All Things Nice

by Sheila Bugler

  She’d had a late night. Unable to sleep. Going over her interview with Ellen Kelly, replaying each question and the answers she’d given. Trying to convince herself she had nothing to worry about. But as the night grew longer, the details of the interview blurred with other things. Ellen Kelly’s rich south London voice turned into her mother’s. All high-pitched and Hyacinth Bouquet. Not asking questions like Ellen Kelly had done. Shouting accusations instead.

  Why hadn’t Nick come home? She’d left messages for him all through the night. Each one getting angrier in direct proportion to the amount of wine she’d drunk. Nothing she’d said had made the slightest bit of difference. He didn’t call her back and he didn’t come home. He might have stayed at Freya’s, she supposed. But even if he had, he should have told her that.

  He told her his time was taken up with his new restaurants. The first one was due to open in a few weeks. But the last time she’d dropped in unannounced at Tipico Totale, there was no sign of him.

  Finally this morning, a text.

  Home by 10.00.

  It was 10.37 now and still no sign of him.

  They’d been happy once. But those days seemed so far away, she wasn’t sure she could trust her memories of them. This, the miserable nothingness they now shared, had been the reality for so long, it was difficult to imagine she’d ever lived any other way.

  She heard his car pulling into the front drive. The low growl of the Beemer’s engine as he braked in front of the house. He was a careless driver. Careless about so many things. She’d found that attractive once. Now, it was just another thing that made the sheer fact of his existence a source of rage.

  When the front door opened, she tensed, anticipating the row they hadn’t yet had.

  ‘Charlotte?’

  He’d called her Charlie. At first. Until one day, early in their marriage, she’d told him she didn’t like it. Why had she ever said that?

  ‘In here,’ she called.

  By the time he reached the kitchen she was already preparing a fresh pot of coffee. He favoured Brazilian beans these days. Charlotte poured the beans into the grinder and switched it on, letting the noise drown out everything else. When the beans were ready, she scooped the grains into the cafetière and poured hot water – hot but not boiling because it burns the coffee – over them. She stirred the water and carefully placed the lid on the cafetiere.

  Only then did she turn to her husband, standing in the doorway, glowering.

  ‘Coffee?’ she held up the cafetiere and gave him her brightest smile. ‘Extra strong, just the way you like it.’

  He took a few steps into the room but stopped well short of the island where she’d laid out a white cup and saucer, a silver spoon and an exquisite silver pot of sugar. All for him. She was glad she’d managed to get the cleaners in yesterday. He hated coming home to a messy house.

  ‘Place is crawling with press,’ he said. ‘All huddled together where it happened like a pack of wolves. Christ knows what it will get like for us when they realise he was Freya’s bloke. Have you heard anything else?’

  Nice to see you too, she thought.

  ‘Not so far,’ she said. ‘How was last night?’

  ‘How do you think?’ He shook his head, sighed. ‘I couldn’t leave her, Charlotte. Surely you can understand that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She hated him. The way he twisted everything, made it seem like all the problems between them were her fault. All he’d had to do was tell her he was staying at Freya’s. If she’d known, then she wouldn’t have sat here half the night imagining all sorts of things. And she wouldn’t have called him so many times. But she had and he was angry about it and he couldn’t see it was his fault, not hers.

  ‘I was worried,’ she said. ‘That’s all. I’m sorry.’

  She was always the one who apologised, doing all she could to keep this crumbling marriage together. Knowing it was up to her because if she left it to him, they’d have been divorced years ago.

  She lifted the cafetière and carried it across to the island. Her sleeve rode up her arm, revealing the purple marks from where he’d squeezed too tight last night. There were similar marks on the other wrist. Her fair skin bruised so easily. She made a note to get a photo before the bruises faded. Just in case.

  ‘A policewoman came to the flat last night,’ Nick said. ‘She was pleasant enough but it was obvious she was checking up on us.’

  ‘They won’t tell us anything.’ Charlotte poured the coffee and watched him move forward and lift the cup without bothering to thank her.

