All Things Nice

by Sheila Bugler

  Freya screamed. The sound cut through Charlotte, hurting her. She closed her eyes and she could hear her daughter crying beside her, sobbing like a little girl. And Kieran, whispering in Charlotte’s ear, telling her this was what she wanted and her own voice saying yes, yes, yes. And Freya crying and Charlotte’s stomach twisting and vomit rising up her throat, burning and bitter.

  She put her hand over her mouth but she knew she couldn’t stop it. She swung around, away from the dead body and away from her daughter, still crying, doubled over as if the pain of it was too much. She ran towards the swinging glass doors and the light and the world outside without its dead bodies and its memories and her daughter, crying for a man she’d loved but who had never loved her back because he was only ever capable of loving one person and that was himself.

  Five

  After the morgue, the detectives said they needed to come to the station and make statements. Charlotte asked if that was really necessary but Kelly made it clear they didn’t have a choice. There was something hard about her that made it difficult to like her. Charlotte preferred the other woman, Abby. She was pretty and kind and seemed to really understand how difficult this was for Charlotte. And for Freya, of course.

  Charlotte assumed they’d be allowed to stay together to give their statements. Instead, Abby took Freya in one direction, while Charlotte found herself being led into a different room with Kelly. She wished it was the other way around and suspected Freya did, too. Abby’s sweet, touchy-feely manner was bound to be an irritation.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Kelly said, as if she was welcoming Charlotte into her living room instead of into this horrible, grey room that smelled of bleach and sweat.

  Charlotte tried to pull the chair from under the table but its legs were screwed to the ground. She slid herself onto it, trying to think clearly through the pounding in her head and the clawing, craving thirst.

  Kieran was dead. Murdered. She knew this because if he’d died of a heart attack or something like that, she wouldn’t be sitting here now. Images jerked through her head. All of them ending with a body on a gurney in a bleached bright room.

  ‘Can I get you something?’ Kelly asked. ‘Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Water,’ Charlotte said. She wanted to ask Kelly what her first name was but she was afraid she’d look stupid. She knew the woman had told her already, but how were you meant to remember a detail like that when there was so much else to think about?

  Kelly left to get the water and Charlotte forced herself to take deep, slow breaths, trying to calm the skitter-skatter heartbeat and the fear and panic that was making her chest tight and her head feel as if it was about to spin off her neck and away from her body.

  Kieran was dead.

  Someone killed him.

  Noises and images inside her head. Noises, smells, people. A man’s face. Rain on her face as she ran across the heath. Or was it tears? The burning taste of vomit in her throat. Her mother singing. No. Her mother hadn’t been there. A reckless rage that burned until it hurt. And a knife. Kieran’s hands on her body, his face looming over her. Replaced by her mother’s face. A sudden, surprising spurt of blood splashing onto her arm and face. Warm and wet.

  The door opened and Charlotte yelped with shock.

  Kelly stood in the doorway looking at her. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Hungover,’ Charlotte said. Teeth chattering, body shivering with the cold that crept through her body, ice in her veins.

  ‘Drink this,’ Kelly said. ‘Not too fast, though.’

  She took the paper cup in both hands, managed to lift it to her mouth without spilling too much. The water tasted good but it wasn’t what her body craved. She waited for the spasm to pass then put the glass back down and looked at the detective.

  ‘I’m Ellen,’ the woman said. ‘Detective Inspector Ellen Kelly. Is it okay if I call you Charlotte?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Your birthday yesterday?’

  ‘Do I need a lawyer?’

  ‘We can arrange a lawyer if that’s what you want,’ Ellen said. ‘But you’re not under arrest or anything. I just need to ask you a few questions about the party last night. Is that okay?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Do you remember seeing Kieran there?’ Ellen asked.

  Lips and hands and the scratchy feeling of whiskers scraping her cheek.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t remember. Freya was there. But she was on her own, I think. Kieran wasn’t with her.’

  Ellen glanced at the notes she’d brought in with her.

