At the wine bar, Charlotte made herself order a small glass of wine and a large plate of chips, resisting the more attractive option of a large glass and a small plate. She watched with a distaste she did her best to hide as Freya ordered a mineral water, a club sandwich and a large portion of chips. Orders placed, the waitress went to get their drinks while mother and daughter stared at each other across the table. Freya was so cold, so difficult to read. The opposite of Charlotte, who could never hide how she felt.
‘We’re so different,’ she murmured. ‘Maybe I’d have been a better mother if we’d been more alike.’
‘If you’d been a better mother,’ Freya said, ‘maybe I wouldn’t have tried so hard to make sure I turned out nothing like you.’
That hurt, and Charlotte was about to say so when Kieran’s face flashed in front of her. What right did she have to ask for mercy?
She remembered Freya’s sixth birthday. Charlotte had bought her a dress, a beautiful crushed silk knee-length green dress. Green was Freya’s colour and Charlotte chose the dress for that reason. Freya refused to wear it. Told Charlotte she didn’t like it and insisted – insisted – on wearing her old, torn jeans, which were dirty and disgusting and made Freya look like a boy.
They’d planned a big birthday party. Hired a magician and every child in Freya’s class had been invited. Nick had taken the day off work and was doing his best to play happy families, even though it was obvious the tension between mother and daughter was rubbing off on him.
Charlotte sneaked a few glasses of wine early on, the only way she knew to stop herself exploding with the tension that made her feel like she was a pressure cooker on the boil. Because if she didn’t put a lid on the anger, she knew she might not be able to stop herself slapping Freya’s lumpy, grumpy, ungrateful face. And if she did that, it would give Nick the perfect excuse he’d been looking for to finish things between them.
‘What is it?’
Freya’s voice dragged Charlotte back from that awful day, but the memories stayed even as she smiled at Freya and attempted some sort of conversation. She’d fallen asleep. Woken to find Freya standing by the bed, pulling her arm and crying.
‘I’m sorry, Mummy. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it. Please, Mummy. Wake up. Don’t be dead, please Mummy?’
And behind Freya, staring at her with a look of such loathing, her husband.
‘Are you okay?’
The lack of concern in Freya’s voice was a reminder of how far removed she was from that little girl from that long ago afternoon. Charlotte’s eyes filled with tears as she reached across the table and took her daughter’s hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
Freya pulled her hand away.
‘What for?’
She seemed colder than normal today. It occurred to her that maybe Freya had found out what she’d told the police but she dismissed the thought almost immediately. She was pretty sure they had rules about that sort of thing. Didn’t they?
‘For not being very good at anything,’ she said. ‘And for all the sadness you’re experiencing right now. I know how much you cared for Kieran. This business is terrible.’
‘I loved him,’ Freya said. ‘Not that my feelings ever mattered to you, did they?’
The waitress appeared with their drinks, easing the need for either of them to find something else to say. Charlotte lifted her glass and drank down the cool wine.
‘Why did the police keep you in?’ Freya asked.
Charlotte took another sip of wine, taking care not to drink too much too quickly.
‘They found some things at the house,’ she said. ‘A knife, in fact. The police think it was the knife used to, well, you know …’
Freya stared at her. Charlotte didn’t like the expression on her face.
‘Can you say that again?’ Freya asked.
‘You heard me the first time,’ Charlotte said. ‘The police found a knife at our home. It had blood on it, if you must know.’
‘Kieran’s blood?’ Freya’s voice was little more than a whisper and Charlotte realised – too late – the effect this information would have on her daughter.
‘I’m sorry,’ Charlotte said, hating herself for apologising – again – for something that wasn’t her fault. She knew how pathetic she must sound but didn’t know what else to say or do.
Freya’s face was white apart from two little spots of pink on both her cheeks. When she was a little girl, those pink spots were a precursor to a crying fit. Charlotte hadn’t seen her daughter cry for a long time. Not even the day they’d got the news about Kieran. Her daughter was a cold fish, no doubt about it. She wondered if Freya had always been that way but honestly couldn’t remember. She certainly hadn’t been the most loving of children. Acted most of the time as if she hated Charlotte. But then, Charlotte hadn’t exactly been a model parent either. Her mother’s voice, high-pitched and angry, started up inside Charlotte’s head. She lifted her glass, took a decent swig this time and tried not to think about the past.
Seven
Ellen switched off the CD-recorder and told Loretta she was free to go.
‘What happens now?’ Loretta asked.
‘I speak to my boss,’ Ellen said. ‘And we make a decision whether or not to charge you for obstruction.’
‘But I told you what you wanted to know,’ Loretta said.
Ellen leaned forward across the table, pushing her face close to Loretta’s.
‘You should have told me straightaway,’ she said. ‘Instead of lying and keeping secrets. Two people are dead. And you’re so caught up in some silly game of revenge that you haven’t been able to get your head out of your backside for long enough to be able to see what really matters. I’m not surprised Nick doesn’t want anything to do with you. In fact, the only thing I find surprising is that he was ever attracted to you in the first place. He must have been pretty desperate.’
