The Widow(84)

Before he died, if Glen was in the room, he’d turn the telly off, casually, to pretend he didn’t care, and then go out. But if he wasn’t there, I’d watch. And buy the papers and magazines when they wrote about Bella. I loved seeing the pictures and videos of her. Playing, laughing, opening her Christmas presents, singing in her baby way, words muddled up, pushing her little stroller. I’ve got quite a collection now from the magazines and newspapers Dawn has talked to. She has always loved the publicity. Her fifteen minutes of fame.

And now I am about to have mine.

When Mick finally turns up, he’s carrying bags of shopping and Chinese takeout. “Couldn’t be bothered to cook,” Kate says with a laugh. “Thought we could have a treat, instead.”

Mick’s clearly staying, too, and I try to remember where I put the sheets and duvet for the sofa bed.

“Don’t mind me, Jean,” he says with his teenager grin. “I can sleep on the floor. I’m not fussy.” I shrug. I’m too fed up with the whole thing to care anymore. Once, I would’ve run around making up beds, putting clean towels out, changing the soap for a new bar. But now I can’t be bothered. I sit with a plate of noodles and shiny red chicken on my knee and wonder if I have the energy to lift my fork.

Kate and Mick sit on the sofa facing me. They are eating the noodles without any enthusiasm. “This is horrible,” Mick says eventually, and gives up.

“You chose it,” Kate says, and looks at my full plate. “Sorry, Jean. Shall I get you something else?”

I shake my head. “Just a cup of tea,” I say. Mick asks if I’ve got any tins in the cupboard and goes off to make beans on toast for himself. I get up to go to bed, but Kate turns on the news and I sit back down. They are saying something about soldiers and Iraq, and I lean back in my seat.

The next item is me. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. My face in one of the pictures Mick took. “Mick, quick, your stuff’s on the television,” Kate shouts through to the kitchen, and he races in and drops heavily onto the sofa.

“Fame at last,” he says with a grin as the presenter rattles on about the exclusive interview I’ve given to the Daily Post and my “revelation” that Glen was responsible for taking Bella. I start to say something, but the program cuts to Dawn, who’s been crying, all swollen eyes, and she’s asked what she thinks about the interview. “She’s an evil monster,” she says, and it takes me a minute to realize she means me. Me. “She must’ve known all along,” she wails. “She must’ve known what her husband did to my poor baby.”

I stand up and turn on Kate. “What have you written?” I demand. “What have you said to make me the evil monster? I trusted you. I told you everything.”

She has difficulty looking me in the eye, but Kate tells me Dawn has “got it all wrong.”

“That isn’t what the story says,” she insists. “It says you’re another of Glen’s victims, that you only realized much later that he could’ve taken her.”

Mick is nodding dumbly, backing her up, but I don’t believe them. I’m so angry I go out of the room. I can’t bear their betrayal. Then I go back in. “Leave now,” I say. “Get out, or I’ll call the police and have you removed.”

There’s silence while Kate wonders if she can talk me around again. “But the money, Jean . . .” she starts to say as I usher her and Mick into the hall, and I cut her off.

“Keep it,” I say, and I open the front door. Mr. Telly’s still standing at the end of the path with his crew.

As she reaches the gate, he says something to her, but she’s already on the phone to Terry, explaining how it’s all gone “pear-shaped.” I beckon the film crew in. I’ve something I want to say.





FORTY-SEVEN


The Detective

FRIDAY, MAY 14, 2010


Days and then weeks ticked by without a decision being made to rearrest Taylor. The new bosses clearly didn’t want to stumble down the same disastrous path as their predecessors and defended their inaction strenuously.

“Where’s the evidence to link Taylor with this new CCTV? Or the Internet club?” DCI Wellington asked after watching the images. “We’ve got a partial plate number and the dodgy word of a porn merchant. There’s no further identification of the suspect—apart from your gut feeling, Bob.”

Sparkes had been ready to resign, but he couldn’t abandon Bella.

They were so close. The forensics team was working on the plate number of the van on the CCTV, to try to tease out one more digit or letter, and experts were trying to match phrasing in the e-mails from TDS and Bigbear. He almost had his hand on Glen Taylor’s arm.

So when he heard that Glen Taylor was dead, he felt it like a physical blow. “Dead?” An officer he knew from the Met had called as soon as the news came through to the operations room. “Thought you’d want to know immediately, Bob. Sorry.”

It was the “sorry” that did it. He hung up and put his head in his hands. They both knew there would be no confession now, no moment of triumph. Bella would never be found.

His head suddenly shot up. Jean. She was free of him now—she could speak out, tell the truth about that day.

Sparkes shouted for Salmond, and when she put her head in the door, he croaked: “Glen Taylor is dead. Knocked over by a bus. We’re going to Greenwich.”