  ‘So you don’t remember having an argument with anyone?’

  ‘Shouting,’ she said. ‘There was a man. He was shouting at me. I think. I’m sorry, I can’t remember his name but I’m sure it wasn’t Kieran.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  Good question.

  ‘I remember his face,’ she said. Not completely true but there was no one to prove her wrong. ‘And he wasn’t Kieran.’

  ‘Who was he then?’

  ‘Some guy who gate-crashed my party,’ Charlotte said. ‘Why does it matter? It wasn’t Kieran, right?’

  ‘Okay.’ Ellen shrugged like it was no big deal either way. Charlotte knew that was just an act but was glad she didn’t have to explain herself any further.

  ‘What can you tell me about Kieran?’ Ellen asked.

  Charlotte frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What was he like?’ Ellen said. ‘What sort of person was he? Did you like him? Did he make your daughter happy?’

  He was a bastard who didn’t give a damn about Freya. She couldn’t tell them that. If she did, they might get the wrong idea about Freya. Besides, it was none of their damn business.

  ‘He was okay,’ she said. ‘They were okay. I mean, they were living together. They wouldn’t have done that, would they, if they didn’t like each other?’

  ‘Did you like him?’ Ellen asked again.

  Hands on her thighs. Hot, damp breath whispering to her.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Charlotte said. ‘I mean, well, I hardly knew him really. Freya and I, our lives are very different. We don’t see each other very often. Oh, I know she only lives down the road – less than ten minutes in the car – but it’s difficult. She’s difficult, to tell you the truth.’

  She stopped. What the hell was wrong with her? Babbling like an idiot, telling the police all sorts of things they didn’t need to know about. Private things that were her family’s business and no one else’s.

  ‘I didn’t see Kieran last night,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t lie about something like that. He’s dead and that’s terrible, but it wasn’t me. I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Nothing to do with what?’ Ellen said.

  ‘Kieran’s death,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘I never said you did,’ Ellen said.

  Charlotte wished she could work out if Ellen was messing with her head or being serious. Maybe there was nothing wrong. Maybe she wasn’t a suspect. They didn’t know about the text. She’d deleted it from her phone this morning and it was obvious they hadn’t looked at his phone. Wasn’t it?

  Again, she saw the knife. Again, she felt the warm blood on her skin, sticky and meaty-smelling.

  She closed her eyes, tried to focus on something else. But when she opened her eyes, Ellen Kelly was looking at her like she knew exactly what Charlotte was thinking. And the smell of blood seemed to linger in the room, mingling with the bleach and the sweat. When she looked at her hands lying flat on the table-top, she imagined she could see blood running down those too.

  Six

  ‘Kieran Burton. Male Caucasian. Twenty-five years old. Mature student at Greenwich University. Doing a Master’s degree in Sociology and Politics. In a relationship with Freya Gleeson. Victim’s body found at the bottom of Heath Lane, where Freya’s parents live. Single stab wound to the front of the body that penetrated the heart. Last night there was a party to celebrate Mrs Gleeson’s birthday. I
t’s possible the victim was on his way to or from the party when the attack happened.’

  DSI Geraldine Cox stopped her pacing and looked around the room, pausing to make eye contact with each of the four detectives sitting in front of her. Ellen, Abby, Alastair and Malcolm.

  ‘Right,’ Ger said. ‘What have I missed?’

  ‘We think he was on his way home from the party,’ Ellen said. ‘According to his girlfriend, Kieran was there but he left early.’

  ‘Is she telling the truth?’ Ger asked.

  ‘I think so,’ Ellen said. ‘She also says her mother and Kieran had some sort of disagreement. Charlotte admits she had an argument with someone but she swears it wasn’t with Kieran. I think she was so drunk she can’t actually remember.’

  ‘Abby?’ Ger said. ‘You took Freya’s statement. What do you think?’

  ‘She was in shock,’ Abby said. ‘Obviously. It seemed genuine enough. She also says that her mother was rude to Kieran and that’s why he left.’

