The Loving Husband (31 page)

‘I don’t know why,’ said the woman with her faded sandy hair. ‘It’s…’ She spread her hands again. ‘I’ve given up wondering what goes on in people’s heads, where wills are concerned. I’m just a solicitor. You might have a case for challenging it, obviously I am the executor, I can’t possibly … but…’ She shuffled the papers. ‘As I say, there’s provision for you and your daughter while the children are dependent, and the house is paid off in the event of his death.’

‘But then it all goes to Ben.’ She and the solicitor looked at Ben then, in the crook of her arm. His dark eyes were on her, not leaving her face. She made herself smile down at him, he looked back, uncertain. ‘So he left nothing to me, nothing to Emme.’ The woman shifted in her seat and nodded.

It came out of Fran in a rush, she had no wish to stop it. ‘The bastard,’ she said. ‘The bastard.’

Sitting behind the wheel of her car Fran listened to the engine. She couldn’t drive with all this inside her, she had to wait, she had to let it percolate. She squeezed her eyes shut and thought of Nathan’s face, open, smiling, choosing her. You’re the one. It had all seemed so right: baby, marriage. She had seen what she was feeling mirrored in him. The loving husband.

But he never loved us, she thought. He was mirroring, all right, he was watching to see what I wanted to see, it was fake. As flat and empty as glass. As she understood that she knew exactly why he’d done it: to show them he felt nothing. To show them he could move and manipulate them, set them against each other. Ben might get the money – and there was plenty of it, according to the solicitor, significantly more than Fran would have expected, there were several accounts, all in the name of Alan Nathan Hall – but no one who properly loved a child could set him against his mother and sister. Ben – and she turned back to check on him, he was frowning down at his own fingers – was as much of a pawn as she and Emme were. Nathan didn’t feel anything for them, and he wanted them to know that. They had been his to use, and now he was dead he was still using them.

It meant something. She’d find out what. She engaged the gears and pulled out, smoothly, into the quiet suburban street.

‘I want Ben back,’ she said to Gerard, still holding on to the photograph. ‘I’d like Ali in here, too.’

For the five minutes it took Carswell to track them down in the police station and bring them in to the room, Gerard had sat there in silence, perfectly still. It seemed to Fran a strategy designed to show her who was boss, and to insult her. She used his stillness to look at him, accumulating evidence: he wore aftershave; he ironed his own shirt. Either he wasn’t interested in food, or he went to the gym, or both. He wasn’t married, he didn’t have a girlfriend, he didn’t like women.

She couldn’t prove any of it, but that didn’t make it inaccurate.

Ben was asleep in his car seat. Ali held it carefully in her arms so as not to disturb him, setting it down in the corner. She gave the men a quick look.

‘Good as gold,’ she said in a whisper, turning to Fran. ‘He’s lovely. Everything all right?’

‘Fine,’ said Fran, and Ali sat beside her.

Fran held out the picture; Gerard made no attempt to take it. ‘This is Nathan and two of his friends. This photograph was taken some time during the summer when they squatted in a house here in Oakenham, I told you about it. His friends are Rob and Bez. There may have been others at this house. They were there for no more than a few months, the summer of 1995. Twenty years ago.’

‘Yes,’ said Gerard. ‘Rob. Mr Webster. I was going to ask—’

‘It’s Bez I want you to find,’ she interrupted. ‘Where is he? My daughter calls him the bad man, isn’t that reason enough? She says she saw him in the village, she thought she saw him outside Karen’s house. Rob said he’d got into drugs, he’d been living rough. He’s obviously unstable. Haven’t you even thought it’s worth looking for him?’ She drew a breath. ‘Have you talked to Rob again?’

Gerard exhaled. ‘I’d like details of where your daughter saw this man, of course. I believe his name’s Martin Beston.’

She stared. ‘You know who he is?’

‘We are working very hard to find your husband’s killer, Fran,’ said Gerard, patiently. ‘I wish I could make you believe that we are taking you seriously.’ She began shaking her head. ‘And as for Rob—’

‘We got news on Mr Webster,’ said Ed Carswell, and the way he said it, eager, excited, made her turn towards him. But Gerard held up a hand and Carswell stopped.

‘First of all,’ Gerard said, formally, his tone quite different since Ali’s appearance, ‘we need to ensure your safety and that of your children, Fran. We need to make sure you feel secure. You keep telling us you know there’s someone out there, but you refuse to move.’ Head on one side. ‘Why is that?’ Even Ali was frowning – Fran couldn’t tell any more if she agreed with him.

