Hushabye (8 page)

Chapter Seven

Kate parked the car in her usual spot, four doors down from her mother’s house. She sat for a moment, ostensibly checking her handbag for various items but actually steadying herself with some deep breaths. Being here brought back so many memories.

She stared at the shabby grass verge, the litter piled in the gutter, the mean little front gardens that were either littered with garish plastic toys or paved over to become parking spaces. The houses were the usual charmless 1960s square boxes: windows slightly too small for the walls, concrete roof tiles, white plastic cladding.

Looking around, Kate realised the area had actually improved slightly – clearly, most of these houses were now privately owned including, incredibly, her mother’s home. Kate had given her the deposit to enable her to take advantage of the Right to Buy scheme back in the mid nineties. Kate had delayed her own house purchase by a few years because she gave up that chunk of hard-earned savings. Now, looking at the peeling paint, the cracked window pane, the overgrown front garden, Kate thought she might as well have thrown that money down the toilet.
Loo, Kate, loo
. At least if her mum’s property was still council-owned, it would be in better shape. She straightened her shoulders, locked the car and went up to the front door. She had timed this visit carefully. Too early, and her mum would be hungover and grumpy and unwelcoming, too late, and she’d be half-cut and sloppily sentimental. Now, at half past two in the afternoon, Mrs Redman would be as rational and as normal as she could be. So Kate hoped.

She was halfway to the front door when it opened violently and someone came stampeding out, her mother’s screamed profanities following them. Kate flinched. The person running down the path was a teenage girl, hair teased up into a beehive, thick black eyeliner, stomping boots on the end of long legs. She pushed past Kate, scowling murderously. Kate’s mother stood at the door, screaming after her. “And don’t come back, you little whore!”

“Mum!” said Kate. She grabbed her mother’s arm and wheeled her around, pushing her back into the house. She was rocketed back to her teenage years, feeling the neighbours’ scorn and disapproval beaming out from the surrounding houses as her mum embarrassed her yet again. “What on earth? What’s going on? Who was that?”

Her mum looked at her with a disbelieving expression.

“What d’you mean, who was that? That was
Courtney
, wasn’t it? Little whore. Who’d she think she is, coming round here and trying to hit me up for cash?”

Kate felt a quick jab of shame. Courtney was one of her six half-siblings. Her own sister, and she hadn’t even recognised her. When had she last seen her? Over a year ago, at least.

“Oh,” she said feebly. Then, collecting herself, “Well, Mum, here I am.”

“Yeah.”

“I was going to ask what’s been going on but I see that plenty has.”

Her mother tottered off into the messy living room.

“Where’s my fags?” she muttered, hunting amongst the detritus of the coffee table.

“How about a cup of tea?” said Kate. She wanted to deflect the inevitable offering of “a glass of something.”

Mary Redman had found her cigarettes and lit one. A thin ribbon of smoke rose towards the ceiling, stained ochre by twenty year’s worth of exhaled fumes. Kate turned towards the tiny galley kitchen that lay at the end of the hallway.

She hunted for teabags and mugs amongst the chaos. Mary leant against the doorframe, watching her.

“
That
cupboard,” she said, eventually. Kate opened it and was nearly brained by a landslide of tins and cardboard boxes.

“Oh, leave it,” said Mary, as Kate scrabbled about on the floor, picking things up. “What’s up with you, then? What you been up to?”

Kate stood up. She mentioned the Fullman case, just the bare bones of it, all she was able to say.

“Awful,” said Mary, taking a long drag. She shook her head. “Don’t know what I would have done if one of you had been taken. And that poor girl with her head smashed in!” Kate winced. “Poor little baby. His mum must be frantic.”

Kate poured boiling water onto the teabags and nodded. She thought of Casey in her expensive prison, hemmed in by paparazzi, lost and alone in her glossy kitchen. A greater contrast to the one that she was in could scarcely be imagined.

“Here you go,” she said, handing her mother a steaming mug.

Mary placed it precariously on the counter.

“Surprised you’re doing this case,” she said, watching Kate closely. “Thought it might bring back a few bad memories.”

Kate felt her shoulders stiffen. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

“Don’t you?” said Mary.

