The Wrong Mother (13 page)

‘Despite what the computer diary says, most mothers aren’t willing to give up their children when it comes down to it,’ said Kombothekra. ‘And if Geraldine killed Lucy and herself—which we believe she did—that suggests she needed her daughter with her even in death. Yes, she might fleetingly have envied Cordy O’Hara, but that doesn’t mean she’d honestly have wanted to abandon Lucy. If she had, she could have done it at any time. What was stopping her?’

Leaving no pause for anyone to answer, he went on, ‘Mark Bretherick is a rich, successful man. Wealth and success equals power. It’s possible Geraldine feared she wouldn’t stand a chance of winning a court case against him.’ Kombothekra smiled anxiously at Simon, who looked away quickly. He didn’t want to be mistaken for an ally. He wished Sellers and Gibbs would invite Kombothekra to the pub now and again. That’d take the pressure off Simon, take away the feeling that he ought to be doing something he wasn’t. Sellers and Gibbs had no excuse; their unwelcoming attitude had nothing to do with Charlie. They disliked Kombothekra’s politeness. Behind his back Simon had heard them refer to him as ‘Stepford’. Sellers and Gibbs were only capable of civilised behaviour on occasions such as today’s briefing, when they feared being impaled on the Snowman’s icicle-sharp sarcasm.

‘Remember the story of King Solomon, Sergeant?’ said Proust. ‘The real mother chose to let the other woman keep the child rather than chop it in half.’ When the inspector realised that three-quarters of the team was staring at him, mystified, he changed the subject. ‘This business about women and their depleted confidence is nonsense! My wife didn’t work for years when our children were small, and I’ve never known a more confident woman. I was the breadwinner, yes, but Lizzie behaved as if every penny of it had arrived as a result of her hard work, not mine. I regularly came home at dawn after a series of scuffles with the most unprepossessing specimens our community had to offer, only to be told that my shift couldn’t possibly have been as gruelling as hers. As for the power she wields in our family, it’s frightening.’ The inspector glanced at his phone. ‘All this twaddle about women losing confidence. Would that it were true.’ His eyes met Simon’s. Simon knew they were thinking the same thing: would Proust have said what he’d just said quite so explicitly if Charlie had still been the skipper?

Simon couldn’t stand much more of this. ‘ “You”, not “we”,’ he said to Kombothekra. ‘
You
believe Geraldine Bretherick killed Lucy and then herself. I don’t.’

‘It was only a matter of time . . .’ Proust muttered.

‘Come on,’ said Sellers. ‘Who else could have done it? There was no break-in.’

‘Someone Geraldine let in, obviously. Several sets of fingerprints were found in the house that we haven’t identified.’

‘That’s standard. You know it is. They could be anyone’s—someone who came to measure for new curtains, anyone.’

‘Who else would have a motive to kill both of them, mother and daughter, apart from Mark Bretherick?’ asked Gibbs. ‘And he’s in the clear.’

Kombothekra nodded. ‘We know Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick died on either the first or second of August, probably the first, and we’ve got fifteen scientists at the Los Alamos National Laboratory in New Mexico who’ve told us Mark Bretherick was there from July the twenty-eighth until August the third. He’s alibi-d up to the hilt, Simon, and there are no other suspects.’ Kombothekra smiled, sorry to be the bearer of bad news.

‘There’s one,’ said Simon. ‘One we haven’t managed to find yet. William Markes.’

‘Not that again, Waterhouse.’ Proust slapped the wall. ‘And don’t think you can sneak that “yet” past me. “Yet”—as if you might still find him. Every conceivable corner of Geraldine Bretherick’s life has been turned inside out, and there’s no William Markes.’

‘I don’t think we should give up looking for him.’

‘It’s not a question of giving up, Simon. We’ve run out of places to look. None of Geraldine’s friends or family have heard of him. We’ve tried the Garcia Lorca Institute where she used to work . . .’

‘Maybe there’s a Williamo Marco on the books.’ Gibbs chuckled.

‘. . . and they couldn’t help us either,’ Kombothekra told Simon. ‘We’ve eliminated every William Markes on the electoral register—’

‘Maybe one of them was lying,’ said Simon. ‘It’d be easy, if no one knew he had any connection with Geraldine except the two of them.’

‘Waterhouse, what are you suggesting we do?’ Proust’s voice was slow and clear.

‘Go back over all the William Markeses. Investigate them as thoroughly as we’ve investigated Mark Bretherick. And I’d extend that to anyone called William Marx spelled M-a-r-x as well. And M-a-r-k-s, without the e.’