‘Now, I’m sure you understand, we’re working flat out on this. We don’t have the manpower to have someone outside the house, twenty-four seven. Why won’t you just let us make those arrangements we discussed right at the start? Why won’t you let us look after you and your children?’ He sounded earnest, he sounded puzzled
.
He sounded caring.

And then Fran caught a flash of something, from Ali Compton, a spark of anger directed at Gerard that told her Ali didn’t trust him, either.

‘I’m not leaving my house,’ Fran said, on the strength of that look. ‘What would that do to the children? This is our home. I want him found. As long as I’m here, Nathan’s killer’s not going anywhere. You know that as well as I do.’ But Gerard began to shake his head,
If we believed
, but she pushed on. ‘And who’s to say I’d be any safer somewhere else?’

Gerard regarded her. ‘Well, there may be another solution, as of tomorrow.’

‘What?’ she said.

‘Your sister-in-law,’ said Ali, and for a moment Fran hadn’t the faintest idea who she meant.

‘Miranda Hall?’ Gerard said. ‘She called us, asked us to pass on the message. She’s on her way back from … wherever it is she’s working. Singapore?’

‘Seoul,’ said Fran, stunned.

‘She’s eager to help. Stopping over in Dubai or somewhere, she couldn’t get a direct flight.’

Fran put her hands to her head, trying to take it in. ‘She’s coming here.’

‘Should be tomorrow some time, weather permitting. So.’

He looked down at the photograph, that was now lying on the table. ‘Ed,’ he said, ‘scan that in for us, will you?’ As an afterthought he turned to Fran. ‘If that’s OK with you, Fran?’

‘What about Rob?’ said Fran, stubborn, at the sight of Carswell’s narrow shoulders. ‘So you have talked to him again? What does he say about Bez?’

It was Ali who spoke, though, resting a hand on her shoulder. ‘Fran,’ she said, ‘we’re worried about your husband’s friend Rob. Mr Webster.’

‘I’m right in thinking, they never lost touch?’ said Gerard. ‘Rob and your husband?’

She shook her head. ‘Rob was his best man. What’s happened to Rob?’

The door opened and Carswell stood there looking at them, a kid playing pass the parcel, impatient for his turn, and in that moment the whole thing felt like a game played over her head, between the men. Rob and Nathan and Carswell and Gerard, more men further out, Julian, the farmers, the property developer at the wedding lunch whose name she couldn’t even remember, throwing a ball from one to the other and no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t get it.

‘His neighbours haven’t seen him in forty-eight hours, maybe more,’ said Gerard. There was a pause. ‘You were seen there, yesterday morning.’ He watched her for a reaction. She just stared back.

‘We gained access to his house but found nothing,’ Gerard said.

She remembered the mail on the mat. Forty-eight hours would take them back to around the time Rob had turned up in her kitchen, scared to death.

‘We got his car,’ said Carswell, bouncing on his heels in the doorway, the photo in his hand, unable to keep quiet.

‘His car?’ Fran turned to Ali, in dread.

‘We found it in the woods,’ said Ali, putting a hand over hers. ‘Up the other side of the airbase?’ Fran put a hand up to her mouth, suddenly stiff with fright, trying to place it, seeing only the tufted dykes and low willows, wind-blown. What else was up there? Something.

‘Someone … did he … did someone…’

‘Car seems clean but, you know,’ said Gerard, watching her. ‘If it was staged, let’s say, we’d expect more mess. We’re carrying out tests. You’d be surprised what we can pick up.’ Pointed.

‘Staged?’ Belatedly she registered the look he’d given her.

He shrugged. ‘Made to look like … Violent, let’s say. It’s been known. Blood all over, rips in the upholstery. That kind of thing. In fact a clean car like that tends to sound a few more alarm bells.’

‘He’s … he’s that kind of man,’ said Fran, and in her head she could see him, climbing on his bike, meticulous with his Velcro straps, climbing into that car, with its air freshener dangling and maps stacked in the side pocket and then looking at Ali’s pale face, she cracked. ‘Someone’s hurt him,’ she said.

Carswell made a face, uneasy. ‘Well, now,’ he said, but Fran didn’t let him go on.

‘He said he didn’t know anything about Nathan’s work,’ she said, slowly. ‘But he meant the opposite. He knew who Julian was, he knew what happened after that summer they spent in the squat, with Bez. He knew what Nathan was up to, when he was supposed to be working.’

She looked from Gerard to Carswell and back but their faces were impassive. ‘Someone’s hurt him,’ she said.

