All Things Nice

by Sheila Bugler

  Clive, his sometimes-bodyguard, came out of the kitchen and asked Pete if he was all right.

  ‘Fine,’ Pete said.

  ‘You look a bit worried, that’s all,’ Clive said.

  ‘I said I’m fine,’ Pete said, waving the idiot away. Clive was a typical muscle man. All meat and no brain. No complexity to him. Truth was, Pete was scared. Didn’t want to admit what was frightening him because as soon as he said it, it would become something real that he had to consider. He went into the sitting room and stood in front of the portrait of Annalise. She’d been only a few years older than Cosima when he’d commissioned that piece. Perfect. Before that bastard McNulty got to her.

  Flashlight splashes of memory. His mother’s face, laughing down at him as he lay in bed, too scared to move. The stink of alcohol and cigarettes on her breath. Her fingers digging into his arm as she dragged him from the bed into the sitting room where the man was waiting for them both.

  Annalise, smiling shyly that first time. Her hands shaking as she untied the laces of her white nightdress. The one he’d bought specially. The same one he’d given to Cosima the morning of her twenty-first birthday.

  A series of photos laid out on his desk. Annalise on her knees in front of McNulty. Doing things a woman like that should never be forced to do. Standing naked in a hotel bedroom, exposing herself like the cheap tart she’d become.

  It still hurt. He’d loved her beyond reason. Had promised her the earth when they’d first met. And he’d given her more than she could ever have dreamed of. Taken her from the shitty estate and brought her here, to this place. The perfect home for the perfect woman.

  Her face smiled down at him from above the fireplace, the purest, sweetest smile. He’d have done anything in the world to protect her, keep her safe and create a world for her where that perfection could survive. He’d done everything he possibly could, but it wasn’t enough. She’d become the one thing he hadn’t wanted. A cheap slut, every bit as bad as his own mother. And when he knew what she was really like, he’d had no choice.

  He’d been so sure about her. From the first moment he laid eyes on her, he knew. She was the one. In the beginning, she’d loved him and obeyed him and been everything he’d wanted her to be for a short, perfect period of time.

  And then Daniel McNulty took all that away from him.

  When Pete first heard the rumours, he’d refused to believe them. Told himself it was nothing more than idle gossip from people who were jealous of him and what he had. Turned out he was a bloody fool.

  When it was all over, he’d come in here the following morning with a ladder and started to take down the painting. Midway through, he found himself crying onto the face of his dead wife. He didn’t understand it at first. She wasn’t worth his tears. Then he realised. The Annalise in the painting wasn’t the same woman as the person he’d had to get rid of. The Annalise in the painting didn’t deserve to be punished. She could stay where she was. She was blameless. Nothing like the Annalise who’d let herself be ruined beyond redemption by a man with no manners and no prospects. That Annalise deserved to die. This one most certainly did not.

  ‘Daddy?’

  Pete’s heart stumbled over itself. She was here. She smiled and he tried to smile back, doing his best to ignore the doubt gnawing at the edges of his mind. Not letting himself think about why she’d put a password on her mobile phone recently. Almost as if she didn’t want him to see what was on it. And now, there was something tentative, guarded about the way she was looking at him that brought him right back to that other time.

  Like mother, like daughter.

  No. He wouldn’t do that to himself. It wasn’t fair on either of them. She crossed the room, walking with her mother’s walk, looking at him with her mother’s eyes.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I had a meeting with my course tutor,’ she said. ‘I forgot to switch my phone on after my last lecture so I didn’t know you were trying to get in touch with me. I’m sorry.’

  She was close enough now for him to touch her. He reached up, ran his finger along her cheek, the softness of her skin triggering a slew of memories. And something else too. He knew he shouldn’t keep touching her when that happened but it was impossible not to.

  He kept his finger on her face and closed his eyes, breathing in the flowery scent of the perfume he bought especially for her. It was the easiest thing in the world to imagine she was Annalise, ready to step into his arms and let him do whatever he wanted, always ready to show him how grateful she was for all he’d done.

