by Paula Daly
‘He’ll be here at lunch.’
‘Happy to assist?’
‘Asked if he needed a lawyer.’
Pat Gilmore raised her eyebrows. ‘Did he now?’
—
‘So, personal vendetta?’ Oliver Black said to Joanne. They’d gone into a side room to ‘brainstorm’.
‘Pat’s right,’ Joanne said. ‘This doesn’t look like a random act to me. Trouble is, Karen’s upset quite a lot of people she didn’t actually know. And they all took her comments personally.’
Joanne sat back in her chair and exhaled. List of suspects?
Try everyone.
Oliver had a sheet of A4 and at the top he’d written ‘Noel Bloom’.
‘His daughter tried to strangle Karen Bloom in the summer,’ Joanne said. ‘Verity Bloom. Remember?’
Oliver added Verity’s name below Noel’s.
‘And we need to get hold of Karen’s computer and find out who was sending the hate messages,’ she said.
Oliver wrote ‘trolls’.
‘And look into any ex-boyfriends,’ she said.
‘What about that kid she slapped in her kitchen?’ Oliver asked.
‘Dale? I don’t think he’s one to hold grudges, but go ahead, add him anyway. And I want to interview Brontë again. The girl went somewhere for twenty-four hours, and I doubt it was that shed.’
‘But the guy who owned the shed did say it was possible someone had been in there overnight.’
‘He also said it was possible someone hadn’t. Have we still got someone working on that?’ she asked, and Oliver nodded. Told her nothing new had come up. ‘I just can’t help thinking this is linked,’ she said. ‘I mean, a kid disappears for a day, then her mother disappears a few weeks later? What are the chances?’
‘We could do with a body,’ Oliver said.
‘Yes,’ replied Joanne. ‘A body would be good.’
—
‘Do you mind showing me your hands?’
Joanne sat opposite Noel in the interview room with Oliver Black alongside her. They’d had the decorators in last week and the room smelled pleasantly of fresh paint. Joanne had always liked that smell – the newness it evoked, as if the room she was entering was spotlessly clean. As a general rule, though, the interview rooms were not clean. For no other reason than the cleaner was crap. Crap and old. But no one had the heart to get rid of her, as she’d been here for thirty years, demoted to cleaner when funds no longer stretched to a perky lady with a tea trolley delivering Battenberg and fig rolls twice a day.
Probably just as well. They all carried a lot more weight than they used to. Most of Joanne’s colleagues today couldn’t run; they were short of breath after climbing the station stairs. And for a time this had concerned Joanne. How on earth would they catch anyone? That was until she realized that most criminals were also too fat to run away from the police. She’d watched some footage recently of the miners’ riots in the eighties. Men as old as fifty hightailing it across fields, vaulting over fences. That would never happen today.
‘Am I under arrest?’ Noel asked.
‘Not at all. You’re free to leave whenever you like. Though we do need help finding your wife, Noel. And I’m sure you can appreciate you’re the obvious place to start.’
Noel held out his hands for inspection. He had about him a faint smell of cigarettes. She hadn’t known he smoked. Joanne watched as Oliver noticed Noel’s vitiligo for the first time, grimacing slightly, and Joanne almost said, ‘It’s not contagious, Oliver,’ but she didn’t.
Noel turned his hands over to reveal his palms, and Joanne found unexpectedly she was holding her breath.
They were clean. No cuts.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Now, if you could talk me through when you last saw Karen again, so my colleague here can take a few notes.’
‘Yesterday morning. I left as normal for work. Usually, I leave the house just before Karen, at around eight fifteen.’
‘And what were Karen’s plans for the day?’
Noel paused, lifting his eyes to the ceiling, trying to remember. ‘The same as always, as far as I’m aware.’
‘What does she do when Brontë is at school? Where does she go?’
Noel looked at Joanne straight. ‘You know what? I have no idea.’
‘What, you don’t talk? You don’t discuss your days with each other?’
‘Not really.’
‘Why is that?’
Noel gave a laugh. ‘I don’t know. You tell me.’
