All Things Nice

by Sheila Bugler

  ‘Of course,’ Ben said, looking very sombre. ‘He was a regular here. Often came when Freya was working. Lots of people in here tonight would have known him. We’ve had people asking about it all evening.’

  ‘What was he like?’ Abby said.

  ‘Like?’ Ben frowned. ‘He was fine. Yeah. I mean, I only knew him from the bar, you know. But he seemed pleasant enough. I’m sorry there’s not more I can tell you.’

  ‘Were they happy together?’ Abby said. ‘Kieran and Freya.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Ben said. ‘I mean, they’re both into all that demonstrating and stuff. Not my thing but whatever rings your bell. Know what I mean?’

  ‘How did he seem on Friday night?’ Alastair asked.

  Ben frowned. ‘Friday? Sorry, I don’t understand. He wasn’t in here then.’

  ‘But you met him,’ Alastair said. ‘You were with him in The Dacre Arms from 9pm till a little after ten, isn’t that correct?’

  Alan’s jaw dropped. Abby knew exactly how he felt.

  ‘How did you know that?’ Ben asked. ‘Sorry, that sounded wrong. I mean, yes, we met, but only for a quick drink. He was on his way to a party. His mother-in-law’s. She’s a bit of a party animal, by all accounts.’

  ‘You had a row,’ Alastair said. ‘Care to tell us what about?’

  Ben rubbed a hand across his face.

  ‘I think I need a solicitor,’ he said. ‘Before I answer any more questions. Can I call someone?’

  ‘We can arrange that at the station,’ Alastair said. ‘If you come with us quietly, we won’t make a fuss. No need for handcuffs or anything like that.’ Alastair smiled. It was a kind, sweet smile. Like he was offering Ben Lowe a piece of friendly advice. ‘After all, Mr Lowe, the last thing we’d want to do is embarrass you. Ready?’

  Abby watched as Ben Lowe stood up and meekly followed Alastair through the crowded pub. She hurried after them, wondering how the evening had changed so suddenly and how – without warning – Alastair had taken control of the investigation.

  * * *

  Charlotte got out of the taxi and paid the driver. He’d been miserable company and she didn’t bother with a tip. She could see he wasn’t happy about it but she didn’t care. After he drove off, she turned to face the dark, empty house.

  Times like this, she hated the place. Too big, too lacking in anything resembling homely warmth. It was meant to be a family home. When they’d first moved here, with Nick, she’d been so excited. They had a big family planned. Four children – two boys, two girls. The place was big enough, for God’s sake. Six bedrooms meant each child could have their own room and there’d still be room for guests to stay over. Except then she had Freya and everything changed.

  She stepped forward, wobbling as she tried to navigate the gravelled driveway. Told herself it was her heels, not the wine, that made her unsteady. Wasn’t as if she’d drunk that much, anyway. Bottle, bottle and a half at the most. Which, by her standards, was pretty damn good.

  Inside, she didn’t bother switching on the lights. The curtains weren’t closed and she could see as much as she needed to. A huge chandelier hung in the hall – French, antique – and it flooded the room with a brightness she didn’t think she could face right now. Far better this grey, shadowy half-light.

  She kicked her heels off, luxuriating in the sudden release of pressure on the balls of her feet. If only she were brave enough, or tall enough, not to have to bother with shoes like that.

  She moved towards the stairs, stopping at the bottom step when she heard something overhead.

  ‘Nick?’

  No answer. She waited, listening for other sounds, but she heard nothing. She breathed a sigh of relief. Another confrontation was the last thing she needed. He was being such a bastard right now. It had been bad for a while but this business with Kieran made everything a whole lot worse. As if she didn’t have enough to deal with.

  Charlotte wondered who his latest piece was. Some little bitch Freya’s age or younger, wearing perfume that smelled of flowers in spring. She picked it up from his clothes sometimes.