It was cruel, and the sudden look of pain on Loretta’s face made Ellen regret the words as soon as she’d said them. Too late to take them back now, though.
Back at her desk, Ellen opened the file containing the photos from Kieran’s phone. Thanks to Loretta, she knew what she was looking for now. She wanted to find the evidence first, before she went to Ger. She spent half an hour scrolling through the images until she found it.
‘Boss!’
Irritated at the interruption, she looked up to see Alastair bouncing into the room. In all the years Ellen had worked with him, she’d only ever seen him animated on a handful of occasions. This was another one.
He was breathing fast, his face flushed. ‘I’ve got something, Ma’am.’
‘Make it quick,’ Ellen said. ‘I’ve got something too.’
‘I’ve just been speaking with Clarence Granville,’ Alastair said. ‘He’s the security guard at the block of apartments where Gleeson has his flat. I spoke to Clarence the other day and he swore blind he’d never seen Gleeson with anyone. He was lying. He’s just called. Says Gleeson paid him to keep his mouth shut but he’s not felt good about it. Says his conscience has been at him, making it difficult to sleep.’
‘Did he give you her name?’
‘No,’ Alastair said. ‘But he’s given a pretty good description. And this is going to sound weird but the description he gave, she sounds just like …’
‘This?’ Ellen pointed to the photo on her screen. ‘These were uploaded from Kieran’s mobile,’ she said. ‘This one was taken just over five weeks before Kieran was killed.’
Unlike a lot of the moody scene shots, this photo was in colour. A pale blue sky with a white sun casting a silver light on the river. An apartment block stood near the water’s edge. Two people standing in the open doorway.
Ellen held her breath, waiting for Alastair to see it too.
‘Clarence was right,’ he said.
‘He sure was,’ Ellen said. ‘I had Nick’s PA in earlier. The jilted girlfriend. Turns out she’s been doing a bit of stalking on th
e side. Following her ex to see what he’s been getting up to. Kieran must have seen them coming out of the apartment and taken this photo. Which he then used to blackmail Nick. I bet there’s more too.’ She clicked onto the next image. The same scene. Nothing changed except the couple in the doorway. In the first image, they looked like they were speaking to each other. In this photo, they were holding hands as they walked away from the apartment block.
Ellen zoomed in, so that the woman’s face filled the screen. At the same time, Alastair’s phone rang. He took the call, listened, thanked the caller and hung up. ‘No prizes for guessing who sent that text message to Nick Gleeson’s other mobile phone,’ he said.
Ellen looked at the woman’s face on the computer screen and smiled.
‘I think I already know.’
* * *
Charlotte paid the taxi driver, got out and walked across the gravel to the front door. She felt nervous, scared of what she’d find inside the house. When she’d left yesterday, this was her home. Now, walking into the hallway and breathing in the musty smell of neglect, she felt like a stranger in this place.
‘Nick?’
His car hadn’t been in the driveway but she called his name anyway. Wanting to make sure she was alone. She strained her ears, listening for any sounds that would indicate he was here.
She went upstairs. Moved like someone wading through mounds of cotton wool, her senses muffled to everything she saw and heard and felt. The police had left the place in chaos but she barely noticed the pulled-out drawers, the clothes scattered on the beds and floors, the open bathroom cabinet or the squeezed-empty bottles of shampoo and other products. She didn’t care about any of that.
Downstairs, more of the same. Her tidy kitchen was like the aftermath of a hysterical children’s party. In the fridge, she found a bottle of wine, pulled it out and drank straight from the bottle.
She leaned against the island in the centre of the kitchen and waited to feel something. When nothing happened, she took another slug before replacing the cork and putting the bottle back in the fridge. For once, she wasn’t seeking oblivion. Quite the opposite. She wanted to feel something.
Another row with Freya. Again. What had she expected? Ever since Freya had been able to express an opinion, she’d always taken Nick’s side. Usually, Charlotte didn’t mind. Not really. She’d been a useless mother and didn’t blame the girl for hating her. Didn’t blame her for the way her face closed down when Charlotte tried to tell her what was going on. Didn’t even blame her when Freya threw the glass of water in Charlotte’s face and screamed that she hated her and wished she was dead. Right before storming out of the pub leaving a wet Charlotte to pick up the bill.
They’d failed. Her and Nick. All that love, all that naive belief in the future had come to nothing. And by the time either of them noticed, it was too late to get it back. She’d been a fool. Let herself fall for every bit of the bullshit they’d spun each other. Telling each other they loved each other and that was all that mattered. As if it was possible to move beyond a childhood ruined by a mad mother and an absent father. Their life together had been built on nothing stronger than a youthful naivety that drifted out of reach like a cloud of dandelion feathers carried away on a warm summer breeze.
Nick saw it first. He’d been able to look the truth clearly in the face and see that there was no hope for their marriage. She’d clung on, every bit as determined, desperate and pathetic as the mother she’d sworn she would never become.
She knew now the sort of man she’d married. Knew, deep down inside her hollowed-out self, that he hated her. She knew what he was like and what he was capable of.
His ruthlessness was one of the things she’d once loved about him. The way he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Never caring who he hurt along the way. Once, she’d been the focus of that single-minded determination. She had been the thing he wanted.