‘You don’t seem too upset by the news this morning, if you don’t mind my saying.’
‘What reaction were you hoping for?’
Joanne paused. She glanced at Oliver, who was looking back at her with a curious expression.
‘Did you do it?’ she asked Noel.
‘Did I do what?’
‘Did you hurt your wife?’
‘Of course not, Joanne. You know I didn’t.’
At Oliver’s request, they took a short break. Outside the interview room, Oliver looked at Joanne with what she thought was weary resignation and said, ‘I’m not sure this is exactly professional, Joanne.’
‘What? You think I’m being too blunt?’
‘I think, by the way you’re talking to him, that you two know each other personally in some capacity and you’re failing to disclose it.’
Joanne folded her arms and sighed out a long whoosh of breath. ‘How did you come to that assumption?’ she asked crossly.
‘Because I’m a detective?’
Joanne stayed silent. Then she closed her eyes and whispered, ‘Fuck.’
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘You’re going to actually make me say it?’
‘I’m not going to make you say it, but if we’re going to interview the guy with the idea that he may have murdered his wife, I could do with knowing what’s going on…And he likes you, by the way. Not sure if you’re aware of that, but he does.’
Joanne shook her head. ‘He doesn’t.’
‘Suit yourself,’ said Oliver.
Joanne paused. Took a breath. ‘So, it was just one night,’ she said. ‘And I didn’t know he was married.’
‘Was this before Brontë Bloom disappeared?’
‘God, yes.’
‘And then what happened?’
‘In the morning we went our separate ways. He told me he was an accountant. The next time I saw him was the day Brontë went missing.’
‘And you’ve not liaised since?’
‘By “liaise”, you mean…sex?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘No.’
‘But you’d like to?’ he said.
‘I’m not answering that.’
‘Okay, let’s forget about it for now. But if it comes up, I knew nothing about it.’
If it looked like Noel was guilty, Joanne would be pulled from the case. She would most likely be pulled from the case anyhow and would receive a dressing-down from Pat Gilmore for not mentioning the fact that Noel Bloom had had sexual relations with that woman. And that woman…was her.
Joanne wondered if it was possible to jeopardize an entire police career by sleeping with the wrong person. Probably.
Noel had removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie. He looked as if he hadn’t slept. But then Joanne realized that he always looked that way. Even after the night they’d spent together – after he had fallen asleep, spooning her from behind, his breath warm on the skin of her shoulder – he’d woken up looking like he needed another six hours.
‘I have to ask where you were yesterday, Noel,’ Joanne said, and he nodded.
‘At the surgery from around 8.25 a.m. until 1 p.m., and then it was my afternoon to do the home visits.’
‘Where did you get to?’ she asked.
‘Firstly, to Cleabarrow, near the golf club. Then another at Applemead. And, lastly, I visited a woman at Storrs.’
‘Storrs?’
‘That’s right.’
/>
Storrs Park was pretty close to where Karen’s car was found. And to where Verity had been running.
‘What time were you there?’
‘Must have been around three,’ he said.
‘And you can prove this?’
‘I wrote up my notes on the desktop at work later on. I suppose if you want absolute proof I was with those patients you’ll have to ask the patients themselves. I’d be happy to send through their names and numbers when I get back to Windermere.’
Joanne nodded. ‘We’re going to need to look at Karen’s computer as well, if that’s okay with you. Follow up on some of those threats.’
‘Fine. Call in for it whenever.’
‘How’s Verity these days?’
Noel went to answer and then stopped himself. After a brief moment, he said, ‘She’s fine, Joanne. Why do you ask?’
‘Just interested. She still seeing that counsellor?’
‘She told you about that?’
‘Your father-in-law did. He said she was seeing someone to help with her violent urges towards Karen. Are the sessions still going on?’
Noel shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Reid’s Grammar requested those sessions. In my view, they aren’t necessary. Verity lost her temper with Karen and struck out. It was a one-off incident.’
‘Struck out? I was told she performed a sustained attack in which she tried to strangle her stepmother.’