  Some day she’d tell Freya, let her know exactly the sort of man her dear daddy really was. She’d thought about it before, many times, but always backed out at the last minute. Told herself she couldn’t face the argument that would follow, although that wasn’t why. The real reason she’d never found the courage to tell Freya about Nick’s numerous affairs was that she knew Freya would find a way of blaming her. That was how things were between them. No matter what Charlotte did, no matter how hard she tried to build some sort of relationship with her daughter, Freya always found a way of twisting it, making it look as if Charlotte was the one who’d done something wrong. It wasn’t fair.

  The staircase wound its way up through the centre of the house. At one stage, when she’d cared about things like that, this had been her favourite feature in a house full of beauty. Now, as she pulled herself up, step by step, she only wished it was shorter.

  Alone and exhausted, her mind wandered past the defences she’d built up so carefully. She pretended – just for a moment – that she was living a different life. She paused, closed her eyes and imagined it. A loving husband waiting for her in the bed they shared. The bedrooms full of children, each one asleep, safe in his or her own little world of dreams. She pictured herself moving from room to room, straightening bed clothes, bending down to kiss flushed cheeks and search for the soft, reassuring sound of each child’s slow, even, sleepy breathing.

  The thump-thump of footsteps jolted her back to reality. Someone was up there.

  Charlotte froze, heart pounding, making it difficult to hear anything else.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  The alarm. She couldn’t remember switching it off when she’d come inside. Usually, it beeped when she opened the front door, reminding her she needed to enter the code that switched it off. Shit. She had forgotten to turn it on before she went out. Again. Which made it easy for someone to break in.

  ‘I’m calling the police!’

  Her voice sounded pathetic. Weak and shaky, exposing the fear she felt. She pictured several of them – dirty, rough-speaking men – getting ready to hurt her.

  A shadow loomed above her. Someone was standing at the top of the stairs. Moving towards her. Fast. She turned to run, tripped and nearly fell forward. Managed to grab the banister just in time.

  The footsteps got closer. She couldn’t see in front of her and she was terrified of falling.

  A hand shoved into her back, propelled her forward. Suddenly there was nothing underneath her feet. Her legs pedalled wildly, trying to find something solid. Hands reached out for the banister but too late. She was falling forward, into the darkness, and there was nothing she could do to stop it happening.

  Eleven

  It felt like the longest day. Midnight had been and gone hours earlier and she was still awake. She’d opened a bottle of wine when she’d got in earlier and had sat here ever since. Drinking red wine and listening to music, trying to calm the clamouring mess inside her head. The memories of the last few days kept rearing up, like a pack of wolves threatening to devour her. The pressure of it was unbearable. She didn’t know how much more she could take without cracking up completely. She tried to tell herself it would be okay. All she had to do was stay calm and everything would come good. It wasn’t easy.

  From the CD player, Elvis’ rich voice crooned out to her. This album was one of her favourites. One of several Elvis CDs her dad had given her over the years. Elvis and Yeats. His two great passions, passed on to him from his own father and down the generations. If Freya ever had children she would teach them to love music and poetry, just like Dad had done with her.

  The opening chords of ‘Love me Tender’ poured over her. Freya closed her eyes, let herself imagine Kieran was here, sitting beside her. The song was so beautiful. A perfect summation of the love she’d felt for him. The love they’d shared. She sang along softly, her voice bare
ly a whisper and no match for the mighty king.

  Kieran used to pretend he didn’t really like Elvis. It didn’t stop him listening, though. Especially after a few drinks. Most of the time, Freya went along with it, smiling as he made his jokes about cheesy music. Even though, deep down, she knew there was nothing cheesy about how this voice made her feel.

  So much time wasted pretending. Not just Elvis. Everything. Acting like they’d fallen into this living together arrangement. As if it was something that had happened without any planning or forethought. Pretending they were the sort of laidback people for whom the day-to-day mundanity of life was something they could take or leave. Always busy, too preoccupied with the bigger issues: global warming, third world poverty, child slavery and living in a world where 1% of the population owned 99% of the wealth.