  He took a step closer, heard the sharp intake of breath and opened his eyes, confused. Annalise was staring at him, something in her face he didn’t recognise and didn’t like.

  ‘Daddy?’

  Not Annalise. Of course not. He smiled and patted her face, meaning to reassure her but smacking a little harder than he’d meant to, leaving a faint trace of red on her perfect skin. She remained where she was, not moving or showing any sign that he’d hurt her. Behaving like a perfect lady, just the way he’d taught her to. He lifted his hand and smacked her again, harder this time. The red mark darkened. Still she didn’t move.

  He traced the mark with the tip of his finger, trailed his finger around the curve her jaw, around her chin and down, not stopping until he reached the base of her neck. He could feel a pulse beating above her collar bone, and hear her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He spread his palm open so that it wrapped around her neck.

  ‘You’d tell me,’ he whispered, ‘wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘If there was anything I needed to worry about.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  He let her go then, turned away from her and went to the mahogany drinks cabinet. He pulled out the bottle of single malt and poured two fingerfuls into one of the cut crystal glasses. It was only when he tried to drink from the glass and the whiskey missed his mouth and dribbled down his chin, soaking into the soft silk of his cravat, that he realised he was shaking from head to toe.

  Five

  He should have password-protected it. Then Charlotte would never have seen the message. But she had seen it. And now she knew. She was in the kitchen, holding the phone. It wasn’t his usual phone. That was a sleek, slim iPhone. Model blah, blah, blah. She didn’t care about things like that, but he did. Upgraded his phone every time a new version was released. Like a little boy with his gadgets. Was there really a time she’d thought that was cute?

  She read the message again. Tried to think who could have sent it. Loretta? Charlotte was pretty sure that had fizzled out a while ago. The last time she’d been at the restaurant you could feel the tension between them. Icy cold. At the time, Charlotte was pleased. Loretta was a bitch who hadn’t thought twice about screwing her married boss. All smiles and charm to Charlotte’s face when all the time Charlotte knew. Pathetic woman that she was, she’d played along with it. Returned Loretta’s smiles, made meaningless small-talk and never once let on that all she could think about was her husband’s assistant lying on her back with her legs open while Nick moved up and down on top of her.

  She’d played along because she was a coward. Too scared to make a fuss in case it led to an ultimatum. If she said nothing, pretended everything was fine, Nick would stay. And even though she couldn’t stand the sight of him, nothing else was an option. No dirty ‘D’ word was going to end her marriage, thank you very much.

  Now, standing in the kitchen with the cheap plastic phone in her hand, reading a text exchange between her husband and some nameless, faceless woman, Charlotte wondered how she could ever have been so stupid.

  Outside, the growl of crunching gravel as a car drove down the driveway. Charlotte put the phone down and ran across to the window. Saw her own little Merc pulling up outside the house. The engine stopped and her husband’s large frame uncurled out of the car.

  She couldn’t face him. She needed to clear her head, work out what she th
ought it all meant and what she wanted to do about it. She already knew one thing. If he had any hand in what had happened to Ginny, she would make him pay.

  What was he doing with her car? She tried to remember if he’d told her he was taking it. She couldn’t remember but didn’t care. He could have the bloody thing if it made him happy.

  Her head was light, spinning as if she’d drank a glass of wine too quickly. Her stomach and chest were tight. She closed her eyes, forced herself to breathe slowly – in, out, in, out – the way the shrink had showed her. Far away, a key turned in the front door followed by her husband’s voice, calling her name. She slipped the phone in her trouser pocket and left through the back door.

  * * *

  ‘Charlotte?’

  No answer. Didn’t mean anything. Half the time she was so out of it she didn’t hear him coming home. Or pretended not to. He’d lost count of the times he’d let himself believe he had the place to himself only to walk into the kitchen or the sitting room and find her waiting for him. A glass of wine always in her hand and a look of martyred misery on her face. That fucking face. Like he was the one with the drink problem and the utter fucking lack of any bit of love or compassion or maternal instinct. The woman he’d married was a monster. A drink-addicted, self-deluding monster who lived in a world of make-believe. The shallowest, emptiest, most self-pitying person he’d ever had the misfortune to know.

