All Things Nice

by Sheila Bugler

  ‘What about you?’ Freya asked. ‘You seeing anyone?’

  Abby took a sip of coffee and looked across the park as she considered her answer. The urge to speak about Sam, to tell everyone she met everything she knew about him, was new and unexpected. When she finally answered, she spoke slowly, taking care not to gush.

  ‘Sort of,’ she said. ‘But it’s early days yet. We hardly know each other.’

  ‘It’s easy for women like you,’ Freya said.

  ‘What is?’ Abby asked.

  Mountsfield Park was glorious when the sun was shining. She pictured herself walking along here with Sam. Hand in hand, taking in the stunning views that stretched all the way across London as far as the London Eye.

  ‘Relationships,’ Freya said. ‘Men are so shallow. They rarely look beneath the surface, don’t take the time to think about the sort of person a woman really is. And women are fooled by it. They end up like my mother, constantly striving to be perfect. And constantly failing.

  ‘Someone who looks like you, I bet you’ve no shortage of blokes wanting to go out with you. Not one of them caring what sort of a person you are. Or worse, pretending you’re something you’re not, so you’ll fit their ideal of what a perfect little girlfriend should be. Look at you! Perfect hair, perfect body, perfect skin, perfect clothes. But it’s all surface, isn’t it? Underneath, you could be the biggest cow in the world or thick as a plank and nine guys out of ten won’t care one jot. They’ll still want to go out with you just because of the way you look.’

  The venom in Freya’s voice took Abby by surprise. Again, she considered her words carefully before she spoke.

  ‘I agree with you,’ she said. ‘It is shallow. But that’s life. I guess you can choose to rail against it or go with the flow. Maybe I’m not brave enough to rail against it, I don’t know.’

  ‘I could be pretty if I wanted to,’ Freya said. ‘I could lose some weight, get my hair cut and buy some new clothes. But why would I bother? I don’t want to be with someone who cares about stuff like that. This is me!’ She slammed a fist against her chest, so hard it must have hurt. ‘That’s why Kieran was different. He saw through all that superficial bollocks. And I loved him for it.’

  Except he didn’t, Abby thought. He had fooled this poor girl into thinking he cared when all the time he was taking her for a ride.

  ‘I’m not stupid,’ Freya said.

  For a moment, Abby thought Freya must have guessed what she was thinking.

  ‘I know what people said about us,’ Freya continued. ‘I could see it in their faces. How did a plain Jane like me manage to get a guy like him? My mother was the worst. She couldn’t stand it. Hated that Kieran had chosen me not her. According to her worldview, no good-looking guy would ever look twice at someone like me. I’m sure she’s told you she didn’t approve of Kieran. It’s not true. She flirted with him. All the time. She disapproved, all right. But her disapproval was all based on the fact that he’d chosen me, not her.’

  ‘But your mum is married,’ Abby said. ‘And she’s your mum.’

  ‘That’s never stopped her,’ Freya said. She drained her cup, slammed it on the table and stood up. ‘I’m cold. I want to go home. I’ve had enough of all this sunshine and fake girly-chat. You think I don’t know what you’re doing? Pretending to be my friend when all the time you’re wondering if I killed him.’

  Freya pulled Kieran’s jacket around her body and walked off. Abby got up and followed her, wondering what she’d said or done to make Freya shut down so suddenly. As she hurried after her, Abby ran back over the conversation. It was when she’d mentioned Charlotte that Freya had shut down.

  That’s never stopped her.

  What did Freya mean exactly? Abby caught up with her, put her hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Sorry,’ Abby said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Freya said. ‘I just don’t want to speak about my mother.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Abby said. ‘If you don’t want to speak about her, you don’t have to. I won’t ask you about her again.’

  ‘Promise?’

  Abby smiled, the lie coming easily as Ger’s words ran through her head. Try to crack through that shell and see what you get.

  ‘I promise,’ she said.

  She linked her arm in Freya’s and, together, the two women walked side by side across the park, leaving the views of the city behind them as they walked back into the quiet suburbia of Hither Green.