‘Excellent idea,’ said the Snowman, frost coating his every word. ‘Let’s not leave out Gibbs’ Williamo Marco—though it would be Guillermo, surely. And what about men called William Markham or Markey, just to be on the safe side?’

‘We can’t do it, Simon,’ Kombothekra blurted out; Proust’s verbal torture methods made the sergeant jumpy, Simon noticed. ‘We haven’t got the time or resources.’

‘Money has a way of turning up when the people who matter think something’s important,’ said Simon, trying to beat down the anger that was stewing inside him. ‘Markham, Markey—yes. Mark-my-fucking-words, Marks & Spencer, whatever his fucking name is, the man who was probably going to ruin Geraldine Bretherick’s life.’ Simon took a deep breath through clenched teeth. ‘We keep going until we find him.’

Proust’s advance was a perfect straight line. He got as close as he could, then stared up at the underside of Simon’s chin. Simon kept his eyes fixed on the board opposite him. The Snowman’s bald head was a shiny pink blur on the edge of his vision. ‘So you’re allowing the possibility that Mrs Bretherick got the name wrong,’ the inspector said in a voice that was almost a whisper.

‘She described him as “a man called William Markes”,’ said Simon. ‘As I’ve said repeatedly, I take that to mean she didn’t know him very well, if at all. She might have got his name wrong.’

‘I agree,’ said Proust, swinging round to inspect Simon’s stubble from the other side. ‘So where shall we start? Shall we first eliminate the Peter Parkers, or should we start with all the Cyril Billingtons we can get our hands on?’

‘Those names aren’t even vaguely similar—’ Simon began.

‘So a woman can be wrong about a name, and it’s up to Detective Constable Waterhouse—the all-seeing, all-knowing—to decide exactly how wrong she can be!’ Proust bellowed. Gob-bets of his saliva struck Simon’s cheek. Kombothekra, Sellers and Gibbs froze in awkward postures. Sellers’ hand, which had been on its way down now that he’d finished fiddling with his sideburn for the time being, stuck out in mid-air. The three detectives looked as if they needed to be sprayed with antifreeze. Once again, the Snowman had justified his nickname.

‘Listen to me and listen carefully, Detective Constable.’ Proust jabbed Simon’s neck with his index finger. That was a first. Verbal abuse Simon was used to; the prodding was new. ‘Peter Parker is my mechanic and Billington’s my uncle. Decent law-abiding citizens both. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you why we’re not going to start snouting around in their private affairs on the off-chance that Mrs Bretherick might have been mistaken when she typed the name William Markes. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Sir.’

‘Splendid.’

‘What about the note from Spilling Post Office?’ Simon challenged the inspector’s retreating back. ‘The note that
someone
passed on to you. Mark Bretherick might not be Mark Bretherick. Are we going to investigate that?’

‘Gone are the days, Waterhouse, when the police were able to dismiss attention-starved cranks as the fruit-bats that they inevitably turn out to be. Your sergeant will be giving this
new information
his full attention, won’t you, Sergeant?’

A few seconds before Kombothekra found his voice. ‘I’ve already made a start. So far it looks as if Bretherick’s who he says he is.’

‘Waterhouse probably believes his real name is William Markes. ’ Proust snarled. ‘Eh, Waterhouse?’

‘No, sir.’ Simon was thinking about the cards, the two ten-year-wedding-anniversary cards on the mantelpiece at Corn Mill House. He could picture them clearly. Both were large, A3 size. One had curved edges, swirly silver writing—‘For my darling husband, on our anniversary’—above a picture of a yellow flower. The other was pink and padded, with the number 10 and a bouquet of roses on the front. The roses were tied with a pink bow. Simon had memorised what was written inside the cards. Why? So that he could discuss it with Sellers and Gibbs, see what they thought? Proust? They’d laugh him all the way out of the building, any of them would. Even well-meaning Sam Kombothekra.

No, he didn’t think Mark Bretherick was William Markes, not necessarily. But those cards . . .

‘If it were up to me, we’d have someone watching Spilling Post Office,’ he said. ‘Whoever wrote that note’s got more to say. He or she might write another longer letter in the next few days. If we can get hold of that person, we’ll have a lead and possibly a suspect.’

‘I’d like to put
you
on a lead, Waterhouse,’ was Proust’s response.

‘Simon, we’ve got a suicide note’—Kombothekra pointed to the whiteboard—‘and a diary that makes it clear Geraldine Bretherick was depressed.’

‘A diary that was found on a computer.’ Simon sounded like a truculent child even to himself. ‘No hard copy, no notebook version. Who types their diary straight on to a computer? And why are there only nine entries, all from last year? Not even nine recent, consecutive days—nine random days from April and May 2006. Why? Can anyone tell me?’