  Yes, she knew all of that mattered and of course she still cared about it. But right now, the only thing she really gave a shit about was how empty everything suddenly was. This time last week, her life was perfect. Living here, in this flat, with a man no one had ever thought would settle for someone like her. A life with meaning and passion and purpose. Different in every way from the vacuous path her mother had chosen.

  Freya wasn’t stupid. She knew Kieran wasn’t perfect, but she didn’t get why that had to be such a big deal. So what? No one else in the world was supposed to be perfect, were they? Besides, whatever faults he had, the important thing was this: out of all the women in the world, he had chosen her. And there was nothing her mother or Alex or anyone else could do about that. He had chosen Freya and now he was gone.

  She poured herself more wine from the bottle at her feet. The taste of it soured her mouth and burned her stomach and reminded her too much of her mother. She drank it anyway, needing to do something to stop the churning swell of images and noises and smells that seemed to be not only inside her head but all around her, closing in until it felt like she would suffocate from it all.

  She would not end up like her mother. A miserable alcoholic clinging onto an empty, meaningless life with a man who didn’t love her. Freya shook her head. No. She was better than that.

  Her dead boyfriend looked down on her from the photo on the mantelpiece. She’d lit candles earlier, preferring the warm glow they gave to the harsh brightness of the overhead light. Kieran’s face – and her own – flickered in and out of focus in the shimmering, shifting light colours.

  His arm was draped carelessly over her shoulders. He wasn’t smiling. Strange how she’d never noticed that before. Sometimes, it was only possible to see things clearly when you stepped away from them. Or when you knew the full facts of a situation and were able to see it for what it really was.

  Her eyes slid from Kieran’s face to her own, shiny with happiness. They’d had sex that morning. In the small tent they were sharing. She remembered being worried about the others hearing them but not letting that stop her. Not for a second. Back then, they were having sex all the time. No bloody wonder she looked so happy.

  She forced down another mouthful of wine, but it triggered memories of her mother, wallowing in wine and self-pity, and she put the glass down, disgusted. She wished Dad was here. He’d promised he would drop by later but so far there was no sign of him. It wasn’t his fault. She knew he would be here if he could. But he was so busy and she couldn’t expect him just to drop everything and spend the next few days sitting here watching her mope around the place feeling sorry for herself. Just like her mother. She shuddered.

  Her mobile phone buzzed with a text. She pulled it from the pocket of her fleece, hoping it was her father. But it was only Emer. Again.

  I need to speak to you. Please call.

  Freya deleted the message without responding. Kieran’s older sister hadn’t given a damn about him when he was alive. Too late to start pretending now he was dead.

  The song ended sorrowfully, the last chord drifting away until it was nothing more than an echo in the silence. A new song, faster beat this time. Suspicious Minds. Unsurprisingly, Freya’s thoughts turned to her mother once more. Stupid cow crying and acting like she gave a shit when everyone knew the only person her mother ever cared about was herself.

  Anger replaced grief. She picked up the remote and cut the music.

  Enough Elvis and enough self-pity.

  She’d felt so sick earlier. Sick with worry and fear and the pure, vertiginous shock of his death. Part of her still couldn’t accept it was true. Kept hoping – with a fervour that was dangerous but inevitable, she supposed – that it was all some big mistake and any second now the door would open and in he’d come as if nothing at all had happened.

  He’s never coming back.

  She looked back at the photo, hating it for the lie it promised. Her smiling face, his arm around her, their matching jackets that screamed to the world that they were a couple. A happy pair of deluded fools with a lifetime of happiness stretched out in front of them.

  He’s never coming back.

  The grief was physical, a hard lump of pain that spread out from her chest and clogged her throat and made it difficult to see or hear or breathe. She stood up, lifted the photo from the mantelpiece and flung it across the room. It hit the wall, glass shattering into tiny pieces that scattered across the stripped floorboards, sharp shards that reflected the light from the candles, so that the whole floor seemed to move and dance in the twinkling light.

  Monday

  One

  Alastair was already at his desk when Abby got into work on Monday morning. She was damp and cold. It had started raining while she was on the DLR. Optimistically, she’d let the early morning blue sky fool her into thinking it would be dry today, and left her umbrella behind. By the time she got to work, she was soaked.