  He ran upstairs, checked the bedroom and bathroom. Downstairs again, calling her name the whole time, dreading the moment he would open a door and find her waiting for him like an apparition from a horror movie. Ghostly and martyred and drunk.

  But she wasn’t here. The stupid cow really had managed to pull herself together and get out somewhere. Which was a huge relief. No moany questioning, no asking what he was looking for and could she help and why didn’t he sit down and she’d make him a cup of his favourite coffee while he listened to her moan on and on and fucking on about losing the only friend she’d ever had. Never once pausing to question why it was she’d never managed to find anyone else willing or able to put up with her.

  Being married to her was like a slow death. He’d had enough. Until recently, he’d been willing to stick with it. He hated her but, on the surface at least, their marriage worked. And it suited the image he wanted to present to the world. The happily married, successful businessman. Decent and hardworking and loyal. But everything was different now. It was time to move on and get rid of the stupid cow once and for all.

  He’d rushed home to get the pay-as-you-go phone. Seeing Ellen Kelly cosying up with Loretta had freaked him out. He’d had to get away. Went for a long drive then stopped to make a call. And realised he only had the iPhone, and he couldn’t use that. They’d both agreed. Too easy to trace the calls back to him.

  In the hall, he searched the pockets of the jacket hanging on the coat-rack, certain that’s where he’d left the phone. When he didn’t find it, he tried to think where else it could be. He’d gone for a few drinks with the team last night, when the restaurant closed. He’d been wearing this jacket and definitely had the phone in the pub. The text had come just after he’d bought a round. He remembered excusing himself and going outside. He’d been about to call back when Loretta sidled out to him, started with her usual insinuations and incriminations. In the end, he’d sent a quick text and gone back inside, leaving Loretta alone in the rain.

  A moment of cold panic. He pictured the phone falling out of his pocket as he walked into the pub. Imagined Loretta seeing it, picking it up and scrolling through his texts. He shook his head, telling himself he was being stupid. He’d put the phone into his pocket. The inside breast pocket of the jacket. He hadn’t taken the jacket off. No way it could have fallen out.

  He took out his usual phone, the silver grey iPhone that he loved, and dialled the number he knew off by heart. With the iPhone pressed against his ear, he heard the other phone start to ring, held his breath as he waited to hear the corresponding ring from somewhere inside the house.

  But nothing happened.

  * * *

  The day was grey and overcast. She’d left the house too quickly, forgotten to grab a jacket. The unseasonably cold wind raced across the open heath, cutting through her fat-free frame. The phone in her trouser pocket started to ring. She pulled it out, half-hoping it would be her – the bitch he was two-timing her with. When she saw Nick’s number on the display she smiled. He was panicking, calling the phone, hoping to hear it ring so he’d know where it was. She carried on walking, holding the phone in her hand while it rang. She pictured her husband, standing alone in the big, empty house, dialling the number over and over again, desperate to find the phone before anyone else did.

  As she reached the edge of the heath and crossed Charlton Way into Greenwich Park, the clouds cleared and the sun came out. The air around her grew warmer and the wind died down. She lifted her face to the sun, closed her eyes and let the warmth wash over her. In her hand, the cheap phone continued to ring.

  Six

  A DVLA check confirmed a red Mercedes sports car was registered to the Gleesons’ address. Charlotte Gleeson was named as the owner.

  ‘Strange,’ Ellen said, re-reading the information. ‘It was definitely him driving the car. Not her.’

  ‘Maybe he borrowed his wife’s car,’ Alastair said.

  ‘Maybe,’ Ellen said. ‘Either way, I need to get over there. Ask him some questions.’

  She put on her jacket, ready to go, when Malcolm burst into the room.

