All Things Nice

by Sheila Bugler

‘Is that it?’ he said instead. ‘Am I free to go?’

  ‘Nearly finished,’ Cox said.

  He knew they’d already been to the apartment block. Clarence, the bloke who worked the front desk, had told him they’d come calling. Lucky for Nick he’d had the forethought to give Clarence a tidy handout, collateral in case the police asked any tricky questions. No problems there.

  He waited, thinking they must be near the end now. A few more pointless questions and then – surely – they’d wrap things up.

  ‘Any idea when your car will be ready?’ Cox asked.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Nick said. ‘With a bit of luck. Been using the same BMW dealer for the last eight years. Great bloke. I’d trust him with my life.’

  He cringed the moment he said it but they didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ Cox murmured.

  ‘There was just one more thing,’ Kelly said, as Nick uncrossed his legs and prepared to stand up.

  He sighed. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘We checked your phone records,’ she said. ‘Three weeks before he died, you received five separate text messages from Kieran Burton. Why was that?’

  For a long, drawn out moment, he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Stupidly – so stupid he could have slapped himself right now – he hadn’t thought they’d check his phone records. How could he not have thought of that?

  ‘It was nothing,’ he said. ‘I’d been trying for a while to persuade Kieran to propose. I’m a father, Detective. Freya’s my little girl. If you have children yourself, you’ll understand why I was so keen for him to make an honest woman of her.’

  ‘You did that by text?’ Kelly asked.

  ‘No,’ Nick blustered. ‘Of course not. We’d had a chat about it and then, a few days later, he sent me a text. Said he’d thought about it and he was going to do it.’

  Kelly barely seemed to be listening. She was consulting the information on a piece of paper in front of her. Nick tried to read it but the writing was too small.

  ‘On Monday the second of April,’ Kelly said, ‘the first time he texted you, in fact, Kieran sent you a text message with an image embedded. Seems a strange thing to do. What was the photo of?’

  His mind sped back to that terrible moment. He thought he’d managed the situation. And now here they were, bringing the whole mess out into the open again. It wasn’t fair.

  ‘The photo,’ Kelly repeated like a broken bloody record. ‘What was it?’

  ‘A ring.’ He said the first thing that popped into his head. ‘He was looking at an engagement ring and wanted my opinion.’

  ‘I assume you kept the photo?’ Cox said.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Nick said. He’d deleted the image almost immediately, making sure no one would ever see it.

  ‘Mr Gleeson?’ One of them was speaking. The room was spinning and it was difficult to hear over the other noises pulsating through his head.

  ‘I deleted it,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think anyone would want to see it.’

  His voice sounded so normal, so natural. Like there was nothing wrong.

  ‘Not even your wife?’ Kelly said.

  ‘I already told you,’ he said. ‘We’re barely on speaking terms.’

  ‘Never mind,’ the blonde said. ‘I’m sure we can find the image. We’ve got access to Kieran’s online storage, I think DI Kelly?’

  Kelly nodded, never taking her eyes off Nick. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘We certainly have.’

  She smirked when she said this and he knew the bitch didn’t believe him. Which wasn’t fair but he knew what the police were like. In their eyes, everyone was a potential criminal, even innocent members of the public. He felt a righteous anger on behalf of all those who’d suffered unfairly at the hands of biased police officers.

  They thought he’d killed Kieran. Ginny too, probably.

  ‘It was Charlotte,’ he said. ‘She’s who you should be looking at. Not me.’

  Silence. Two faces looking at him. Two pairs of blue eyes. Icy pale and a blue that was so deep it was almost navy. He blinked, startled by the sudden beauty he saw in Kelly’s unbeautiful face.

  ‘Would you care to elaborate?’ Cox said eventually.

  He hesitated, not sure he was doing the right thing. He hadn’t wanted this. Any whiff of a scandal was bad for business. He’d thought – stupidly, he could see that now – that somehow he could deflect police attention away from his family. Now, he knew he didn’t have a choice. It was him or Charlotte.

  He made his decision. Straightened his back, flicked back his hair and looked from Cox to Kelly and back to Cox again.

