Make You Sorry

by Christine Rae-Jones

  ‘She was missing over two weeks and the media were on it every day. Someone must know something,’ said Johnson.

  ‘When I spoke to DS Spence, he told me that she accrued quite a list of male friends in the time she’s been here.’

  ‘What does “friends” mean? I know what it means to my generation, but what does it mean nowadays?’

  Morgan knew exactly how he would have described Abi Slater’s lifestyle to his previous boss but then he’d worked with her on hundreds of cases over many years. He still found Johnson hard to read and chose his words with care.

  ‘When Spence and Smart spoke to the flatmate, she confirmed what’s been whizzing round online... that Ms Slater was somewhat generous with her sexual favours.’

  Johnson looked up, eyebrows raised. ‘Have you had this conversation with her parents?’

  ‘No, sir, I was with them for the identification and I spoke to Mr Slater this morning to confirm the findings of the medical examination. They have returned home and, since she wasn’t actually living with them, I’ve decided to let them be for a while.’

  ‘What’s tomorrow’s plan of action?’

  ‘Spence and I are going to speak to Graham Fletcher. He’s a partner at the solicitor’s where she worked.’

  ‘I know Fletcher. He’s more into family law now but I remember him from years ago. He’s the sort of man who could follow you into a revolving door and emerge first. Watch him and don’t let him wind Spence up.’

  ‘Sir.’ Morgan left Johnson’s office and returned to his own. He checked his watch. If he left now, he could do the supermarket shopping and still be back at the park home before Sam and the twins.

  After unloading the shopping into the unfamiliar kitchen cupboards, Morgan rang Spence and arranged to meet him next morning in a coffee shop near the centre of town from where they could walk to the offices of Fletcher, Armstrong and Gault.

  He poured himself a glass of red wine then fried some bacon lardons, onion, garlic and mince. Spaghetti bolognaise was normally a Friday favourite and having it on a Tuesday would be strange but at the moment, nothing was normal for the Morgan family. He poured a generous amount of the wine into the pot and then cursed. He had forgotten to buy stock cubes and the sauce wouldn’t be the same without them. Unsure when his family would get back, he dialled the estate main number and was pleased when Maisie answered.

  ‘I don’t suppose you carry emergency supplies for campers, do you?’

  ‘I’ve got basic first aid stuff, and toothbrushes, toothpaste, tea bags and long life milk. I’ve also got tampons and condoms. What do you need?’

  ‘Beef stock cubes.’

  Her laugh was hearty. ‘Only a Londoner would call a beef stock cube an emergency. The condoms are flavoured, but I don’t think it’s beef.’

  He wondered if Maisie turned every conversation to the subject of sex. ‘You’re okay,’ he said, ‘I’ll go out again when my wife gets back.’

  ‘If I’d have known you were on your own...’ she laughed again. ‘I’ll nip over to my kitchen and get you some stock cubes. Text your wife and tell her to drop in at reception when she’s passing.’

  ‘Thanks, Maisie. I owe you.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that, Nick.’ He put his phone down on the work surface and noticed that his hand had a slight tremble as he poured red wine from the open bottle into two glasses.

  ‘How was your first day back in the funeral business?’ Nick waited until they had eaten and the twins had gone to bed. He had been careful not to react when he heard them talking about their “rubbish day with grandma and her cronies.” Now that he was alone with his wife, he felt ready to talk.

  Sam cradled the glass of red wine in both hands and swirled its contents. ‘This is expensive,’ she said, ‘I can tell. You must really want to impress me. Shopping, spag bol and expensive wine... I’m guessing you don’t want me to be back at work.’

  ‘Your mother wants you back at work and I know she’s a force to be reckoned with, so I’m asking how it was to be back at work.’

  She curled her feet up beside her on the sofa and took another sip. ‘It tastes woody. It’s lovely.’

  ‘It’s a 2010 Rioja. The label on the shelf said it was silky and there was something about chocolate, coffee, herbs and spices. It was recommended in the paper at the weekend and I went looking for it.’ They sat in silence for a few moments and Nick wished for a crackling log fire to complete the ambience.

  ‘I didn’t enjoy being back there today.’ She spoke softly and he opened his mouth to speak, and then stopped. Listening would be better.

  ‘Have we done the right thing?’ She leapt up from the sofa and perched on the coffee table so they were face to face. ‘I mean, nothing’s gone right since we arrived. You’re up to your eyes, I’m back in Mum’s thrall, the kids are unhappy and...’

  ‘Truffles is enjoying himself. Woods, clifftops, beaches... he’s happy.’

  She put her glass down and reached for his hand. ‘We’re not.’

  It was late and Nick felt tired. If he had known there was to be an intense and emotional conversation, he would not have started the second bottle. He was also conscious that he would be facing Sam’s old boyfriend, Graham Fletcher, in the morning and he preferred to do that after a good night’s sleep and without dark smudges under his eyes.

  ‘When I went to fetch the kids, I could see they were miserable, so I told Mum I wouldn’t be going in tomorrow. There are no more funerals this week and only four in storage. Steven might be back by the weekend.’