  Seven

  The red car was parked outside the house when Ellen, Alastair and the two PCs arrived. According to the DVLA, Nick Gleeson drove a navy-blue BMW 730. The same car she’d seen in the driveway the first time she’d visited this house. There was no BMW here today. She rang the doorbell. It was answered a moment later by Nick Gleeson.

  ‘Mind if we come inside?’ Ellen stepped past him into the vast hallway before he had a chance to answer. ‘We’d like to ask you some more questions. You and your wife.’

  ‘My wife’s not here,’ Nick said. ‘And before you ask, I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘Isn’t that her car parked in the driveway?’ Ellen asked.

  He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure what answer to give.

  ‘My car’s in for a service,’ he said. ‘I’ve borrowed Charlotte’s Merc for a few days.’

  ‘How many days?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘How many days have you had your wife’s car?’ Ellen asked. ‘It’s a simple enough question.’

  ‘Since Wednesday morning,’ Nick said. ‘Why?’

  ‘We’ll need details of the people who have your car,’ Ellen said. ‘So we can check that out. Can you give me that information now?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Nick said. ‘But I don’t understand. I’m sorry, Officer …’

  ‘Detective,’ Ellen interrupted. ‘It’s Detective Inspector Kelly, Mr Gleeson. Try to remember that.’

  He scowled at her. ‘Sorry, Detective Inspector. I’m happy to provide you with any information you need. Of course I am. Can you tell me why you need it?’

  Ellen was saved from answering by the appearance of Alastair, who’d joined them in the hall.

  ‘Ma’am? Something to show you.’

  Ellen followed him outside, where he pointed at the red car.

  ‘Scratches on the front left-hand side,’ he said. ‘Damage to the paintwork and some dints in the metal, too.’

  Gleeson was standing in the doorway, watching them.

  ‘Mr Gleeson,’ Ellen said, ‘we’re going to have to take you to the station. We’ve got some further questions for you and we’ll need your answers on record.’

  He started to protest but Ellen walked away. She left Alastair and the two officers to deal with him, while she went to examine the damage to the red sports car. It was too early to make any assumptions but a jubilant voice was bouncing around inside her head, telling her that once they examined the paintwork on the car it was going to be a match for the paint discovered on Virginia Rau’s body.

  * * *

  Charlotte stood outside Freya’s house, wondering whether or not to press the doorbell. She’d walked all the way across from Greenwich. Her feet ached and her legs were shaky-tired. She was out of breath, hot and sweaty.

  She didn’t know why she’d come here. A vague, unformed hope that maybe she could rebuild some sort of relationship with her daughter. She knew she hadn’t been the best mother and she’d change that if she could. If Freya would let her. With Ginny gone, Freya was the only thing she had left. Things between them might not be perfect but Freya was her daughter and that had to mean something.

  Music thumped loudly from one of the houses across the street. Charlotte wished they’d turn it down. The noise was giving her a headache. She wondered how the other neighbours could bear it. Although more than likely, it wasn’t the worst thing you had to put up with in a neighbourhood like this.

  She pressed the doorbell, waited, pressed it ag
ain. No answer. Frustrated, she went onto the street and looked up at Freya’s flat. Nothing.

  ‘Mum?’

  Charlotte swung around, saw Freya walking towards her down the hill. The pretty detective alongside her. Panicked, Charlotte tried to decide what to do. Stay or go? She trawled through her memories, trying to find something that would link Freya and the detective. Something besides Kieran and Ginny. Nothing came to her but she couldn’t stop herself wondering: what the hell was Abby doing here? Out walking with Freya as if they were the best of friends.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Freya stopped in front of Charlotte. She wasn’t smiling but she didn’t look too displeased to see her, either. Which Charlotte took as a good sign.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ Charlotte said. ‘Is this a bad time?’

  ‘Depends why you’re here,’ Freya said.