  ‘Why were they here, anyway?’ Nick said. ‘Surely one of your parties is the last thing Freya would be interested in. She said you and he argued. What was that about? Or have you forgotten?’

  He stressed the ‘forgotten’ and she hated him for it. He was the liar in this relationship, not her.

  ‘Could have been a mugging gone wrong,’ Nick said before she had a chance to answer. ‘Yeah, that makes sense. I mean, down there at the bottom of the lane. It’s quiet at night-time. Taking your life in your hands if you walk through there after dark. So, he comes to the party. Stuffs himself on the free food and booze, bloody parasite. And once he’s done that, he pisses off. Too tight to get a taxi, of course, so he walks. Some nutter tries to mug him and it all goes wrong. That sounds about right, doesn’t it? I mean, what else could it have been?’

  ‘Why do you care so much who killed him?’ Charlotte said. ‘I thought you hated him.’

  She wanted him to say it was because of Freya. That Freya was his only child and he knew how heartbroken she must be. And that even if Charlotte and Nick hadn’t liked Kieran very much, that was irrelevant because Kieran was dead and the only thing that mattered right now was Freya.

  Of course, he didn’t say any of that. He stuck to the habit of a lifetime by disappointing her and saying exactly what she knew he would.

  ‘It’s business. My new restaurant’s about to open. I can’t afford any scandal. Don’t you get that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He drained his cup, leaned across the counter for the cafetière. Charlotte looked past him, to the window with its view over the back garden. A mist of grey clouds moved across the sky, preparing to hide the sun. As the sky darkened, the shadows that had stretched across the green lawn stretched out until the shades of light and dark disappeared completely, as if the very life had been sucked out of the garden, leaving nothing behind.

  Three

  Ellen was annoyed and didn’t mind who knew it. Abby’s explanation, that she hadn’t realised Ellen was in the office, was a poor excuse. This was the problem with not working fulltime. Everyone seemed to give up on you.

  ‘It’s a bloody murder investigation,’ Ellen said. ‘Why the hell wouldn’t I be at work?’

  ‘Because it’s a Sunday.’ Abby sounded every bit as pissed off as Ellen felt. ‘You don’t work Sundays. Remember?’

  ‘I don’t work Sundays normally,’ Ellen said. ‘But this isn’t a normal Sunday, is it? We have a high-profile murder on our hands. What did you expect? That I’d sit at home playing happy families while you …’

  She stopped just in time. Was about to say: while you solve the case yourself and claim all the credit.

  ‘You should have called me,’ she said.

  She would have said more but Abby’s phone beeped with a text message. Whatever the message said, the mood lightened instantly.

  Abby smiled. ‘Sorry, what was that?’

  Ellen nodded at the phone. ‘What was that more like? Something you’d like to share with me?’

  ‘A guy I met the other night,’ Abby said. ‘It’s nothing important.’

  ‘Course not,’ Ellen said. ‘That’s why you’re grinning like a bloody fool. Well put him out of your head for now.’ She undocked her laptop and picked it up. ‘I’m going to set up downstairs. Are you coming?’

  Abby shook her head. ‘Kieran’s phone is with the tech guys. I’m go
ing to see if they’ve got through the password yet. If that’s okay with you?’

  ‘Of course,’ Ellen said. She should have thought of that herself. Unfairly, she blamed Abby for that too. ‘Just make sure you come to me as soon as you find anything.’

  The second floor was made up of a series of incident rooms. The largest of these had been set up for the murder enquiry. Ellen found a spare desk where she was able to plug in her laptop. As she waited for it to charge up, she looked around the room. A large whiteboard on the wall at the front; photos of the dead man sat alongside a single headshot of Kieran before he was killed. Smiling across the room at Ellen, no idea what fate had in store for him. She recognised the image. It had been taken from the photo on the mantelpiece at Ennersdale Road. Freya had been cut out of the photo. Much as Kieran had been cut out of her life.

  She turned away from the board and scanned the room. Recognised WPC McKeown in amongst the rows of uniformed officers sitting at desks near the back. Seeming to sense Ellen’s eyes on her, McKeown looked up, blushed when she saw who was looking at her.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Ellen asked, walking over.