“No,” said Kate. She could hear it in her voice: the shut-down, the freezing of emotion.

There was a moment’s silence.

“Oh, well,” said Mary. She picked up her tea and turned away. “Don’t know how you did it, myself. That was proper cold, Kelly, it weren’t natural. Couldn’t have done it myself. Don’t know how you–”

“
That’s enough
.”

Kate’s voice made them both jump. She stood for a moment, breathing deeply, trembling, trying to keep herself together. Her mother was looking at her in an odd way, sympathy and spite mixed together.

“Want a glass of something?” said Mary, after a moment.

“No thanks,” said Kate, automatically. She looked out of the small kitchen window into the uninspiring garden: concrete paving slabs, a dying shrub in a pot, a handkerchief-sized, balding lawn. There was a white plastic table out there, with an empty whisky bottle on top of it, an inch of dirty water in the bottom of the bottle.

“What did Courtney want?” she asked, after a moment.

Mary sniffed. “Money. As usual. As if she don’t already get enough from her dad.”

“But is she okay?”

“’Course she is. Just being a teenager, that’s all. All she cares about is boys and Bacardi Breezers and getting her nails done.”

Kate lifted her shoulders. “I cared about more than that, when I was her age.”

Mary looked at her with her mouth quirked up at the corner.

“Yes, love,” she said. “But you weren’t normal.”

When Kate closed the door of her flat behind her a few hours later, she stood for a moment, drinking in the peace and serenity of her home. More so than usual, she could feel the calmness that its order inspired in her – the well-being that the neatness, the cleanliness, the carefully-chosen fixtures and ornaments and furniture evoked.

Kate paid for a cleaner to come every week, and she cleaned the place herself, just a quick once-over, every day. It didn’t take long. She walked slowly through the small flat, relishing the peace and solitude, the joy of being surrounded by things that she’d chosen with care and attention. She moved about the living room, touching the back of the sofa, the well-filled bookcases, the silver framed photograph of herself on her graduation day from Hendon. She picked it up and regarded it closely, noting her beaming, proud smile, her younger, eager face.
Top of the class, Kate. You couldn’t have done that if
–
if things had been different. You made the right decision
–
for both of you.

She went into her small but sparkling bathroom and undressed, dropping her clothes into the wicker laundry basket in the corner. Her jeans and jumper had been clean, but they felt tainted by the hours spent in her mother’s house, smelling of smoke and whisky fumes and something else, something indefinable but awful. Kate checked that a clean, white towel hung from the hook by the shower door, ready for her when she stepped out of the cubicle and saw that the clean bathmat was laid on the shining tiles of the floor. She cleaned her teeth and cleaned her face. Before the bathroom mirror clouded over with steam, she regarded her naked body. You couldn’t tell. There was nothing on the surface that showed.

For the thousandth time, she pushed away the memories. Shut them away, push them back into the dark. She stepped under the hot gush of water, closing her eyes against the spray. The hot water against her back and neck was so comforting. She watched the foam-laden water stream away from her and down the plughole, and imagined all the mistakes and regrets of the past being carried away with it.

Chapter Eight

Gemma Phillips lived in a very small townhouse. It was one of a recently-built estate so new that the lawn of the tiny front gardens was like a small, green patchwork quilt, the lines of earth showing between each strip of sod. The houses were what Kate would term “cheaply smart.” They looked fresh and desirable because the new paint gleamed, the tiles shone and the windows sparkled.
Give it five years
, thought Kate as she parked the car,
and they’d look considerably less attractive, as the shoddy materials and second-rate design began to show
.

She’d phoned ahead to check that Gemma was at home, for once not at the Fullmans’ place. She did at least have a few days off now and then, it seemed. Kate rapped smartly with the new doorknocker, already loose on its nail.

Gemma was slow in answering the door. She peered somewhat suspiciously through the gap between the frame and the door, frowning a little when she saw Kate standing there.

“Good morning,” said Kate briskly, stepping forward. This was almost always the easiest way to get in a house quickly – most people didn’t have the nerve to hold their ground. Gemma was no exception. She stepped back and Kate pressed on.

