The Widow(31)

SEVENTEEN


The Detective

SUNDAY, APRIL 8, 2007


Taylor’s delivery van was being dismantled and scrutinized, inch by inch, by the forensics boys in Southampton, along with his uniform and shoes taken from home, fingerprints, saliva swabs, samples from under his fingernails, genitals, and hair.

And experts were conducting their dig into the dark recesses of Taylor’s computer.

They were all over him. Now Sparkes wanted to try his luck with the wife.

On Easter Sunday morning, fresh from their Premier Inn breakfast in South London, Sparkes and Matthews knocked at eight a.m.

Jean Taylor answered the door with her coat half on.

“Oh God,” she said when she saw Sparkes. “Has something happened to Glen? His lawyer said it would all be sorted out today and he could come home.”

“No. Not quite,” Sparkes said. “I need to have a chat with you, Mrs. Taylor. We can talk here rather than at the station.” Mention of the station made Jean Taylor’s eyes widen.

She stood back to let the detectives in before the neighbors spotted them and wearily shrugged off the sleeve of her coat.

“You had better come through,” she said, and led the way into the living room. Jean hovered by the arm of the sofa. She looked like she hadn’t slept much, her hair lank with exhaustion, and there was a scrape of throatiness to her voice as she asked them to sit down.

“I answered all the questions yesterday with the other officers. This is all wrong.”

She was so agitated, she got up and then sat down again, lost in her own sitting room.

“Look, I’m due at my mum and dad’s. I always go on a Sunday to do Mum’s hair. I can’t let her down,” she explained. “I haven’t told them about Glen . . .”

“Perhaps you could phone and say you’re sick, Mrs. Taylor,” Sparkes said. “We need to talk about a few things.” Jean closed her eyes as if she was about to cry and then walked to the phone to tell her lie.

“It’s just a headache, Dad, but I think I’ll stay in bed for a bit. Tell Mum I’ll call her later.”

“Now, then, Mrs. Taylor,” Sparkes said. “Tell me about you and Glen.”

“What do you mean?”

“How long have you been married? Are you both from around here?”

Jean told the bus stop story, and Sparkes listened attentively as she progressed through their courtship to the fairy-tale wedding and their blissful married life.

“He worked for the bank, didn’t he?” Sparkes asked. “That must’ve been a good job with prospects . . .”

“Yes, it was,” Jean said. “He was very proud of his job. But he left to start a business of his own. Glen has lots of ideas and plans. He likes to think big. And he didn’t get along with his boss. We think he was jealous of Glen.”

Sparkes paused. “And there was the business with the office computer, wasn’t there, Mrs. Taylor?”

Jean stared at him, all eyes again. “What do you mean?” she asked. “What about the office computer?”

Bloody hell. She doesn’t know about the porn, Sparkes thought. Christ. Here we go, then.

“The indecent images found on his office computer, Mrs. Taylor.”

The word “indecent” hung in the air as Jean blushed, and Sparkes pressed on.

“The images found on his computer at work. And on the computer we took away yesterday. Do you ever use the computer?”

She shook her head.

“There were pornographic images involving children, Mrs. Taylor, found on both computers.”

She put her hands out to stop him. “I don’t know anything about pornographic images or computers,” she said, the color deepening to bruise her neck. “And I’m sure Glen doesn’t, either. He isn’t that sort of man.”

“What sort of man is he, Mrs. Taylor? How would you describe him?”

“Goodness, what sort of question is that? Normal, I suppose. Normal. Hardworking, a good husband . . .”

“In what way is he a good husband?” Sparkes asked, leaning forward. “Would you say you were happy as a couple?”

“Yes, very happy. We hardly ever argue or fall out.”

“Have you been having any problems? Money problems? Problems in your intimate life?” He didn’t know why he had shied away from using “sex life,” but the woman’s distress at the questions was palpable.

“What do you mean, our ‘intimate life’?” Jean said.

“In the bedroom, Mrs. Taylor,” he clarified delicately. She looked as if she’d been spat on.

“No, no problems,” she managed to get out before starting to weep.

Matthews passed a box of tissues from the nest of tables at his elbow.

“There you go, Mrs. Taylor,” he said. “I’ll get you a glass of water. I’m not trying to upset you, Mrs. Taylor, but these are questions I need to ask. I’m investigating a very serious matter. Do you understand?”

She shook her head. She didn’t understand.

“What about children, Mrs. Taylor?” The detective moved on to the next incendiary subject.

“None,” she said.

“Did you decide not to have any?”