  Alastair grinned as he watched her shake out her coat before carefully hanging it on the coat-rack. She thought he looked unbearably smug. Which was unfair of her, she knew. He had every reason to look smug. Until last night, Abby hadn’t understood why Ellen and everyone else rated him so highly. Now she totally got it. His work identifying Ben Lowe was nothing short of genius. She had to hand it to him, even if – at the same time – she couldn’t stop the sharp stab of jealousy that pinched her ribs. Maybe that was why she made a show of praising him to Malcolm when he came in a few minutes later.

  ‘Did you hear about this one last night?’ she asked.

  ‘The guy from the pub?’ Malcolm said. ‘Aye, Al told me you’d brought him in for questioning. Not happy about being held overnight, apparently. Duty Sergeant said he kicked up a right stink during the night.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Abby said. ‘Are you saying genius boy here hasn’t told you how he knew Ben Lowe was our man?’

  ‘He didn’t really say much,’ Malcolm said. ‘You know what he’s like, right? Muttered something about a happy coincidence then spent the rest of his time on the phone to someone.’

  She’d been too dismissive of Alastair. She could see that now. Had mistaken his quiet shyness and lack of ego for a lack of something else. A personality, maybe. She’d been stupid. The jealousy disappeared. Replaced by respect.

  ‘He’d already been through the case notes in minute detail,’ Abby said, speaking to Malcolm but watching Alastair the whole time. Willing him to take credit for a great piece of work.

  ‘There’s a note in there from one of the uniforms who did the door-to-doors. As well as speaking to the neighbours, they checked the local pubs. Freya had told them Kieran met someone for a drink before the party. There was a good chance he went to a pub near Charlotte’s house. Turned out that’s exactly what he did. The landlady of The Dacre Arms remembered him. Said he was in there with another bloke. Didn’t stay long. Midway through the second drink, the men had some sort of argument. Landlady didn’t know the details, but she said Burton stormed out of the pub. Left almost a full pint behind him. The other bloke followed him about half an hour later.’

  ‘And that was Ben Lowe?’ Malcolm said.

  Ab
by nodded. ‘Yep. Landlady didn’t know who he was but she gave a description to our officer who dutifully noted it all down. Alastair read the description and remembered it when we were in the pub.’

  ‘It was just a guess,’ Alastair said. ‘A shot in the dark, that’s all. There was every chance I could have been wrong.’

  ‘But you weren’t,’ Abby said. ‘That’s what counts. And because of that, we have our first real lead. All thanks to you.’

  Alastair waved away the compliment and motioned for Abby to sit down.

  ‘And now we’ve got something else,’ he said. ‘If you’d ever stop talking, I can tell you what it is.’

  Abby pulled out the chair beside him and sat down.

  ‘It’s about Charlotte Gleeson,’ Alastair said.

  * * *

  The postman caught Ellen as she was rushing out the door with the children on Monday morning.

  ‘Just the one letter,’ he said, handing her a white envelope with a logo on the front. She registered the logo as she shoved the envelope, unopened, into her bag to read later. It was from the secondary school Pat was starting at in September.

  She got the kids to school just as the morning bell was ringing and raced across to Lewisham. She bumped into Raj as she was going inside and persuaded him to come across the road to Danilo’s.

  ‘I’ll buy you a coffee,’ she said. ‘And in return, you can tell me everything you know about Pete Cooper and Operation Rift.’

  ‘Not much to tell,’ Raj said, once they’d settled at a Formica table by the window, hot drinks steaming the air between them – cappuccino for Raj, double espresso for her.

  ‘Well, nothing you probably don’t know already. The focus of Operation Rift is money-laundering. We think it’s our best chance of getting to some seriously bad people. Cooper wasn’t on our radar at first. On the surface, he’s respectable enough. One of these guys with a portfolio – as well as the furniture shops, he’s part-owner of two hotels in Greenwich, has a string of high-end properties he rents out across the south-east, and he’s one of the main investors in Tramp.’