Noel gave Joanne a withering look. He seemed to have an array of withering looks. ‘You know she didn’t do this, Joanne.’
‘I don’t know that, Noel,’ she said. ‘And neither do you.’
32
KAREN’S PARENTS WERE on their way.
‘Christ,’ Bruce had said to Noel when he phoned earlier, ‘why didn’t you call yesterday? Why are we finding this out now?’
Noel could hear Mary whimpering like a whipped dog in the background.
If Karen was gone for good Mary wouldn’t get over it. Noel knew that. Bruce would. He’d soldier on, Noel suspected, as his military training had taught him to, and he would not be broken.
Mary would be torn apart.
‘We’d had a few cross words yesterday,’ Noel lied. ‘I thought she had gone off on her own to prove a point. I really didn’t want to trouble you with it. I suppose I was embarrassed, Bruce.’
‘So why not call us this morning, when she wasn’t back?’
‘The police came…and I needed to go into the station to give a statement. I’m really sorry, but time just got away from me. Before I knew it half the day had gone.’
‘What else did they say? Have the police found anything to suggest what happened?’
‘Not as yet,’ Noel said.
He did not tell him about the blood.
‘They told me to keep an open mind,’ he added. ‘Said to remain optimistic.’
Another lie.
Noel wasn’t a natural liar, but something about Bruce made the lies tumble out of him at an alarming rate. Ordinarily, it was harmless stuff. Yes, the gutters were cleared out at the end of November, Bruce. No, sadly my finances won’t stretch to any more investments right now…Yes, I realize it is a missed opportunity.
He’d tried to talk them out of coming to Windermere. ‘There’s really nothing you can do. There’s nothing any of us can do,’ he said to Bruce. ‘You may as well sit tight until we have some more news.’ He didn’t want them there. The last thing he needed was Bruce in his home, bossing him about, scrutinizing his every move. Which was why he’d delayed telling them in the first place, he supposed. Because he knew Bruce would say, ‘We’ll be on the road in an hour.’ Which he had. And so now they were.
Noel wondered idly if perhaps Mary would bring a fruit cake. She seemed to have a production line going from late September through to Christmas, each one progressively more booze-laden than the previous, and they would all coo over it during the grand unveiling on Boxing Day. (Though not Bruce. Too rich. Marzipan repeats on me something terrible.)
Would Noel still have to spend Christmas with them this year? He really hoped not.
Noel put the idea out of his head for the moment and opened the fridge. They were almost out of milk. Then he checked his watch. He should have been back at the surgery for three thirty, but of course he’d had to call and ask for someone to cover his appointments. Not that he wanted to. He’d far rather have been at work than dealing with Bruce and Mary, but he could see it wouldn’t look good. He could imagine Joanne Aspinall assessing him suspiciously in that way of hers: You went to work? Frowning at the same time, the skin between her eyes puckering a little, but still quite pretty all the same.
He wondered if she’d ever been married. She gave off an air of independence, but that didn’t mean anything. The divorcees he saw at work were fiercely independent. Suddenly, women who had been Tired All the Time would be out jogging at six in the morning, taking college courses in nursing and accountancy, and generally making the world go round.
He’d never been with a truly independent woman. Once Jennifer became pregnant, she gave up being on a career path, as her mother had, and as her mother had before her. In Jennifer’s grandmother’s day, in Ireland, it was not considered decent for a heavily pregnant woman to be seen at work, and Noel had questioned Jennifer about it, saying that surely she didn’t think this was still the case?
‘Absolutely not,’ she replied. ‘I hate my job. Always have. It’s boring as hell and I can’t wait to give it up.’
He didn’t mind. Why would he?
Karen, meanwhile, didn’t have a job when they met, and she gave the vague excuse of ‘It’s not quite the right time’ as the reason for this.
And then she found out she was pregnant, so that was that.