  ‘Okay, I think,’ McKeown said. ‘Just typing up the last batch of witness statements.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘I haven’t found anyone yet who remembers seeing Kieran at the party,’ McKeown said. ‘Freya’s the only person who can confirm he was there.’

  Maybe Freya was lying, Ellen thought. Or maybe everyone else was too drunk to notice a scruffy student hanging around the edges of the party.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘What else?’

  ‘I spoke to a Dermot Hogan,’ McKeown said. ‘He was at the party, too. Says Mrs Gleeson was really upset about something. Hogan said he tried to comfort her but it did no good. When I asked Virginia Rau about it – that’s Mrs Gleeson’s friend – she said Hogan was lying. Her story is that Hogan made a pass at Mrs Gleeson and that’s what upset her.’

  ‘But you don’t believe her?’ Ellen asked.

  McKeown frowned. ‘I’m not sure. The thing is, Virginia Rau didn’t say anything about Mrs Gleeson being upset until I asked her about it.’

  ‘Good point,’ Ellen said. ‘If this Hogan bloke upset Mrs Gleeson like you say, then it would seem sensible for Virginia Rau to tell you about it straightaway. Good work, McKeown. When you’re finished here, why don’t you speak to Rau and Hogan again? See if you can find out which one of them’s telling the truth. And why one of them would want to lie to us.’

  McKeown blushed and smiled simultaneously. It made her look suddenly pretty.

  ‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘Thanks, Ma’am.’

  ‘Ellen!’ Abby called. ‘Come take a look at this.’

  She was holding a mobile phone in her hand. An expensive Nokia model. Ellen recognised it because Sean had the same one. He’d chosen it because you could take high-quality photos with it and he fancied himself as something of an amateur photographer.

  ‘Kieran’s mobile,’ Abby said. ‘Look.’

  ‘Strange,’ Ellen said, taking the phone. It jarred with the image she was starting to form of Kieran Burton. Everything she’d seen yesterday told her Kieran and Freya didn’t have much money. The phone told a different story.

  ‘What’s strange?’ Abby asked.

  Ellen shook her head, deciding not to share until she knew what the phone meant.

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  She scrolled through the phone, checking texts and call records and scanning the extensive photo album. Landscapes mainly, lots of atmospheric shots of the Thames. Only one photo of Freya. Something else to think about.

  ‘Look at the texts,’ Abby said.

  A lot of texts from Freya of the practical, rather than romantic, variety. Asking Kieran what he wanted for dinner, giving him a list of things to pick up on his way home, or making arrangements to meet.

  And a single text message received at 9.30pm on Friday night. Sent from a number that wasn’t in Kieran’s list of contacts. Ellen read the message, smiled and handed the phone back to Abby.

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ she said. ‘Get onto the telephone company. Find out whose mobile number the text was sent from. Good work, Abby.’

  Beaming like a giddy kid, Abby took the phone and skipped across the office to her desk. Ellen waited while Abby made the phone call. An interminable wait later, Abby was back, looking – if it was possible – even more pleased with herself.

  ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ she said.

  * * *

  They took a pool car. Ellen drove, not trusting Abby to get there quickly enough. At Blackheath, she turned into Heath Lane and drove through the open gates into the gravelled driveway of the Gleesons’ house. In front of her, a dark blue BMW was parked carelessly across the driveway. Ellen pulled up behind this and switched off the engine.

  The house – three storeys, double-fronted, Georgian – stood in its own half-acre of grounds. Ellen estimated it was worth at least five million. Possibly more.

  Together, the two detectives walked up to the impressive porch. Ellen rang the doorbell and seconds later a tall, good-looking man opened the door.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Mr Gleeson?’ Ellen guessed. She showed him her warrant card and introduced herself. She nodded at Abby. ‘You’ve already met DC Roberts, I think. May we come inside?’

  ‘Is this about Kieran?’ the man said. ‘Terrible business. Terrible. Please. Come inside. What can I do for you, detectives?’