  ‘She’s done this before,’ he began.

  Nine

  They sat in facing armchairs, either side of the fireplace, drinking their tea. A plate of chocolate digestives lay on the coffee table between them. Charlotte watched without comment as Freya stuffed biscuit after biscuit into her mouth. Different ways of grieving, she reminded herself.

  ‘How have you been holding up?’ she asked.

  ‘Okay,’ Freya mumbled through a mouthful of biscuit. ‘Some moments it hits me and I feel I can’t bear it another second. Then it passes and I’m fine again. Well, not fine, but you know …’

  Charlotte nodded. A bit like how she felt. The constant, underlying pain of it that sharpened at unexpected moments into something that stuck in your throat until you thought you were suffocating from lack of air.

  ‘I don’t know where we go from here,’ she said. ‘I don’t feel as if I know anything anymore. I’m not sure it helps having that police woman here, either. Why is she hanging around you, anyway? Is there something you’re not telling me?’

  ‘She’s just doing her job,’ Freya said. ‘That’s all. Listen, Mum. There’s something I haven’t told you. It’s about Ginny.’

  Charlotte didn’t let herself breathe.

  ‘She came to see me,’ Freya said. ‘On Tuesday afternoon.’

  ‘Why?’ She had no clue how she’d got the word out.

  ‘She wanted to talk to me,’ Freya said. ‘About you.’

  No, please God, no. Not this. Not now.

  ‘She wanted me to make more of an effort.’

  ‘What?’ Relief mixed with confusion. What on earth was Freya talking about?

  ‘Well, not just me,’ Freya said. ‘Both of us, actually. You and me. She said it made you sad that we weren’t closer and that one day you’d be gone and I’d regret not having a better relationship with you.’

  ‘She really said that?’

  Freya’s features blurred as tears filled Charlotte’s eyes. Dear Ginny. The best friend she’d ever had. Charlotte had no idea. They rarely spoke about Freya. It wasn’t their way. Truth was, Charlotte didn’t really speak about Freya with anyone. It was too difficult. Her daughter was such a source of shame. Shame at herself and Nick for being such terrible parents. Shame at her daughter for turning out the way she had. And all the time, the shame hiding something else. A deep sadness that she’d messed things up so profoundly.

  Somehow, Ginny had understood.

  ‘She really cared about you,’ Freya said. ‘I know she and I didn’t always see eye to eye, but I wanted you to know. She was a good friend to you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Charlotte whispered. ‘That means a lot.’

  ‘Do you think she knew?’ Freya asked.

  The fear again. The giddy, sea-sick feeling that it all came back to that single mistake. ‘Knew what?’

  ‘Who killed Kieran,’ Freya said. ‘What do you think I meant?’

  A knife in her hand. The sudden spurt of warm blood on her wrist. Elation replacing rage. Before the fear and panic kicked in.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Sorry, darling. I’m all over the place at the moment. Do I think she knew? Maybe. No, definitely. Of course she did. Why else would someone …? I mean, it’s not just coincidence, is it?’

  ‘People get hit by cars all the time,’ Freya said. ‘Probably so
me drunk driver who shouldn’t have been behind the wheel of a car in the first place. Makes me sick to think about it.’

  Charlotte wondered if Freya was having a dig, but decided it was her own guilty conscience that made her think that.

  She thought of what had happened earlier, tried to sort through the jumble of thoughts swirling around her brain. She hadn’t known whether or not to raise it with Freya, but they were getting on so well. And if she couldn’t talk to Freya, who else could she possibly talk to?

  ‘Freya, darling,’ she said. ‘I need to ask you something.’

  ‘What?’ Freya’s voice was cold, the earlier friendliness all gone. Not a good sign but Charlotte persevered, thinking if only Freya would hear her out, maybe together they could make some sense of it.

  ‘It’s about your father,’ she said. ‘Well, your father and Kieran, actually.’

  It was coming out all wrong. She should have thought more about the best way to approach it. She could tell by the way Freya was looking at her that she was already jumping to conclusions.

