The Burning (17 page)

Kelly became completely still. She gave a hint of a nod.

Jenny glanced at Ryan, who urged her on.

‘There’s no easy way of telling you this, Mrs Hart.’ Jenny swallowed a lump that had formed in her throat and forced herself on. ‘Both your daughters had fatal shotgun
wounds to their bodies. It seems Ed then shot himself, probably after setting fire to the house.’

Kelly remained a statue. No emotion registered on her face.

Thrown by her lack of response, Jenny waited for a reaction, but Kelly remained an unreadable blank.

‘Do you have any idea what might have caused him to do that?’ Jenny asked.

There was a brief delay before Kelly slowly shook her head.

Jenny pressed on. ‘The pathologist thinks Layla may have been several months pregnant.’

Finally a flicker, though of what, precisely, Jenny couldn’t be sure.

‘Did you know anything about that?’ Jenny asked.

‘No,’ Kelly whispered. She closed her eyes, ‘I’m not surprised. I mean, there were boys . . .’

‘Wouldn’t she have told you?’

Kelly looked away. Jenny hadn’t intended to make her feel guilty, but she could see that was what she had done.

‘What I mean is, can you think of any reason why she wouldn’t have told you? If it was three months, surely she would have known?’

There followed an even longer silence. Jenny sensed that it was making Ryan uneasy, and she shot him a glance, urging him to trust her.

What felt like minutes, but was perhaps as little as thirty seconds, passed before Kelly said, ‘I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t Ed’s. No way.’

‘It may be possible to do DNA tests,’ Jenny said. ‘We’ll know shortly if that’s possible.’

‘It’s nothing to do with Ed,’ Kelly said emphatically. ‘He wouldn’t. He just wouldn’t. No.’

Jenny studied Kelly’s face and saw doubt. She was trying to convince herself and wasn’t succeeding.

‘Is there anyone Layla might have spoken to – a friend, perhaps?’

‘You can ask Nicky, Nicky Brookes,’ Kelly said. ‘But I can tell you now, it wasn’t Ed’s.’

‘Layla and Nicky – were they close?’

‘They’d been at school together since they were little kids,’ Kelly said. ‘She’ll know more about what Layla was up to than I could tell you.’ She stared at
her hands twisting on her lap. ‘Too much of her father in her, that was her problem. Wouldn’t be told. Didn’t know when to stop.’

‘Did Layla argue with Ed?’

Kelly shook her head. She was adamant. ‘He was about the only one who could calm her down.’ After a short pause, she glanced up. ‘He was gentle. But you never met him, so how
would you know?’

‘You’re right,’ Jenny said, ‘all I can do is ask questions and try to understand. I’ll take your word that he was gentle at home, but his job at Fairmeadows
Farm—’

‘He didn’t like it, we just needed the money. Said he learned to switch off and forget where he was.’

Jenny would like to have heard more on the subject, particularly Kelly’s thoughts on how it was possible to spend eight hours a day shovelling carcasses into a grinder and come home
emotionally intact, but these were details that could wait for the inquest. Now was the moment for the big issues, and one in particular that had weighed on her mind since her second meeting with
Clare Ashton the previous morning.

‘Do you mind if I ask you if Ed had any issues with depression or mood swings?’ Jenny asked.

‘Not really,’ Kelly answered.

‘You don’t sound altogether sure.’

‘He wasn’t depressed, if that’s what you mean. He didn’t shout or lose his temper.’

‘I was told he had problems as a teenager. A woman who used to live in the village once objected to his application for a shotgun licence.’

‘I don’t know anything about that.’

Her answer seemed spontaneous and Jenny believed her.

‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I get the impression Ed was the quiet, dependable type, who didn’t talk about himself too much. He stood by while other people shouted at each
other, but wouldn’t get involved if he could help it.’

Kelly looked at Jenny in surprise, then turned to Ryan as if for an explanation for how her secrets had been unlocked.

‘They’re common traits in a certain type of man,’ Jenny said. ‘They avoid conflict, even though they might have experienced a lot of it in their early lives.
They’ve learned from a young age to keep their emotions hidden.’