‘Maybe best to be prepared,’ said Ali Compton.

‘He was frightened, when he came to see me.’ They were staring at her. ‘You don’t understand, Rob’s … he’s … without Nathan, he’s vulnerable. He was frightened of someone.’

Unappetising, thought Ali Compton, didn’t even begin to cover what was on offer in the canteen, even if the previous hour and a half hadn’t already left a horrible taste in her mouth. But behind her Ed Carswell was bumping up against her, impatient. She turned on him and he blinked, leering. She turned back and at random took a ham roll in clingfilm from the cabinet.

He nuzzled against her neck from behind. ‘The sexual tension, boss,’ he said, holding eye contact with Gerard. ‘Don’t know what to do with myself.’ She shouldered him out of the way roughly, feeling the sweat rise. At the till Mary-Anne in her polyester mob cap watched her tug her shirt back into place.

They corralled her into a table in the corner by a window overlooking the car park. Carswell had the all-day breakfast, beans overflowing the plate; Gerard plonked down his egg salad and immediately began to fork it stolidly into his mouth without interest. She tried to imagine him shacked up with a wife and kids and getting fat, but couldn’t. Carswell was different, Ed Carswell was a slave to his hormones, and that’s what landed you in a family situation, like it or not. Maybe he’d grow out of it – she wouldn’t bet on it. Twenty years of beer, fags and shagging, then drop dead of a heart attack.

‘Got her some nice lingerie for tomorrow,’ Ed said, nudging against her with his skinny elbow. He pronounced it with an exaggerated foreign accent, not necessarily French.

‘Let me guess,’ said Ali, pushing away her plate and reaching for the cooling coffee. The coffee didn’t taste of anything much but you drank tea till you were drowning in it, in this job. ‘Red, is it?’

‘Black,’ he said, looking offended. ‘She’s sophisticated. Older woman.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘Not as old as you, of course, no offence.’

She laughed, one eye on DS Gerard, who had finished and was sitting back, staring through the glass. ‘None taken,’ she said, and Carswell scowled.

Gerard spoke, abruptly. ‘I need to be sure you’re staying within the remit. ‘Family liaison isn’t about going behind the backs of the investigative team and dishing out information at random to a victim’s family.’ And he smiled, that broad, shit-eating grin that charmed them when he turned it on, but didn’t fool her.

‘I’m a police officer, same as you, sir. I know how an investigation works.’ Gerard gave a snort that wound her up just enough.

‘But you don’t seem to be listening to her,’ she said, gritting her teeth. ‘I mean, I’m sure you have your reasons for keeping your focus so narrow, but would it hurt to explore a few more—’

‘Which of her theories,’ said Gerard, his voice all quiet and dangerous, ‘would you like me to follow up? The phantom husband who got into bed then got up again to get himself murdered? This mystery man standing in the field who seems very happy to keep his distance, just the odd box of chocolates to let her know he still loves her?’ To Carswell, ‘You put those flowers in for analysis?’ ever so casual. ‘And I hope nothing untoward has happened to that box of chocolates, by the way, Ed, I wouldn’t want anyone to have eaten the evidence.’ Carswell snickered, uncertain.

‘Chocolates?’ Surely he wouldn’t have. Arsehole.

Gerard leaned back, looking up at the ceiling. ‘You want us to dig up the floor of that chicken barn looking for the body of John Martin’s wife? Get Beston out from under his stone? I’ll find him, don’t worry, but from what I hear he can hardly stand up, never mind kill a man as fit as Nathan Hall. Or perhaps you’d like me to track down the whore whose knickers we found in the field while I’m at it?’

Yes,
thought Ali. Of course I fucking would.

‘Tights, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘Not knickers.’ And took a breath. ‘With respect,’ she said, ‘I think putting all your eggs in one basket is a risky strategy, not to mention at odds with the evidence.’

‘
With respect
, Detective Constable Compton, you know fuck all about the evidence. About the other agencies we’re having to deal with over this. And for good reason, the way you’re cosying up to her.’

‘It’s my job, to keep her informed.’ She leaned forward. ‘Who are these other agencies?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say at this juncture.’

‘Bullshit,’ she said, under her breath.

‘DC Compton,’ he said, his voice dangerously low, ‘what was that? It wouldn’t take much more of that for me to take you off this case.’ Carswell was goggling at them over his massacre of a breakfast plate. ‘We’re hanging on to this investigation by the skin of our teeth and if I lose it … If we lose it because you fancy a bit of a feminist crusade…’