He wondered what it would be like to be with a woman such as Joanne. She was looking for love, he knew that. But a woman like her wouldn’t want his baggage. They never did. They wanted the dream, the fairy-tale. They didn’t want a twice-married heavy drinker who was responsible for three kids and an ex-wife with MS. (And there was also the small matter of her thinking he might have murdered his wife. Or else his daughter had.) Still, he reflected on that night they’d had together, and he couldn’t shake off the thought of her. Joanne was a woman starved of touch and he was a man starved of warmth, and the two of them had found each other in the most unlikely of places.
Would it happen again?
Doubtful.
From the way Joanne had questioned him earlier, he got the impression they thought Karen was dead. He assumed they’d found more evidence than they were willing to share. So he knew he had to tell Ewan and the girls of the possibility of Karen never coming home. They’d want to know what Bruce and Mary were doing there. And once news that Karen’s car had been found abandoned got round, the whole village would be talking about it.
How should he go about wording it? he wondered. He didn’t want to alarm Brontë unnecessarily, but he needed to prepare her, and it would be wrong to keep it from her. He wondered if he could drum up the emotion necessary and realized rather quickly he wasn’t sure he could. This could turn out to be one of those moments. A defining moment in Brontë’s life which, if played wrongly, she could use as a stick to beat him with when she was older and her life hadn’t turned out the way she’d wanted it to.
You didn’t even cry for her. Not one single tear.
The truth was, he wasn’t particularly sad that Karen had gone. The Catholic and father in him had been prepared to stick the marriage out for the duration. He’d screwed up one child’s life and he didn’t plan on screwing life up for Ewan and Brontë as well. ‘You can’t stay together if you’re not happy, just for the sake of the kids,’ folk liked to say, and Noel thought, Yes you can. You can do exactly that.
But now life had presented him with this way out. He was going to have to act upset if he was going to pull it off, or else there would be suspicion. Already Joanne had queried his initial response to Kare
n’s disappearance, so he needed to up his game. She’d actually been rather tough on him, relentless in her questioning, which should have had him panicked, but he’d found it all rather appealing. She’d become quite the school ma’am, and he expected she got results. One of those relentless detectives who never lost a case.
For a second he pictured her naked in his oval bath at the end of a hard day, her lovely hair spilling over the edge. He would bring her large glasses of red wine and small squares of cheese, and he would soap her feet while they discussed cases, and—
The doorbell was ringing.
Noel stood at the mirror in the hallway. The one that Karen would scowl into each day before leaving the house. Unusually for him, he looked quite healthy. A little too healthy, considering the circumstances.
Noel gave his eyes a hard rub with the heels of his hands. Then he unstraightened his collar, pulled his tie over to one side and ruffled his hair a little.
‘Bruce, Mary,’ he said solemnly when he’d opened the door, and gave a small shudder, as though a cry were trapped inside his throat. ‘Thank God you’ve come.’
33
Thursday, 22 October
Joanne was back at the crime scene. A day had passed since the Volvo had been found but, as yet, they were no closer to determining the whereabouts of Karen Bloom. So Joanne returned to the start. It’s what she always did when she didn’t know where to go next. She went to the scene and let it speak to her.
The Volvo had been removed, taken away for further forensic testing, and so far they had found only Karen Bloom’s blood inside the vehicle. The marine unit had two divers in the lake again today, as yesterday’s dive had found nothing. The dogs hadn’t turned anything up either. They’d followed a trail through the trees down to the lake and along the shoreline for around fifty yards or so. But then it seemed to come to a complete stop. There were a number of possible reasons for this: carrying Karen’s body, the suspect had waded into the lake and swum off (quite tricky, and unlikely, in Joanne’s opinion); the suspect had been picked up by an accomplice in a boat (possible); the dogs weren’t very good at their job (unlikely); or the handler, Dave, wasn’t very good at his job (more than possible, actually). Joanne had met Dave on a number of occasions. He was a burly guy who was into Second World War memorabilia and was considered by most to be a first-class twit. He referred to himself in the third person when talking to his dogs, which Joanne found unnerving: Find it for Dave, boy! Dave’s right here by your side, boy! Joanne wondered if he did the same thing when speaking to his wife.