in that way?”

“Don’t be disgusting. Of course I don’t. What kind of a man do you think I am?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Mr. Taylor,” Sparkes said, leaning forward to crowd his quarry. “When did you start driving for a living? Strange change of career—you had a good job, didn’t you, at the bank?”

Taylor did his pantomime frown. “I fancied a change. I didn’t get on with the boss and thought I would look at starting my own delivery business. I needed to get experience of every aspect, so I began driving—”

“What about the business with the computers at the bank?” Sparkes interrupted him. “We’ve spoken to your former manager.”

Taylor reddened.

“Weren’t you sacked because of inappropriate use of the computers?”

“It was a setup,” Taylor said quickly. “The boss wanted me out. I think he felt threatened by a younger, better-educated man. Anyone could’ve used that computer. The security was laughable. Leaving was my decision.”

The arms were so tightly crossed over his chest, they were constricting his breathing.

“Right. I see,” Sparkes countered, leaning back in his chair to give Taylor the space he needed to embellish his lie. “And the ‘inappropriate use’ of the computer you were accused of?” His voice was casual.

“Porn. Someone was looking at porn on an office computer during work time. Bloody idiot.” Taylor was on a roll of self-righteousness. “I would never do something as stupid as that.”

“So where do you look at porn?” Sparkes asked. The question stopped Taylor dead.

“I want to see a lawyer,” he said, his feet now dancing beneath the table.

“And you shall, Mr. Taylor. By the way, we’re looking at the computer you use at home. What do you think we’ll find on it? Is there anything you want to tell us about now?”

But Taylor had closed down. He sat silently, staring at his hands and shaking his head at the offer of a drink.

Tom Payne was the solicitor on call that weekend. A middle-aged man in a dusty-looking dark suit, he strode into the room an hour later, a pad of yellow paper under one arm and his briefcase flapping undone.

“I would like some time to consult with Mr. Taylor,” he told Sparkes, and the room was cleared.

As Sparkes left, the two men looked at each other, sizing each other up before Tom Payne offered his hand to his new client.

“Now, let’s see what I can do to help you, Mr. Taylor,” he said, clicking his pen.

Thirty minutes later the detectives were back in the room and rooting through the details of Taylor’s narrative, snouts to the scent of fakery.

“Let’s go back to your dismissal from the bank, Mr. Taylor. We will be talking to the bank again, so why don’t you tell us all about it?” Sparkes said.

The suspect retold his excuses, with his lawyer impassive at his side. Apparently, everyone was at fault apart from him. And then there was his alibi. The detectives stormed it from all sides, but it proved unbreachable. They had knocked on the neighbors’ doors, but no one had seen him arrive home the day Bella went missing. Apart from his wife.

Two frustrating hours later, Glen Taylor was being swabbed and scraped before being taken to a cell, while the police checked his story. For a moment, when he realized he was not going home, he looked young and lost as the custody sergeant asked him to empty his pockets and take off his belt.

“Will you phone my wife, Jean, please?” he asked his lawyer, his voice cracking.

In the bleached emptiness of the police cell, he sank onto a discolored plastic bench along one wall and closed his eyes.

The custody sergeant squinted through the eyehole in the door. “Looks calm enough,” he told his colleague. “But let’s keep a close eye on him. Quiet types make me nervous.”





SIXTEEN


The Widow

THURSDAY, JUNE 10, 2010


I used to love Sunday lunch. Always roast chicken and all the trimmings. It used to feel like a family thing and, when we were newlyweds, we had our mums and dads over to share it with us. Sitting around the table in the kitchen, they’d half listen to the end of Desert Island Discs and read the Sunday papers as I put the potatoes in the oven to roast and poured us cups of tea.

It was lovely being part of this grown-up world where we could invite our parents for lunch. Some people say they felt it when they started their first job or moved into their first home, but those Sundays were when I felt like a real adult.

We loved our house. We’d painted the sitting room magnolia—Glen said it was “classy”—and we bought a green sofa and armchairs on credit. We must’ve paid hundreds of pounds for it in the end, but it looked just right, so Glen had to have it. It took longer to save up for a new kitchen, but we managed in the end and picked one with white doors. We walked around the showroom for ages, holding hands, like the other couples. I liked the pine cupboards, but Glen wanted something “clean.” So we went for white. Looked a bit like an operating theater when we first put it together, to be honest, but we bought red handles, snazzy jars and things to liven it up. I loved my kitchen—“my department,” as Glen called it. He never did any cooking. “I’d only make a mess,” he’d say, and we’d laugh about it. So I did the cooking.