  Her hair was greasy and messy, like she hadn’t washed it or brushed it in days. Charlotte ran her fingers through her own hair, thought of the care she’d taken getting ready this morning and wondered why Freya couldn’t have done the same. She knew her daughter was grieving but so was Charlotte, after all.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said again, thinking how stupid and judgemental she was being. Grief affected everyone in different ways. She’d spent time on her appearance this morning because the ritual of getting ready soothed her. She was sure Freya had her own rituals, which – no doubt – Charlotte wouldn’t have understood or cared for.

  ‘What for?’ Freya asked.

  ‘I should have called first,’ Charlotte said. ‘But I wanted to see you, darling. Make sure you’re okay. Can I come in?’

  Freya shrugged, stepped back inside and started up the stairs. When the detective moved to follow her in, Charlotte shook her head.

  ‘Can’t you give us some time alone?’ she asked.

  The detective looked at Freya, who must have indicated it was okay because the detective nodded her head and said that was fine.

  ‘You need food.’ She spoke to Freya as if Charlotte was invisible. ‘I’ll go to the shop. Call if you need me.’

  After she left, Charlotte turned to Freya, her expression deliberately quizzical. Unsurprisingly, Freya chose to ignore the look and headed up the stairs, leaving Charlotte no choice but to follow her.

  From the state of her daughter, Charlotte had expected to find the flat in a similar state. Instead, the place was spotlessly clean. A vase with fresh lilies stood on the table by the window. The thick, sweet smell of the flowers filled the small room.

  ‘Abby tidied up,’ Freya said, watching Charlotte look around the flat.

  ‘Beautiful flowers,’ Charlotte said, still trying to work out this new relationship. It crossed her mind – not for the first time – that maybe Freya was a lesbian. The clothes and the hair practically shouted as much. But not Abby, surely. And even if there was something between them, wasn’t there some sort of code of ethics that the police were obliged to follow? Charlotte sighed, wishing she understood.

  ‘Kieran used to buy me flowers every week,’ Freya said. ‘I bought them yesterday in his memory. He would have loved these. See the colour? I’ve never seen lilies this shade before.’

  She was right. The petals were a rich, indigo blue. Very unusual. Charlotte tried to imagine Kieran arriving home each week with a bunch of flowers for Freya, the two of them embracing after he’d handed them over. The whole scenario was so laughably improbable she felt a sharp pang of sympathy for her poor daughter.

  ‘Shall I make us some tea?’ she asked.

  ‘Okay,’ Freya said. ‘I’ll help if you’d like?’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ Charlotte said. ‘Thank you.’

  In the galley kitchen she spotted a bottle of red wine, unopened, on the kitchen worktop. With supreme self-control she looked away and set about making two cups of tea.

  Eight

  It was the same detectives again. The icy blonde, DSI Cox, and the brunette who’d come to his house. They asked him if he wanted a solicitor and he said no, it wasn’t necessary. Now, he was starting to think that was a mistake. He had assumed this was about Kieran. Turned out they were more interested in where he’d been on Tuesday night. Didn’t take long for him to work out it was Ginny’s death they wanted to know about.

  ‘Are you all right, Mr Gleeson?’

  Cox was looking at him, frowning. For one horrible moment he thought maybe he’d said something he shouldn’t have.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Sorry. I’m trying to gather my thoughts, that’s all. I mean, can you imagine what this is like? Only a week ago, my life was perfectly normal.’ A lie but not a serious one. ‘And then suddenly two people close to my family are killed. My daughter’s boyfriend and my wife’s best friend. It’s like someone’s got it in for me.’

  ‘For you?’ Cox asked.

  Cow.

  ‘For us,’ he said. ‘Of course I don’t mean just myself. Freya, Charlotte and I. Makes me wonder what will happen next.’

  He shuddered, part-dramatic, part-real. Freya and Charlotte had already lost the people they cared most about. What if the same thing happened to him?

  ‘I’m scared,’ he said.

  ‘Of what?’ The dark one this time. Kelly.

  ‘I’m scared,’ he repeated, speaking slowly, the way he might if he was explaining a complex idea to a small child, ‘because I don’t know why any of this has happened. I’m used to being in control. All of this … mess, I can’t control what will happen next. I hate that.’