  ‘Rude how?’ Ellen asked.

  Abby shook her head. ‘Freya claims not to know what was said. Just that Kieran was upset and he left.’

  ‘Why didn’t she go with him?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘She was angry,’ Abby said. ‘And she wanted to confront her mother, ask her what she’d said to Kieran. But she never got the chance. Says Charlotte started into her after Kieran left and she couldn’t take it. So she left too.’

  ‘Have we got a list of everyone who was at the party?’

  ‘Charlotte has given a list of names,’ Ellen said. ‘People she invited to the party. But she says there were probably others there she didn’t know. We’ve got six officers working through the list, getting statements from everyone.’

  Ellen glanced at the clock on the wall behind Ger’s head. Three forty-five. She had fifteen minutes.

  ‘There’s a backlog at the morgue,’ she said. ‘Mark’s going to try to get the PM done quickly for us, though. Victim’s parents are dead. He’s got one sister living in Norfolk. We’ve already been in touch with the boys in Norwich. They’ll let us know when they’ve notified her. With a bit of luck, should be some time today.’

  ‘In the meantime,’ Ger said, ‘we’re keeping the victim’s identity out of the press. Not sure how long we can get away with that. You know the girl’s father is Nick Gleeson?’

  The name was familiar to Ellen but she couldn’t place it.

  ‘The restaurateur,’ Ger explained. ‘The guy behind the Totally Tapas chain.’

  ‘Isn’t he …?’ Abby started.

  ‘Going into business with Pete Cooper,’ Ger confirmed. ‘Yes. What some of you may not know is that Pete Cooper has recently come under scrutiny as part of Operation Rift. You’re all familiar with that?’

  Everyone nodded. Operation Rift was a Met-wide initiative to tackle organised crime in the city.

  ‘Cooper’s an influential businessman,’ Ger continued. ‘Like Nick Gleeson. Runs a chain of furniture stores across the south-east and is a property investor. On the surface, nothing dodgy about him, but there’s a strong suspicion his business is being used to launder money from other, less salubrious workstreams. Probably also worth pointing out that Nick Gleeson is a good pal of our very own Detective Superintendent Nicholls. Both members of Royal Blackheath, apparently. And Pete Cooper’s a member of the same club too.’

  A mess, in other words. Ellen stood up. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Ger said. ‘You shouldn’t be in today, anyway. Go. I’ll call you later.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Ellen said. ‘What should we do about the press? Want me to pick things up with Jamala?’

  Jamala Nnamani was the station’s Communications Manager. She managed all dealings with the press. In a case like this, linked to a high-profile local businessman, the press would be all over the murder.

  ‘Let me think about it,’ Ger said. ‘We can’t release the victim’s name until his sister’s been notified. And I’m not sure how soon we’ll want to reveal the connection with the Gleeson family.’

  ‘So we need to make sure they don’t get hold of the information before we’re ready to share it,’ Ellen said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Ger said. ‘But we can talk about that later. Right now I need to get down to the incident room and do the briefing. Malcolm’s pulled together a team of officers. They’re waiting to be told what to do next. I’ll call you, Ellen. I promise.’

  Knowing she’d been dismissed and feeling – irrationally – irritated, Ellen said goodbye to the rest of the room and left. She felt bad leaving at such a crucial stage in what promised to be a major investigation, but she had no choice. She’d promised her children – and herself – that work would come second from now on. It was a promise she had every intention of keeping.

  * * *

  Charlotte stood outside Freya’s flat, finger pressed on the doorbell. She knew Freya was inside. She’d looked up at the window as she approached the house and had seen her daughter moving around up there.

  She’d come straight from the police station. Almost. A brief detour to The Station pub for a quick restorative, just to get her back on an even keel. Heaven knows, she’d needed it.

  When the interview was over, she’d expected to find Freya waiting for her but Ellen Kelly told her Freya had already left.

