The Widow(85)

Salmond looked like she might cry but checked herself and went into superwoman mode, organizing and getting ready.

In the car, he filled in the details for her. She knew as much about the case as he did, but he needed to say everything out loud, to walk himself through it all.

“I always thought that Jean was covering for Glen. She was a decent woman, but she was completely dominated by him. They married young—he was the bright one, the one who did well at school and had a good job, and she was his pretty little wife.”

Salmond glanced at her boss. “Pretty little wife?”

He had the grace to laugh. “What I mean is that Jean was so young when they met, he blew her off her feet with his suit and prospects. She never had a chance to be her own person.”

“I think my mum was a bit like that,” Salmond said, indicating to turn off the motorway.

Not you, though, Sparkes thought. He’d met her husband. Nice solid bloke who didn’t try to outshine her or put her down.

“Sounds like it could be a folie à deux, sir,” Salmond said thoughtfully. “Like Brady and Hindley or Fred and Rose West. I looked at their cases for a paper I wrote at college. A couple shares a psychosis or a delusion because one is so dominant. They end up believing the same thing—their right to do something for example. They share a value system that is not accepted by anyone outside their partnership or relationship. Not sure I’m explaining it properly. Sorry.”

Bob Sparkes was silent for a bit, turning the theory over in his head. “But if it was a folie à deux, then Jean knew and approved when Glen took Bella.”

“It’s happened before. Like I said,” his sergeant said without taking her eyes off the road. “Then, when you separate the couple, the one who’s been dominated can quite quickly stop sharing the delusion. They kind of come to their senses. Do you see what I mean?”

But Jean Taylor had not let the mask slip when Glen had gone inside. Was it possible that he kept control of her from behind bars?

“I wondered about cognitive dissonance or selective amnesia,” he ventured, a little nervous about trying out his homework reading in forensic psychology. “Maybe she was too frightened of losing everything to admit the truth. I read that trauma can make the mind delete things that are too painful or stressful. So she deleted any details that challenged her belief that Glen was innocent.”

“But can you really do that? Make yourself believe that black is white?” Salmond asked.

The human mind is a powerful thing, Sparkes thought, but it sounded too trite to say out loud.

“I’m not an expert, Zara. Just some reading at home. We’d have to talk to someone who’s done the research.”

First time he’d called her “Zara,” and he felt a prickle of embarrassment. Inappropriate, he told himself—always called Ian Matthews “Matthews” at work. He risked a quick glance at his sergeant. She showed no sign of offense or even registering his unprofessional slip.

“Who would we approach, sir?”

“I know an academic who might be able to give us a steer. Dr. Fleur Jones helped us before.”

He was grateful that Salmond didn’t react to the name. It hadn’t been Fleur Jones’s fault that everything had gone bad.

“Why don’t you call her?” she said. “Before we get there. We need to know the best way to approach the widow.”

Salmond pulled over at the next service station and he began to dial.

An hour later, Sparkes walked through the accident and emergency department doors.

“Hello, Jean,” he said, and sat down beside her on an orange molded-plastic chair. She barely moved to acknowledge him. She looked so pale, and her eyes were blackened by grief.

“Jean,” he said again, and took her hand. He’d never touched her before beyond guiding her into a police car, but he couldn’t help himself. She looked so vulnerable.

Jean Taylor’s hand was frigid in his hot hands, but he wouldn’t let go. He kept talking, low and urgent, taking his chance.

“You can tell me now, Jean. You can tell me what Glen did with Bella, where he put her. There’s no need for secrets now. It was Glen’s secret, not yours. You were his victim, Jean. You and Bella.”

The widow turned her head away from him and seemed to shudder.

“Please tell me, Jean. Let it go now, and you’ll have some peace.”

“I don’t know anything about Bella, Bob,” she said slowly, as if explaining to a child. Then she slipped her hand out of his grasp and started to cry. No sound, just tears running down off her chin onto her lap.

Sparkes sat on, unable to leave. Jean Taylor stood and walked away toward the ladies’ room.

When she came out fifteen minutes later, she was holding a tissue to her mouth. She headed straight for the glass doors of the accident and emergenty department and was gone.

Disappointment paralyzed Sparkes. “I have screwed up the last chance,” he muttered to Salmond, who now sat in Jean’s chair. “Royally screwed it up.”

“She’s in shock, sir. She doesn’t know which way is up at the moment. Let her settle and think things through. We should go to the house in a couple days.”

“Tomorrow. We’ll go tomorrow,” Sparkes said, rising.

They were at the door twenty-four hours later. Jean Taylor was in black, looking ten years older and ready for them.