  Nick concentrated hard on keeping any hint of jubilation from his face. ‘What’s the score about Steven? Has he fallen out with your mother?’

  ‘Not that she’s admitting. It’s come to a head because there was a call-out on Sunday to collect a bariatric case and it was all hands on deck. Even though Steven usually limits himself to front of house, he’s gone out on a couple of similar cases, so they called his mobile. It went straight to messages and he hasn’t responded to anything since. Everyone’s been covering for him not being there, but the bariatric caused them a problem, so they got in touch with mum and ratted on him. I tried him today, but the number’s ringing out so his message store must be full.’

  ‘Have you checked the petty cash?’

  ‘Nick!’ She pulled her hand away. ‘How could you think such a thing?’

  ‘He must have his reasons. Has anyone been to his flat?’

  ‘I drove round at lunchtime. The curtains are closed and nobody came when I rang the bell. For all I know, he could be dead behind the door.’

  ‘If he is, I hope he’s not expecting a discount. Can’t see Dotty authorising that.’

  Sam didn’t want to smile, but it broke through anyway and this time, Nick reached forward and took both her hands in his. ‘Once we’ve moved and the kids have settled in at school, we can get back to what this is all about. We’re here for a better lifestyle and a renovation project to die for. It’ll sort itself out, you’ll see.’ He brought her hands to his mouth one by one and kissed them.

  ‘Better not be “to die for,”’ she said, ‘I can’t see Mum authorising a discount for you, either.’

  Chapter 28

  Wednesday 12th February

  Next morning, Morgan arrived at the coffee shop first and purchased two flat whites. He had no idea of Spence’s preferences but thought he had picked a safe option. He didn’t usually take sugar in coffee but stirred in the contents of the brown sachet figuring it couldn’t harm.

  It had been a late night and he and Sam had talked freely about everything that had already happened and a few things that might happen once they got access to Cliffside. When they had at last got to bed there had been the added bonus of unexpected sex. Sam had asked him to keep the light on and when he reached to put on pyjama bottoms she had shaken her head. ‘Not tonight, Nick. Just get into bed.’

  Sitting at the back of the coffee shop, he remembered her lying against him,
her head supported by his right arm. She had combed her fingers through the greying hairs on his chest. ‘How soundproof do you think these walls are?’ she’d asked.

  ‘There’s a hall and bathrooms between us and them. Anyway, they should be asleep by now.’ He stroked her face, neck and breasts until her breathing became faster and more shallow. She started to grab at him and he’d felt scratching across his torso and thighs. Their need was urgent and he knew he was being less gentle than usual.

  Later, when they lay in each other’s arms, she’d started to cry. He’d held her tightly to him. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Have I hurt you?’

  She’d shaken her head. ‘Jesus Christ, Nick. I know it’s been a while, but where did that come from?’ He’d kissed the top of her head and stroked her until she fell asleep but he was troubled and lay on his back staring into the darkness. As he’d climaxed, he’d only just stopped himself from crying out Maisie’s name. For Christ’s sake, what was that about?

  ‘You look like you had your Weetabix this morning.’ He was brought back to the present by the arrival of Dave Spence and he pushed the coffee towards him.

  ‘It’s a flat white with no sugar.’

  ‘If it’s hot and it’s wet it’ll do me, thank you, sir.’ Morgan smiled.

  If the outside of the building which housed Fletcher, Armstrong & Gault solicitors had the appearance of 1980’s corporate offices, the interior design was pure twenty-first century. The core colour palette was black, white and a soft grey and each of the offices had its own feature colour. Reception was highlighted with acid lime cushions on the black sofas and there was a huge pot containing a healthy weeping fig.

  Behind the receptionist hung a picture which comprised of vertical black, white and lime stripes with random silver splash marks from bottom left to top right. Spence nodded towards it whilst they waited for her to finish a call. ‘What do you think Dr Mack would make of that splatter pattern?’

  Morgan smiled. ‘He’d say that the cause of death was lack of artistic merit.’

  Replacing her receiver, the receptionist acknowledged them both and glanced at each I.D. in turn. She invited them to sit and offered refreshments whilst she contacted Graham Fletcher. Morgan refused politely on behalf of them both and hovered near her desk. Spence reached out and rubbed a leaf of the plant between thumb and forefinger. ‘It’s real,’ he said so that only Morgan would hear. ‘You can get realistic fake ones which would be a lot less bother.’

  Morgan continued to watch the receptionist who seemed to be sending a text. He leaned over the desk and placed his hand on the receiver of the receptionist’s phone. ‘Could I ask you to ring Mr Fletcher, please? To tell him that we’re waiting.’

  Without looking up, she replied that Mr Fletcher preferred to be contacted by text when visitors were in reception. ‘He finds it less intrusive.’