  They’d wanted to see Charlotte Gleeson, but having her husband here was a bonus. He stepped to one side, making space for Ellen and Abby to pass.

  His hair had flopped forward over one eye. He flicked it back with a throw of his head and flashed a row of white teeth at Ellen. She resisted the urge to cringe.

  ‘Nick,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘And you are …? Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name already. Terrible with names.’

  ‘DI Kelly,’ Ellen said, ignoring the outstretched hand. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions if that’s all right.’

  ‘Kelly,’ he said. ‘My family’s from county Kildare originally. How about yourself?’

  ‘Cork,’ Ellen said, repelled by his obvious desire to ingratiate himself. ‘We’ll need to speak to your wife, too. Is she around?’

  ‘I’ll call her,’ Gleeson said. ‘This won’t take too long, I hope? I was just on my way out. I was with my daughter all last night. I’m very concerned for her. As you can imagine.’

  ‘Of course,’ Ellen said. ‘We’ll be as quick as we can.’

  Gleeson called for his wife and led Ellen and Abby into a large, airy sitting room decorated in various shades of white. The three of them sat on matching floral-patterned armchairs and listened in silence as Charlotte Gleeson’s footsteps tottered across the parquet flooring towards the sitting room.

  She looked different from the last time Ellen had seen her. Yesterday, her appearance had been dishevelled. Today, she was sleek and elegant in a white trouser suit and patent nude court shoes with a heel that added several inches to her height. Her carefully applied make-up hid the broken veins scattered across her too-thin cheeks and her blonde hair was slicked back and tidy. As she moved across the room, a waft of light, flowery perfume followed.

  Ellen and Abby were sitting on a sofa by the fireplace. Nick sat opposite on an identical sofa. Ellen expected Charlotte to sit beside him but she chose a high-backed chair further away, closer to the large bay window that looked out over the well-tended garden. Charlotte crossed her legs carefully and gave Ellen a nervous smile.

  ‘Have you got some news for us?’ she asked.

  ‘Mrs Gleeson,’ Ellen said, ‘can you sit over here beside your husband, please? We’ve got several questions to go through. It would be easier if you’re both together.’

  She hesitated and Ellen thought she was going to protest. But then she smiled and went over to sit by her
husband. Ellen noted the way she edged away from him until she was pressed against the side of the sofa.

  Ellen looked at Nick. ‘Where were you on Friday night?’

  ‘Working.’ He gave Ellen another flash of those teeth and she realised she didn’t like Nick Gleeson one bit. ‘You’ve probably read that I’m about to open a new chain of restaurants.’

  ‘With Pete Cooper,’ Ellen said. ‘Yes, I’m aware of that. Is that where you were, then? With Mr Cooper?’

  The flop of hair fell forward again. Ellen wondered why he didn’t bloody cut it off. Surely everyone else found it as irritating as she did.

  ‘For some of the time, certainly,’ he said.

  ‘And the rest?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘Well, I had an early dinner with an old college friend,’ Nick said. ‘Then after that I went back to the office to carry on working. I spent the night there. It’s something I do quite often at the moment. When I’m working late I don’t like to come home and disturb Charlotte. It’s not fair on her, you see.’

  ‘You don’t have an office here?’ Ellen asked. ‘I’d have thought this place is plenty big enough for a home office. It’s just the two of you, right?’

  ‘I, well, yes. But I prefer to work at the restaurant,’ Nick said. ‘Don’t like bringing work home. Prefer keeping it separate. Helps maintain that all important work-life balance we’re always being told about, you know?’

  Ellen glanced at Abby, who nodded. She’d noticed it too. The man was a rubbish liar.

  ‘Setting up a new business,’ Nick said. ‘It takes a lot of time and hard work. Not many people realise that. People think, you know, that all this,’ he spread his arms out, ‘that it comes easily. It doesn’t, let me tell you. It’s the product of years of hard graft. One percent inspiration, ninety-nine percent perspiration.’ He smiled. ‘A quote from the great poet himself. Do you like poetry, Detective?’