  ‘I’m not trying to imply anything,’ Charlotte said quickly. ‘Just hear me out, please.’

  ‘What do you mean, you’re not trying to imply anything?’ Freya snapped. ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Jesus, Mother, I really believed that for once in your life you’d come to see me with no hidden agenda. You want me to start suspecting my own father of killing my boyfriend? Forget it. Whatever you want to tell me, I don’t want to hear it.’

  ‘Please,’ Charlotte begged. ‘It’s really important.’

  But Freya was already standing up and coming towards her. Grabbed Charlotte’s sore arm and pulled her up.

  ‘I want you to leave,’ Freya said. ‘Go now. Before I push you down the bloody stairs. Go!’

  Charlotte pulled her arm free. It hurt where Freya’s fingers had dug into flesh already bruised. The pain helped her focus. The fog in her head cleared and everything suddenly made sense. Nick had found out what she’d done. Naturally enough, he was angry about it. It was one thing for him to sleep around but quite another for his wife to do the same thing. Or maybe his anger was on behalf of his daughter. Yes, that made more sense. And because of that, Kieran was dead. And so was Ginny.

  ‘I know what happened,’ Charlotte said. ‘You mightn’t be ready to hear it yet, but you will one day.’

  ‘Go,’ Freya said.

  Charlotte wanted to wrap her arms around her daughter and hold her, tell her everything would be okay. But she’d never done that when Freya was a little girl; it was too late to do it now.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered.

  ‘I don’t care,’ Freya said. ‘Oh Christ. If you won’t leave, then I will.’

  ‘Freya …’

  But her daughter was walking away, out of the sitting room, out of the flat altogether. Charlotte heard the clump of footsteps on the stairs and the sound of the front door closing as Freya slammed it shut. Charlotte went across to the window and looked out. Just in time to see her daughter’s back as she ran down Ennersdale Road and disappeared out of sight.

  * * *

  Ger organised a warrant to search the Gleesons’ house.

  ‘I don’t fancy our chances of finding anything,’ she said, handing the warrant to Ellen. ‘By the time Forensics got there on Saturday morning, the place had already been cleaned up.’

  ‘So why bother?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘I want to scare them,’ Ger said. ‘I’m sick of being messed around by Nick Gleeson and his wife.’

  ‘I’ve just spoken to Abby,’ Ellen said. ‘Charlotte left Freya’s place an hour ago. Got a taxi home. I’ll get over there before she has a chance to go out again.’

  ‘Malcolm’s getting the medical records for Charlotte’s mother,’ Ger said. ‘We should have that information in the next hour. Do you think Nick was telling the truth?’

  She’s done this before.

  ‘I think he’s clever enough to know we’d find out if he was lying,’ Ellen said. ‘Even so, I’m not sure how it helps.’

  ‘It means she’s got history,’ Ger said.

  Ellen nodded. She wanted to get across to Blackheath. She wanted to ask Charlotte what had driven her, twenty-eight years earlier, to pick up a knife and use it to stab her own mother in the chest.

  Ten

  Charlotte’s world was falling apart, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. She was in a maze made of fragile glass and all around her the glass was shattering. Outside the maze, there was nothing but danger. She’d made a mess of everything. Her marriage, her daughter, the only friendship she’d ever had. She’d lied to her best friend. And because of that, Ginny was dead.

  There was no one she could turn to. Image after image tossed through her head, jumbled together in a giddy mess that made her ill. She closed her eyes, but that only made things worse. Kieran’s face was there, up close the way she remembered it. His breath hot and heavy, hands pulling up her skirt, voice in her ear, whispering, telling her this was what she wanted.

  In her head, Nick was there too. Standing in the doorway watching them. Moving across the room, his eyes never leaving her face. Kieran grunting as he pushed himself inside her. Nick smiling.

  No!

  That’s not how it happened. Nick didn’t know. No one knew. Three months ago and not a single person had found out.

  It’s what you want.

  And her voice, breathy and desperate. Yes, oh God, yes.