The business first, Charlotte second. She hadn’t minded. Told herself that his desire to succeed was driven by a need to provide and prove he was the sort of man who could give her all the things he said she deserved. Even though a tiny part of her had always known that it was really all about him and nothing to do with anyone else.
The Greenwich restaurant was his first proper success. Turning a faded Greek restaurant from failure to success in just six months. He’d had to make changes, of course. And no one could possibly blame Nick when Robert, the chef, couldn’t get another job after Nick sacked him. It certainly wasn’t Nick’s fault that Robert chose to top himself instead of facing up to things, leaving his wife and three children with no one to support them.
Back then, home was the tiny flat over the restaurant. Charlotte was pregnant when the restaurant started making a profit. She was proud of her husband for how far he’d gone in such a short space of time. Already proving her mother wrong.
Turned out her mother was right. Nick was a bad choice of husband. A murderer. He had killed Kieran and was trying to make it look as if she’d done it. This was his opportunity to get rid of her. For good. With Charlotte locked up for murder, Nick was free – finally – from his failed marriage and his needy, boozy embarrassment of a wife.
I’ll sort it. I promise.
Who was he making that promise to?
I’m scared.
Loretta? Charlotte couldn’t imagine anything scaring that bitch.
Don’t worry. I’ll sort it. I promise.
And that’s exactly what he was doing.
She closed her eyes, pictured Nick, the man she’d once loved so much. Imagined him waiting for Kieran at the bottom of St Joseph’s Vale, holding the knife, stepping back into the shadows as Kieran got closer, waiting until he passed then lunging …
Later, sneaking into the house and hiding the knife in her wardrobe. Hearing her come home, moving to the staircase and putting his hand out, pushing hard into her back and shoving her forward, listening to the sound of her body as she hit the floor. Following her down the stairs, stepping over her and walking out. Not even stopping to check if she was still alive.
Something stirred inside her, grew stronger the more she thought about his betrayal. It rose up her stomach, wrapped its way around her heart and drove through her veins. Ice cold and scorching hot.
Rage.
She didn’t deserve this.
She’d been a crap mother and a crap wife but he hadn’t been perfect, either. Whatever she’d done, she didn’t deserve this. He was the one who would go to prison for what he’d done. Not her.
The cotton wool was gone. She felt alive, alert to everything. The clatter of her feet on the varnished wooden floor as she walked through the house, the soft whoosh of traffic driving on the heath outside, the slight tremor in her hands as she locked the front door behind her.
And through it all, the rage burned inside her.
Eight
Abby’s legs were stiff from sitting in the same position for too long. Nick Gleeson had been inside the pub for almost an hour and a half. She got out of the car, thinking if she walked past she might be able to see him inside.
She stretched, enjoying the sensation across the taut muscles of her calves and thighs. She shook her legs several times and walked away from the car, keeping close to the edge of the path. The last thing she wanted was for Gleeson to come out and see her standing there.
A cold wind blew in from the river. Abby shivered and wrapped her jacket tighter around her body. She was underdressed. Always underdressed these days. Some misplaced sense of optimism that led her to believe that the weather wasn’t really as miserable as everyone said it was.
She liked the look of the pub and made a mental note to check it out on the internet later. If the reviews were good, it was the sort of place she might like to take Sam one night. If he was still in her life when this case was over.
It was painted yellow and had big glass windows which Abby imagined let in lots of light. At the first window she dared to sneak a look inside.
Friday lunchtime and the pub was full. Docklands office-workers enjoying an extended liquid lunch. The start of their weekend. Strange to think she lived so close but had never even heard of this place. That was London for you, always somewhere new to discover no matter how well you thought you knew the city.
She scanned the crowd, looking for Nick Gleeson’s blonde head. Saw one man who looked like him but when he turned to speak to someone she realised it wasn’t him. This man was younger, less handsome. She’d nearly given up when she saw him at the bar. He was alone. She waited, expecting to see someone joining him. He handed his credit card to the barman and entered his PIN number into the electronic payment unit. When he was finished, he took his card back, buttoned up the jacket of his grey suit and started walking towards the door.
Abby ran back to her car and climbed in. She crouched down, keeping her head just high enough to be able to see Gleeson. He came outside, lit a cigarette and started walking, not in the direction of his car but the other way, towards her.
She ducked beneath the steering wheel and waited for a rap on the window that never came. She risked peeking up, half-expecting to see his face peering in at her. She couldn’t see him at first. Panicked, afraid she’d lost him, she lifted her head a little more and scanned the street. Saw him a few feet away, leaning against the side of the pub, smoking. He took a few more drags then flicked the cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe.
A moment later, a woman walked out of the pub. Abby recognised her immediately and had to put a hand over her mouth to block her yelp of surprise.
Nick pushed himself away from the wall, walked up to the woman, put his hands on either side of her face, and kissed her. It was the sort of kiss couples gave each other in the early stages of their relationship. The sort of kiss Sam and Abby shared at the end of their first date. The sort of kiss no man ever gave a woman unless he was really serious about her. Or trying to prove that he was.
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