Kelly stared at her. It was the stare of a little girl, Jenny thought, and she wondered if that was what had been confusing her about Kelly: perhaps she was actually more naive than she had
imagined. Perhaps she was one of nature’s innocents, who had somehow managed to exist in the eternal present. The more she pursued this thought, the more it seemed to explain how Kelly could
have survived into her mid-thirties and remained so outwardly untarnished by life. Her trick had been to remain a child inside a woman’s body.

Jenny felt obliged to offer her an explanation in the hope it might provide some comfort: ‘Sometimes men like that eventually erupt. No one can see it coming, least of all them. It
doesn’t have to be a big thing, something tiny or even insignificant can light the fuse.’

Kelly looked at her mistrustfully, though Jenny could see that she was thinking back, viewing Ed in a different light.

Ryan chipped in, unable to suppress his detective’s instincts. ‘Did he ever get jealous of you working behind a bar, Kelly? You must have met a lot of men in your job, got a lot of
attention – not always the kind you’d welcome.’

‘If he was, he never said so. He never said a word about that.’

‘But you’d have felt it if he’d been jealous, wouldn’t you?’ Ryan prompted. ‘You don’t live with someone and not sense their moods.’

Kelly lowered her gaze to the floor. ‘Sometimes if I was late home he’d ask me where I’d been. That’s all.’

Jenny intervened. ‘I think perhaps this is a conversation to have when Mrs Hart is making her statement—’

Ryan ignored her. ‘Did he have any reason to be jealous, Kelly?’

‘No,’ she retorted, a note of anger in her voice.

‘I think that’ll do now,’ Jenny said. She changed the subject. ‘I’m still not sure it’s a good idea to be spending so much time alone, Mrs Hart. Have you got
any friends nearby?’

‘I don’t want to see anyone.’

‘What about Family Liaison?’ Jenny asked Ryan.

‘I’ve got their number,’ Kelly said impatiently. ‘I’m fine. Please. I prefer it this way.’

Jenny was reluctant to leave her, but if she insisted on being alone there was nothing she could do to stop her.

‘I’m giving you my card,’ Ryan said, and pressed one into Kelly’s hand. ‘I probably gave you one already, but I want you to keep this by the phone. Any time –
you understand?’

She took it from him and whispered a thank you.

Jenny rose from her chair, and promising to be in touch the moment she had any more news, started to make her way out. She and Ryan were in the hallway when Kelly broke down.

‘I just want it to be over,’ she said between sobs. ‘I don’t care why he did it. What difference does it make? I’m never going to have them back. Please – I
just want it to be over. Quickly.’

Jenny turned back to the sitting room, but Ryan put a restraining hand on her arm. ‘Leave her. You’ve done your bit. I’ll call Family Liaison and get someone to look in
later.’

It went her against her every instinct, but Jenny forced herself to the door, exited with Ryan, and closed it behind her.

They made their way down to the sterile lobby in silence, both affected by the helplessness of Kelly’s weeping, which had followed them all along the corridor and continued to echo in
Jenny’s ears.

‘There was no other way,’ Ryan said. ‘Don’t beat yourself up.’

‘I’m not sure she really knew him,’ Jenny said. ‘And I’m not sure she wanted to – not after what happened with her husband.’

‘You look washed out,’ Ryan said. ‘If there was anywhere decent round here, I’d offer to buy you lunch.’

‘Thanks, but I think I’ll go home and pour myself a drink,’ Jenny said, ‘try and enjoy a few hours’ peace before all the madness starts again tomorrow.’

‘Another time,’ Ryan said. He opened the door and stood aside to let her through.

As they parted on the pavement, Jenny glanced involuntarily back at him and inadvertently caught him doing the same. Her face burned with embarrassment as she hurried across the road. What was
she
thinking
?

She reached the safety of her car and avoided looking across at Ryan again as he pulled away. Plugging in her seatbelt, she noticed a message lighting up the screen of Michael’s phone,
which she had placed in the console between the seats. It announced a missed call from an unknown caller with a Swiss number. Hoping it was Michael, she called it back. After five long, single
rings, it was a woman’s voice that answered, in heavily accented English.

‘Hello, Michael?’

‘No,’ Jenny stumbled. ‘This is his partner, Jenny Cooper. Who is this, please?’

There was a pause, as if the woman had been caught off guard. ‘This is Pascale Saltz speaking.’

‘And you are?’