  ‘Got Burton’s bank details,’ he said, red-faced and out of breath. ‘Two bank accounts. A joint one he shared with Freya and a separate one in his own name. Nothing special in the first account. Most of the money is paid in by her. They use that account to pay their rent, bills, et cetera.’

  ‘The other account?’ Ellen asked.

  Malcolm’s face lit up.

  ‘Nothing in there for months on end,’ he said. ‘Twenty-five quid that he hasn’t touched for years. Then four weeks ago, a cash deposit of seven and a half grand.’

  Seven and a half thousand. Enough to kill someone? Ellen had worked cases where victims had been murdered for substantially smaller sums than that.

  ‘Any idea who made the deposit?’ she asked.

  ‘According to the paying-in slip, it was Burton himself,’ Malcolm said.

  ‘Good work, Malcolm,’ Ellen said. ‘Now we need to cross-check that sum of money. Check out the Gleesons first – home and business accounts. You’re looking for a cash withdrawal of between five and ten thousand. Check the last three months … speak to Raj about Cooper, too, although I don’t think we’ll find anything. Even if the money came from him, he’ll have found a way to make it impossible to trace.’

  She suspected the same would go for Nick Gleeson. Running a business like his, ten grand was little more than petty cash. But they had to look into it nonetheless. It would be a boring, time-consuming task and she didn’t envy Malcolm one bit.

  She zipped up her jacket and turned to Alastair.

  ‘I’m going across to Gleeson’s place now. Want to come?’

  He grinned. ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘Good,’ Ellen said. ‘Call downstairs and arrange for two uniforms to meet us in the car park.’

  ‘Anyone in particular?’ Alastair asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Ellen remembered the blonde officer from the day the body was found. ‘See if PC McKeown is free. If not, then I don’t care. Let’s go.’

  * * *

  The atmosphere in the flat was almost as bad as the smell. Abby had suggested opening the windows, but Freya refused to consider it. She sat huddled beside the electric heater, barely speaking while Abby had moved around the flat, tidying things and washing up the pile of dirty plates and cups in the kitchen.

  When she’d done as much as she could, Abby asked Freya if she’d like to go for a walk.

  Freya shook her head.

  ‘You need to get out,’ Abby said.
‘Look, it’s not raining for once. Let’s make the most of the sun.’

  Freya sighed. ‘If I say yes, will you stop being so bloody perky?’

  ‘I can’t promise that,’ Abby said. ‘But the café in the park does a good hot chocolate. I’ll treat you?’

  Reluctantly, Freya heaved herself into a shapeless woollen coat that was far too big for her and clumped after Abby down the stairs and out of the house.

  Despite the sun, Freya wrapped the coat around her and buried her face in the collar as they walked up Ennersdale Road towards Mountsfield Park.

  ‘It still has his smell,’ she said. ‘I wonder how long before that goes too?’

  Abby remembered thinking the same thing after her brother Andy died. Lying on his bed with her face buried in his pillow. Inhaling deeply, holding her breath for as long as she possibly could, desperate to keep this last remaining piece of him. She felt a pang of empathy for Freya and wondered if it was grief that had soured Freya’s personality or if she’d always been this way.

  ‘Tell me about Kieran,’ Abby said. ‘How did you meet him?’

  Freya smiled. It softened her face and made her suddenly pretty. For the first time, Abby saw a flicker of what might have attracted Kieran to her.

  ‘We were at a rally,’ Freya said. ‘Protesting against the plans to close Lewisham Hospital. The atmosphere was amazing. So many people from the local community gathered to support our local NHS services. I got talking to Kieran. Nothing serious, just a bit of banter as we marched. Afterwards, a group of us were going to the pub. I asked if he wanted to come with us and that’s how it started. He came home with me that evening and barely left since.’

  ‘How long ago was that?’ Abby asked.

  ‘Two and a half years,’ Freya said. ‘The best, happiest time of my life.’

  They’d reached the park and walked in silence across to the café at the top. Abby bought the hot chocolates and joined Freya at a table outside when the drinks were ready. The smell of sweet, warm chocolate circled around her, making the world seem a better place than it really was.