The Widow(61)

“Anything interesting?” she asked.

“No, not really. The Met went to make sure the other Qwik Delivery driver was at home while we drove up from Southampton.”

“What other driver?”

“There were two drivers in Hampshire that day—you know that.”

She didn’t, or she hadn’t remembered.

“The other one was a bloke called Mike Doonan. He was the one we went to see first. Perhaps his name didn’t come out at the time. Anyway, he’s crippled with a crumbling spine—could hardly walk—and we never found anything to pursue.”

“Did you question him?”

“Yes. He was the one who told us Taylor was also making a delivery in the area that day. Not sure we’d have found that out without him. Taylor did the drop as a favor, so there’s no official record of it. The case review team went to see him, too. Nothing added, apparently.”

Kate excused herself from the table and went to the ladies’, where she scribbled down the name and put a quick call in to a colleague to find an address for Doonan. For later.

When she got back to the table, the detective was putting his credit card back in his wallet. “Bob, I invited you,” she said.

He waved away her protest and smiled. “My pleasure. It’s been good to see you, Kate. Thanks for your pep talk.”

She deserved that, she thought as they walked out in single file. On the pavement, he shook her hand again, and they both went back to work.

Kate’s phone began vibrating as she hailed a taxi, and she waved away the cab to take the call. “There’s a Michael Doonan in Peckham, according to the electoral roll—I’ll text the address and the names of the neighbors,” the crime man said.

“You’re a star, thanks,” she said, raising her hand for another taxi. Her phone rang again almost immediately.

“Kate, where the hell are you? We’ve got an interview with the ex-wife of that footballer. It’s up near Leeds, so get on the next train and I’ll e-mail you the background. Ring when you’re at the station.”





THIRTY-TWO


The Widow

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 2008


Someone put the Herald through the door today, the day they accused Glen all over again, and he put it straight in the bin. I got it out and hid it away behind the bleach under the sink for later. We’d known it was coming because the Herald had been banging on the door the day before, shouting questions and pushing notes through the letter box. They said they were campaigning for a retrial so that Bella would get justice. “What about justice for me?” Glen said.

It’s a blow, but Tom phoned to say the paper will have to have deep pockets to pay the costs and, most importantly, they have no evidence. He said to “batten down the hatches,” whatever that means. “The Herald are coming at us with all guns blazing, but it is all just sensationalism and tittle-tattle,” he told Glen, who repeated it line by line to me. “He talks like it is a war,” I say, and then shut up. The wait will be worse than the reality, Tom predicts, and I hope he’s right.

“We’ve got to keep quiet, Jeanie,” Glen explains. “Tom will start legal proceedings against the paper, but he thinks we should go on a bit of a holiday—‘remove ourselves from the picture’—until this all blows over. I’ll go online and book something this morning.”

He hasn’t asked where I want to go and, to be honest, I don’t care. My little helpers are beginning to have less effect, and I feel so tired I could cry.

In the end he picks somewhere in France. In my other life, I would’ve been thrilled, but I’m not sure what I feel when he tells me he’s found a cottage in the countryside that’s miles from anywhere. “Our flight leaves at seven tomorrow morning, so we need to leave here at four, Jeanie. Let’s get packed up, and we’ll take our car. Don’t want a taxi driver tipping off the press.”

He knows so much, my Glen. Thank God I’ve got him to look after me.

At the airport, we keep our heads down and sunglasses on, and we wait until the queue is almost down to the last person before we head to the desk. The woman checking us in barely looks at us and sends our suitcase onto the conveyor belt before she’s managed to say, “Did you pack this bag yourself?” let alone waited to hear the answer.

I’d forgotten how much queuing there was in airports, and we are so stressed by the time we get to the gate that I am ready to go home to the press pack. “Come on, love,” Glen says, holding my hand as we walk to the plane. “Nearly there.”

At Bergerac, he goes to get the rental car while I wait for the bag, mesmerized by the passing luggage. I miss our case—it’s been so long since we used it, I have forgotten what color it is and have to wait until everyone else has heaved theirs off. I finally go out into the bright sunshine and spot Glen in a tiny red car. “Didn’t think it would be worth getting anything bigger,” he says. “We’re not going to do much driving, are we?”

Funny, but being on our own in France is different from being on our own at home. Without a routine, we don’t know what to say to each other. So we say nothing. The silence should be a rest from the constant noise and banging on our door at home, but it isn’t. It’s worse somehow. I take to going for long walks in the lanes and woods around the cottage while Glen sits on a sun lounger and reads detective novels. I could scream when I see what he’s packed. As if we hadn’t had enough of police investigations.