‘Senior Account Manager for Luftracht Zugg. How may I help you?’

Luftracht Zugg. The name was familiar. Jenny recalled Michael having mentioned that his company had been subcontracting from a Swiss freight company and presumed this was the one.

‘He left his phone in the UK this morning. I saw your number and thought it might have been him trying to call.’

‘I have not seen Mr Sherman today. I will let him know if I do.’

‘Thank you.’ Jenny rang off, annoyed with herself.

Looking at younger men one moment, raging with jealousy the next, her emotions were as erratic as a teenager’s. She had a moment of panic:
God, what if I’m menopausal? I
can’t be, not yet!
She jerked down the vanity mirror and looked at herself. She saw a 46-year-old woman – still pretty, but fading – and as frightened of growing older as she
was of being alone. It angered her that after years of establishing her independence she was finding herself growing more, not less insecure. Perhaps that was just the way life worked: the moment
you were comfortable with one version of yourself, you were forced, kicking and screaming, into another.

She checked her reflection again. She was approaching that time of life when she would have to cut her hair short, say goodbye to the lingering illusion of beauty and aim instead for graceful or
elegant. Leaning in closer to the mirror, she examined her profile from both sides. Maybe she was being a little unkind to herself: with a bit of luck she could just about hold out for another year
or two, maybe even three or four.

Jenny arrived home to find a message from Michael on the answerphone, giving her the number of his airport hotel in Zurich. Moments later she was speaking to another
receptionist, who in perfect English wished her a happy New Year and connected her to Michael’s room.

‘Jenny, hi.’ He sounded relieved to hear her voice. ‘You caught me just in time – quick hop up to Hamburg this afternoon. They’ve got me criss-crossing Europe for
the next three days.’

‘I told you your job was safe.’

‘I hope so. I hear you’ve been talking to my fancy woman?’

‘Your
what
?’

‘Pascale – she said you found my phone. You were a bit short with her.’

‘I didn’t know who she was.’

‘I don’t think anyone’s ever been jealous over me before,’ Michael said with a laugh. ‘I’m flattered.’

‘She sounded like she knew you.’

‘She does. She’s also about fifty-five and a grandmother.’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’

‘You don’t?’

‘No. Not really.’

‘Well, for a start we managed to spend thirty-six hours together without once mentioning – do I even have to say it?’

‘No.’

‘It’s a pretty big thing to sweep under the carpet.’

‘I’m not,’ Jenny protested.

‘Whatever you want to say, Jenny, I can take it. I just can’t take you
not
saying it.’

She reached for the bottle of wine standing open on the counter and filled a glass. ‘I needed some thinking time, that’s all.’

‘And to see me up close for a while? Check me out for bad habits?’

‘Maybe.’

‘How did I score?’

‘Not bad at all.’ She took a mouthful of Chianti and felt it slide into her empty stomach.

‘I can hear you, Jenny. A bit early, isn’t it?’

‘It’s a holiday.’

‘Fair enough,’ Michael said, ‘but I wish I made you excited instead of nervous.’

‘You do – except when I know you’re flying through a blizzard somewhere over Europe.’

‘Something’s scaring you. I can tell.’

He waited for her to respond.

‘What if it goes wrong?’ Jenny said, surprising herself with her response. ‘You’ve not been married like I have. I put fifteen years of my life into something that
crumbled to dust. What if everything that feels so special now—’

‘Hey,’ Michael interrupted, ‘I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m not. And to tell you the truth, if I could have found a less complicated woman I would have. I love
you, Jenny, but I know I’m never going to own you.’

‘When are you home?’ Jenny asked, not wanting to pursue this conversation any further on the phone.

‘The way things are going, maybe not till next week.’

‘Well, bring a suitcase. We’ll see where we go from there.’

A
GLASS OR TWO HAD
unintentionally become five or six. The alcohol had made the remainder of New Year’s Day pass in a pleasant haze and helped
dissolve Jenny’s worries over giving up her single life, but had left her with a headache and a sense of morning-after regret that not even two aspirin and three cups of coffee had managed to
dislodge. Her commute into Bristol on the first working day of the year was as unforgiving as her hangover. The traffic was foul and she had no patience. After jousting with similarly irritable
drivers all along the Hotwells Road, she arrived at the office frayed and short-tempered.