  Afterwards, she hated him. Told herself he’d taken advantage. Should never have tried it on when she was that drunk. Hated herself more for letting it happen. For giving in to the desperation and loneliness.

  She heard a car pull into the driveway. Through the window, she could see two identical navy-blue cars parking outside the front door. DI Ellen Kelly climbed out from the passenger seat of the first car. The other doors opened and three uniformed officers got out too.

  When the doorbell rang, she went into the hall. She examined her face in the ornate gilt mirror she’d bought at an auction in Greenwich ten years earlier. She looked gaunt and old. Her skin was dry and wrinkled from too many hours on the sunbed. Her hair was like sheaves of straw sticking out of her head at odd angles. She turned from her reflection and trudged to the front door. Slowly, slowly, her hand moved up to the latch, unlocked it and pulled open the door.

  The sudden flash of bright sunshine was like a fast-forward button pressed down for too long. Noises and voices and Ellen Kelly shoving a piece of paper in her face. Police pushing past her into the house. The clump of footsteps on the parquet flooring. Her own voice, lost in the noise, asking what they were doing, even though she already knew. They thought she’d killed Kieran. Ginny too.

  Ellen Kelly was beside her, hand on Charlotte’s shoulder, guiding her into the sitting room. She didn’t like it. Pushed the hand away and shouted that they’d got it all wrong.

  ‘It was Nick, not me!’

  Upstairs, something smashed as it hit the ground. She ran past the detective and up the stairs. A policeman was in her bedroom. Drawers hung open, her clothes were strewn about the place. And on the floor, a smashed photo frame. She knelt down and picked through the shattered pieces of glass, retrieving the photo underneath. The policeman shouted at her, told her not to touch anything, but she ignored him. Got the photo and smoothed it out. Her younger face looked up at her. Unlined and miserable. In her arms, a small child swaddled in a pale pink blanket. Her finger traced the baby’s head. At the back of her mind, the flicker of a memory. A smell. The soft, powdery smell she got when she pressed her face against the child’s head and breathed in.

  A drop of water fell on the photo. And another. She brushed them away, lifted the photo and pressed it against her chest. So many useless tears. Crying over the memory of something that had never been real. She’d hated everything about those early years of motherhood. Hadn’t realised until this week – when it was too late to change things – how much she loved her daugh
ter. How could you go through life not knowing something as straightforward and obvious as that?

  ‘Ma’am!’

  The policeman was shouting.

  ‘I think you need to see this.’

  Charlotte looked up. He was holding something. She must have moved or spoken because he shouted at her to stay where she was. When she realised what he was holding, she thought he was threatening her. A scream caught in her throat and she scrabbled backwards across the carpet, even though he was screaming at her not to move.

  Ellen Kelly was in the room now, moving towards the policeman.

  ‘Bag it,’ Ellen said.

  She turned to Charlotte. ‘I need you to come with me.’

  Charlotte shook her head. The policeman was still holding the knife. A wide-blade chef’s knife with a thick handle. Like the ones Nick used. In the kitchen downstairs he had a full set. Kept them on a display unit along the wall. In the mornings, when the sun rose behind the house and flooded the kitchen, the knives gleamed like bright shining teeth.

  Not like this knife, which was dirty with dark stains along the blade and the handle. Nick would never leave a knife like that. She wanted to tell them this. It seemed important, somehow. But when she tried to speak, the words that came out didn’t make any sense. She saw Ellen Kelly frowning as she tried to understand.

  Charlotte shook her head, giving up. There was no point. This time, when Ellen put her hand on Charlotte’s shoulder, she didn’t bother to push it away. Like a child, she let herself be led down the stairs, along the hallway and into the bright sunshine. Out of habit, she tilted her head as she passed the huge mirror. An old woman with dry blonde hair and empty eyes stared at her. Charlotte searched the face, looking for anything familiar. She couldn’t find a single thing she recognised. The woman in the mirror was a stranger.

  Eleven

  Loretta was waiting for Nick when he got back to the restaurant. She practically ran at him as he came in the door, pushing past Javier who also looked like he was about to approach. Nick shook his head at both of them, indicating this wasn’t a good time.