  ‘Ring him, please, Sylvia. Now!’ Her silver badge had provided her name and he lifted the receiver and held it out for her. As her gaze met his it was obvious that she was preparing to stand her ground. The look on Morgan’s face was persuasive and Sylvia took the receiver and punched a few numbers. The conversation was short. She explained that police officers had turned up without an appointment but that they were most insistent on seeing Mr Fletcher. It also transpired during the exchange that Fletcher’s next client had not yet arrived thus opening a “window of opportunity.” She gave assurance that the visit wasn’t going to take long. Morgan and Spence exchanged a glance. Morgan was of the opinion that these things took as long as they took.

  A door opened and a short woman appeared. She was wearing black shoes with dangerously high heels which Morgan thought must be to compensate for her height. She strode towards them, her demeanour purposeful and businesslike. There were no creases in her black pencil skirt and the white blouse, which buttoned over a full bosom, didn’t gape. From years of sitting outside changing rooms waiting for his wife, Morgan knew that both of these were tricky fashion traits to pull off.

  ‘I am Marcia Mulholland, Mr Fletcher’s personal assistant. He will be leaving for court very soon and has asked if this can wait.’ She assessed the two men for seniority then focused her attention on Morgan who held out his ID for scrutiny.

  ‘I’m DI Morgan and this is DS Spence. We’re here to speak to Mr Fletcher about the death of your colleague.’ He returned the ID to his inside pocket. ‘I heard that there was a “window of opportunity,”’ he used the first two fingers of both hands to draw quotation marks around the three words. Mulholland scowled at Sylvia as she led the men to the inner door. Clearly, there would be further conversation between them later.

  Following her down the corridor, Morgan clenched and unclenched his fists. One of his reasons for not wanting to move to Gullhaven had been his suspicion that Fletcher had never really accepted that Samantha had chosen him. When they met socially at weddings and funerals of mutual acquaintances, Fletcher was inappropriately informal and physical with Sam and Morgan hated him for it. He inhaled deeply as Mulholland opened the door and braced himself for the encounter.

  Chapter 29

  Wednesday 12th February

  Graham Fletcher’s office was in a corner of the building and had wide windows which faced the fire station in one direction and had a view of the flyover in the other. The curtains, sofa cushions and coat stand were a muted scarlet. There was a wall with two rows of framed items including photographs and professional certificates. Looking round Morgan could see none of the bookshelves laden with legal volumes and piles of papers which he normally associated with local solicitor practices. This could be a consulting room for an aesthetic surgeon.

  Fletcher sat at a black desk and was typing at an open laptop which was cabled to a second large monitor. There was a red desk lamp shining on his work area but the rest of the office was lit only by the muted February light coming through the windows. In spite of the gloom, Fletcher’s crisp white shirt seemed to fluoresce as if he was surrounded by an aura.

  He stood and held out a hand to Morgan. ‘Good to see you Nick. Take a seat, gentlemen, please.’ He pointed to the visitor chairs pulled up to his desk. He strode to the office door, each step confident and assertive. When he flicked a couple of switches the room brightened with the glow from a central fitting and modern wall lights. Morgan sat while Spence held back, standing by the wall from where he could watch both men.

  Back in his chair, Fletcher wheeled it up to his desk, leant forward and rested his chin on his clasped hands. ‘It’s good to see you here in Gullhaven, Nick. I know Sammy must be pleased to be home.’

  Morgan winced at the pet name which only this man used. ‘Thank you Graham. How is Sadie, and Joshua, of course?’

  ‘We divorced three years ago. She’s living in Hertfordshire in a six bedroom house with a pool and tennis court and a heart surgeon... and Josh.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Nick and Fletcher shrugged.

  ‘Don’t be. We had a few happy years, but the rest were pretty miserable. She’s okay now and I’m free to search for my happy ever after.’ His fleeting smile was predatory. ‘So, how can I help?’

  The “happy ever after” comment hung in the room like a cloud of toxic gas and Morgan struggled not to react. Sam’s previous relationship with this man might be common knowledge at the police station and he didn’t want Spence to see that he still considered the solicitor a threat to his marriage.

  Fletcher was taller than Morgan and thinner too, as the well tailored shirt demonstrated. His face was tanned, with white areas around the eyes resulting from wearing sunglasses or maybe ski goggles. His hair was darker than Morgan remembered from their last encounter, probably dyeing it, he thought; and blown dry. He had a precisely edged beard which reminded Morgan of the estate agent who had valued their house in London and who had flirted with Sam.

  ‘There’s not a lot I can tell you about Abi, Nick. She worked here for about a year and was due to be married last Saturday but I’m sure y
ou know all that.’

  Morgan leant back in his chair, his eyes never leaving Fletcher’s. ‘It’s background I’m looking for. What was she like? Was she popular at work? Were you pleased with her work? Did she socialise with colleagues? Did she socialise with you, Graham?’

  Fletcher sighed as if humouring small child. ‘She was popular at work, both with colleagues and clients. Some of our frequent flyer toerags had begun to ask for her by name so she was building a client list and of course, that is attractive to the partners. She was bubbly, pretty, and excited about getting married. I don’t know what else to tell you.’