‘Waterhouse, you’re embarrassing yourself.’ Proust belched, then looked at Sam Kombothekra as if he expected to be chastised for his lack of etiquette.

‘I’ve got a copy of this article for each of you.’ Kombothekra picked up the bundle of paper that had been on the table next to him since the beginning of the briefing. It was as if Simon wasn’t there, had never spoken. Why had he bothered? ‘It’s Professor Harbard’s latest publication,’ said Kombothekra.

‘We already know what that ego-maniac thinks,’ Proust snapped. ‘That Geraldine Bretherick was responsible for both deaths. I stand by what I said at the time: he knows no more than we do. He knows
less
than we do. He wants this death to be a family annihilation—a thoroughly repugnant phrase which
he
probably invented—because then he gets to air his nonsense predictions on national television: within five years every mother in the country will be driving herself and her offspring off the nearest cliff or some such guff!’

‘He’s studied many murder-suicide cases similar to this one, sir,’ said Kombothekra, his tone as benign as if the Snowman had just offered him a toasted teacake. Kombothekra felt sorry for Professor Harbard; he’d as good as admitted it to Simon during one of their awkward, mainly silent drives to Corn Mill House. ‘It can’t be easy for the man, can it?’ he’d said. ‘He’s called in by the super, as an expert, then finds himself in the middle of us lot, being treated like an intruder and a cretin.’ Simon had wondered if Kombothekra was talking about himself, his own experience.

To Simon, Harbard had seemed as thick-skinned as a cactus. He was a bad listener. When other people spoke, he nodded impatiently, licking his lips every few seconds and murmuring, ‘Yes, yes, okay, yes,’ revving up for his next turn under the spotlight. The only time he’d listened attentively was when Superintendent Barrow had popped in to give the team a pep-talk, reminding them of Professor Harbard’s eminence in his field, how lucky they were that he’d offered his services.

‘I’ve underlined the paragraph that I think constitutes new information,’ said Kombothekra, putting a copy of the stapled article into Simon’s hands and taking the opportunity to bestow another smile upon him. ‘At any rate, I can’t remember Professor Harbard telling us this in person. In paragraph six he says that family annihilation is not a crime that can be attributed to social exclusion or poverty. Most commonly it occurs among the affluent upper-middle classes. Harbard argues that this is because of the need to keep up appearances, to present an image of perfect family life, happiness, success. In the higher socio-economic echelons, image matters more . . .’

‘Please don’t talk to me about echelons, Sergeant,’ said Proust.

‘. . . people want to be the envy of their friends, so they put on a front. And sometimes, when the more complicated and painful reality of life intrudes—’

‘That’s crap,’ Simon interrupted him. ‘So because the Brethericks were upper-middle class and had money, that means Geraldine’s a murderer and a suicide?’

Proust glared at Kombothekra, rolled up his copy of Professor Harbard’s article and launched it at the bin in the corner of the room. It missed.

‘What about the GHB?’ Simon wondered if he could make some headway as the lesser of two evils now that the Snowman was angry with Kombothekra. ‘Why did Geraldine Bretherick take it herself? Where did she get it?’

‘Internet,’ Gibbs suggested. ‘It’s not hard to get hold of. As for why, GHB’s fast replacing Rohypnol as the most popular date-rape drug in the country.’

‘Would a woman like Geraldine Bretherick, given everything we know about her, buy illegal drugs on the Internet?’ said Simon. ‘This is a woman who runs the Parents and Friends Committee at her daughter’s school, whose kitchen bookcase is full of books called
Fish Dishes to Make Your Child’s Brain Grow
and shit like that.’ Unwillingly, he looked at Kombothekra. ‘Have we heard back from HTCU yet about the computer?’ The high-tech crime unit was referred to as ‘Hitcoo’ by everyone in CID apart from Proust.

The sergeant shook his head. ‘I’ve been chasing and chasing. No one can tell me why it’s taking so long.’

‘I bet they’ll find no GHB was ordered from Geraldine Bretherick’s laptop. And I didn’t mean why GHB instead of Rohypnol, I meant why any drug? Okay, in Lucy’s case I can understand it—she wanted Lucy to pass out so that all she’d have to do was push her under the water. So that Lucy wouldn’t feel any pain. But why take it herself? Think of how much she had to do and do efficiently: kill her daughter, write a suicide note, turn on her computer and open that diary file, leave it on the screen so that we’d find it when we arrived, kill herself—wouldn’t she want a clear head?’