“Lovely morning,” she said, now fully in the hallway. “I was hoping to have a chat with you about a few things, as I said on the phone. Could we sit down somewhere?”

Obviously accustomed to taking orders, Gemma turned obediently and led her into the small living room. Kate’s heels clacked on the laminate flooring. The cheaply smart theme was echoed here in the interior decoration. There was a feature wall of gaudy wallpaper, large silver flowers and red tendrils entwined. There was a glass coffee table, a small black leather sofa and matching armchair. No books, but a pile of glossy magazines in a heap by the armchair. A large flat screen television dominated the small room.

Kate perched herself on the armchair. Gemma sat down hesitantly opposite her. She was wearing black leggings and a fluffy white tunic, belted tightly around her tiny waist. She looked odd in casual wear, not quite comfortable, as if her natural inclination was to be strapped into tight-fitting and uncomfortable suits.

“Do you want tea?” said Gemma, after a moment.

“Yes, lovely, thanks,” said Kate. She almost always agreed to a drink in these circumstances – it gave you a good opportunity to have a look around. As Gemma jumped up and left the room, Kate allowed her gaze to drift about. It snagged on a large cardboard container resting at the side of the sofa, one of the bags which upmarket shops give to their customers to carry their goods away. Kate leaned closer.
Very
upmarket. She noted the Mulberry logo, the satin ribbons that tied the top.

“You’ve got a new bag?” she asked, as Gemma came back with two steaming mugs of tea.

Gemma nodded, after a moment’s hesitation.

“May I see it?” said Kate. “I love Mulberry.” A lie, she didn’t know a Mulberry from a raspberry, but it might put the girl at her ease.

Gemma hesitated again. Then she pulled out the bag and extracted the handbag from within, all padded sides and gleaming clasps.

“Lovely,” said Kate, examining it. “Quite pricey, though, aren’t they? Thought you’d treat yourself?”

Gemma nodded. After a moment, she said, “I got my bonus. From Nick.”

“Great,” said Kate. Then feeling it was time to cut to the chase, she handed the bag back to Gemma and leaned forward.

“I was hoping you could help me, Gemma. In cases like these, it’s important that we cover all the angles, so to speak – the background detail, the minutia – you know, in case there’s a small point that’s really important. Something that otherwise we might miss, but could be vital in solving the case. Do you see what I’m saying?”

Gemma was holding the Mulberry bag on her lap like a shield. She nodded, biting her lip.

Kate went on.

“It’s useful to us to get a sort of picture of the people involved, their histories, their habits and so forth. As you’ve worked for the Fullmans for some years, I thought you’d be able to do this, give me an idea of, well, the sort of people they are. Are you able to do that?”

Gemma was still for a moment. Then, exhaling, she put the bag back into its container and sat back in her chair, crossing her long legs. “Yeah, I can do that,” she said. “What did you want to know?”

“Can you tell me about Nick – Mr Fullman? What’s his history? Where did he grow up?”

Gemma laughed. “He’s an Essex boy. Funny, isn’t it? You’d never guess it from the way he speaks. His dad was a builder, but he made money, enough money to send Nick to private school. That’s why he talks the way he does, not all – well, Essex, you know. Not all rough.”

“So he’s from a wealthy family?” Kate asked. “Well, a prosperous family at least.”

Gemma nodded. “I guess, although I remember Nick saying his dad lost loads a few years ago, when the credit crunch hit. I think Nick had to lend him some money, bail him out, you know.”

“Nick wasn’t affected by the property crash?”

“Not so much. He kind of diversified into commercial property then and that didn’t seem to take such a hit. He always seemed to have loads of work coming in, anyway.”

“You’re obviously paid well,” said Kate. Gemma looked a little offended, as people tended to do when money was mentioned. “Clearly you also work long hours. You work hard for your money.”

Gemma looked mollified. “That’s right. It feels like twenty-four seven, this job, sometimes.”

“Nick obviously works very hard. Do you think that it ever put a strain on his marriage?”

Gemma sniffed. “Is that what Casey said? She doesn’t know, she’s born. It’s not like she has to work hard. She just gets to sit around and spend his money.”