  Was it his imagination or did he see a softening around Kelly’s eyes?

  ‘Which is why you need our help,’ she said.

  ‘So let’s try again,’ Cox said. ‘Where were you on Tuesday night? You sure as hell weren’t home. Your wife’s already confirmed that.’

  ‘I worked late,’ Nick said. ‘I’m working late every night at the moment. It’s a busy time for me, as I’m sure you can understand.’ He gave what he knew was his best smile but neither responded.

  ‘You had a visit from Pete Cooper shortly after eight,’ Cox said.

  Nick nodded but it wasn’t enough for Cox. She pointed at the CD-recorder and asked him the same question again.

  ‘Business,’ he said. ‘Pete wanted to talk about the new restaurant, that’s all.’

  ‘There’s a CCTV camera near the entrance to the restaurant,’ Cox said. ‘We’ve got Mr Cooper entering the restaurant at six minutes past eight and leaving again just before ten. Is that right?’

  Nick nodded again, then remembered the CD-recorder and said, ‘Yes, that sounds about right.’

  Kelly frowned and he wondered how he’d slipped up.

  ‘Do you always have business meetings so late in the evening?’ she asked.

  Nick nearly laughed with relief. They didn’t have a clue.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘Especially when they take place in the restaurant and Pete can get a free meal out of it.’

  ‘Your assistant says you were still at the office when she left at a quarter past one,’ Kelly said. ‘We have CCTV footage of you leaving the restaurant shortly after that. Twenty-four minutes past one to be precise. Where did you go?’

  ‘My apartment,’ he said. ‘Look, if I can be frank?’ When he got no response from either of them, he carried on regardless. He’d already hinted at what it was like for him. Time to give them the whole picture.

  ‘Charlotte is a very troubled woman,’ he said. ‘She’s an alcoholic. What some people term a high-functioning alcoholic. Although if you live with it, you quickly see there’s very little functioning that actually goes on.’ He smiled, the same smile he’d practiced each time he used that line. Again, neither detective smiled back. They really were a pair of heartless cows.

  ‘She drinks all the time,’ he continued. ‘And she can be abusive. Aggressive, even. Truth be told, our marriage ended years ago.’

  ‘So you’re seeing someone else,’ Kelly said. ‘Is that what you’re trying to tell us?’

&
nbsp; He felt unaccountably disappointed. He’d have expected a jibe like that from the blonde but not Kelly, who – he suspected – understood him better than she let on. He shook his head, doing his best to look sad, like a man beaten down by the trials he had to endure.

  ‘There’s no one else,’ he said. ‘I rent the apartment because there are times I can’t bear to go home, knowing what’s waiting for me. That sounds callous, I know. But it’s the truth, DI Kelly.’

  As she returned his stare, he waited for another flash of warmth. Nothing. Didn’t mean she wasn’t feeling it. As a detective, he imagined she’d become accustomed to concealing what she thought.

  ‘I feel sorry for her,’ he said, the over-used half-truth coming easily. He leaned forward, looked directly into Cox’s startling blue eyes. ‘You’ve met my wife, Superintendent. You must have noticed how unstable she is. She’s an unpredictable alcoholic. I’ve tried to leave her several times in the past but each time I have, well, let’s just say it didn’t end well. I’m worried what might happen if I tried again.’

  He saw something like scorn on Cox’s face and sat back, repelled by her lack of empathy. How could she know what it was like for him? He wished he could tell her the truth. She thought he was some pathetic creature stuck in a dead-end marriage. He thought of last night and all the other nights over the last months. The new happiness that gave his life the meaning he’d been craving for so long. He wanted to shout it out, watch the look on Cox’s face change from contempt to respect. But what if she didn’t get it? What if, instead of respecting him, it made her despise him even more? He imagined a different reaction. Supercilious scorn mixed with contempt. She wouldn’t understand. Neither of them would. How could they? You only had to look at them to see that passion was a foreign language to women like them.