  ‘She’s probably gone home to tidy up,’ Ellen said. ‘We’ve finished searching the flat. I’m afraid our officers don’t always do the best job of tidying up. I’m sure she could do with a hand?’

  She said it as a question, but Charlotte understood the implication. You’re Freya’s mother. Surely it’s a mother’s job to help her daughter at a time like this. Well, yes, but Charlotte drew the line at putting on a pair of rubber gloves. She would offer to pay for professional cleaners if she thought Freya would accept that. Knowing her daughter, though, she’d do the whole martyr act and insist on tidying the place herself.

  In fact, when Freya finally came to the door and let her inside, Charlotte saw the place wasn’t too bad at all.

  ‘I’m glad they didn’t make too much mess,’ she said, doing her best to sound bright and optimistic because how else were you meant to sound in a situation like this?

  ‘I’ve spent the last two hours tidying up,’ Freya said. ‘That’s why it’s not looking too bad now. I could have done with a hand, to tell you the truth.’

  Two hours? Charlotte looked through to the microwave in the kitchen. Green digits on the clock told her it was three minutes to seven. How was that possible? She’d hardly spent any time in the pub.

  ‘The police kept me for ages,’ Charlotte said. ‘I came over as soon as I could, darling.’

  Freya’s face closed. A look Charlotte knew too well. Freya was shutting her out. Like she always did.

  ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have come,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘No,’ Freya said. ‘You should have stayed in the pub instead.’

  The injustice of the comment made Charlotte angry. Before she realised that poor Freya couldn’t be thinking straight.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Charlotte said. ‘You must be exhausted. I know I am. Why don’t you sit down, darling? I’ll make some tea.’

  She thought Freya was going to object but to her surprise, she nodded.

  ‘Tea sounds good,’ she said. ‘I should probably eat too. I just can’t face it.’

  A day without food wouldn’t do Freya any harm, although Charlotte was clever enough not to say that. There was a bottle of wine on the worktop in the kitchen. She considered suggesting they open it but was clever enough not to do that, either. Besides, it was red wine and Charlotte didn’t think she could face that so soon after last night.

  After the tea was made, they sat in the horrible second-hand armchairs Freya claimed were ‘full of character’. In fact, they looked cheap and dirty. Freya had got them in a charity shop and every time she sat in one of them, Charlotte couldn’t help imagining an old person’s corpse slowly
rotting in it.

  ‘Did they take much?’ Charlotte asked.

  ‘The police?’ Freya said. ‘They took the laptop. Some of Kieran’s college notes. Although what on earth they need with them, I have no idea.’

  ‘Should you have waited until they got a warrant to search the flat, do you think?’ Charlotte said.

  Freya sighed. ‘It’s a murder investigation, Mother. As far as they’re concerned, everyone’s a suspect right now. I’d rather they do things properly. That way, I know there’s more of a chance they’ll find out what happened to him.’

  For the second time today, Charlotte wished Nick was here. He’d always been good with Freya, even when she was at her most challenging. Which, in Charlotte’s opinion, was most of the time.

  ‘I’ve tried calling your father,’ she said. ‘But his phone is switched off. As usual.’

  ‘You didn’t tell him in a message?’ Freya said.

  ‘Of course not.’ Charlotte frowned. ‘I’m not completely stupid, you know.’

  ‘Good,’ Freya said.

  ‘You should call him too,’ Charlotte said. There was every chance Nick would come running if he knew Freya was trying to speak to him. It was only messages from his wife he seemed to ignore.

  ‘Don’t you think I’ve done that?’ Freya said. ‘I left a message asking him to call me as soon as he can. I’m sure he will.’

  Charlotte was sure he would too. Nothing was ever too much for Nick’s precious daughter. In Freya’s entire life, Charlotte had never heard Nick say no to Freya. Whatever Freya wanted, Freya got. Which was why, when Freya said she wanted to move out, Nick had bought her this place. Charlotte understood it made sense to help Freya out, get her started on the property ladder. But in Hither Green? Charlotte didn’t even pretend to understand the logic behind that decision.