His phone started to ring. Pete. Nick’s breath caught in his throat. First Pete called Cosima, now him. A coincidence, surely. It couldn’t be anything else. Pete didn’t know. No one did. The only person who’d found out about them was dead. And good riddance, too.
Nick felt bad for Freya, of course. She was his daughter, after all. But over time, he was sure Freya would come to see that she was better off without that useless lump. She might even find herself someone half decent the next time around.
He got into the car and his phone rang again. Thinking it was Pete, he answered without checking the caller display. Then wished he hadn’t.
‘Where are you?’
Loretta.
Another problem that needed sorting. He should have got rid of her the moment they stopped seeing each other. He’d been too soft. Let her stay on even though he knew it was the wrong decision. As soon as the new restaurant was up and running, he’d deal with it.
‘Had a meeting,’ he said. ‘Not that it’s any of your business. Is there a problem?’
‘You tell me,’ she said. ‘Your dear little wife’s been here. Asking all sorts of questions about you and your dead son-in-law.’
‘He wasn’t my son-in-law,’ Nick said. ‘They weren’t married.’
Loretta made some smart comment about common-law relationships but he wasn’t listening. Too busy trying to work out what Charlotte was up to.
‘Was she drunk?’ he asked, interrupting Loretta who was still banging on about something or other.
‘Not that I noticed,’ Loretta said. ‘But it can be hard to tell with alcoholics sometimes, can’t it?’
Bitch. He remembered the times she’d comforted him when things with Charlotte got particularly bad. Which, let’s face it, was most of the time.
‘What did you tell her?’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ There was an edge of almost joy in her voice and his spirits sank lower as he realised Loretta had probably loved telling Charlotte about his row with Kieran.
But Loretta didn’t know everything. It was important to remember that. For all her blustering, Loretta didn’t know enough to cause him any real harm – couldn’t know because if she did, she wouldn’t have been able to stop herself from doing something about it.
‘She knows about you and me,’ Loretta said. ‘Strangely enough, she already knew it was over between us. Of course, I told her why you ended it. That you’d found someone else stupid enough to believe your bullshit. She was very interested, I must say. Although she clearly has no idea who your new girlfriend is. I dropped some hints, but she didn’t get it. She’s not very bright, is she?’
He hung up and called Charlotte. She didn’t pick up. He thought about leaving a message but changed his mind. This needed to be dealt with in person. He needed to find out what Loretta had told her. He threw the phone onto the passenger seat, switched on the engine and pulled away from the kerb.
* * *
Gleeson left Coldharbour and drove south, following signs for the Blackwall Tunnel. As she queued up for the tunnel, three cars behind him, Abby put her phone into the hands-free unit, called Ellen and explained what she was doing.
‘We’re on our way back to Greenwich,’ Abby said. ‘Traffic’s atrocious. We’ve been at a standstill for forty-five minutes. I think there’s been a breakdown in the tunnel.’
‘You shouldn’t be on your own,’ Ellen said. ‘He could be dangerous.’
Like you’ve never done anything dangerous, Abby thought, although she had the sense not to say it out loud.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Abby said. ‘I assume he’s going to the restaurant.’
The traffic started to move slowly. Three cars ahead, she could see Gleeson’s car disappearing into the mouth of the tunnel.
‘Stay with him as far as the restaurant,’ Ellen said. ‘I’ll meet you there. How much longer do you think you’ll be?’
‘Give us another half an hour,’ Abby said. ‘Forty minutes tops.’
‘Okay,’ Ellen said. ‘See you there. We’ll go in together and ask him a few questions about his relationship with Pete Cooper’s daughter. I imagine that will be an interesting conversation.’
Abby was at the mouth of the tunnel now, daylight disappearing as she entered the darkness. On the phone, Ellen was still speaking.
‘If he doesn’t go to the restaurant …’
Inside the tunnel now, under the river. Ellen’s voice cut out as the mobile signal was lost.
Ellen’s problem, Abby reflected, was that she was a control freak. In Ellen’s world, it was perfectly okay to break the rules if you were Ellen Kelly and you felt it was the best thing to do. But that never translated to the rest of the team. Ellen was the first to put herself in danger – and she had done it time and again – if she thought it would solve a case. But woe betide anyone else who dared do the same.
Out of the tunnel, Abby was blinded by the sudden brightness of an unfamiliar sun creeping out behind a layer of thick clouds. The city, slick from the recent rain, glowed and glimmered. Drops of water sparkled in the sunshine like a vast carpet of fairy lights across the city, making it brighter and fresher and more beautiful than Abby had ever seen it.
Instead of turning off for Greenwich, Gleeson continued south in the direction of Blackheath and Lewisham. Abby drove after him. No point calling Ellen. Not until she knew where they were going.
She couldn’t explain it, but this moment felt important. For the first time in her career, the possibility that she might solve a murder investigation was within her reach. She wasn’t going to miss out on that. Not for Ellen Kelly, not for anyone.
Eleven
Ellen dialled Abby’s number and waited. When the call went to voicemail she hung up, frustrated. She had a bad feeling about this. She wanted to warn Abby not to do anything stupid. Like following Nick Gleeson to the restaurant and confronting him on her own. Ellen had told her to wait, but she wasn’t sure that message had got through. And now the bloody woman wasn’t answering her phone.
She told Alastair he was coming with her. They took a pool car. With the help of the blue light, the siren and some dodgy driving, they made it across to Greenwich in nine-and-a-half minutes. Around the corner from the restaurant, Ellen found a parking bay reserved for deliveries in and out of the market. She took the space, switched off the engine and turned to Alastair.
‘Okay?’ she asked.
He swallowed several times and nodded his head.
‘Fine.’
He didn’t sound fine and he didn’t look fine, but as long as he didn’t throw up inside the car, Ellen wasn’t too bothered.
She knew from previous visits that Gleeson had his own reserved parking bay right outside the restaurant. Today, the space was empty. There was no sign of Abby, either. Ellen hoped she was still stuck in traffic and not somewhere she shouldn’t be.
She called Abby’s phone again, but it went to voicemail again.
‘Let’s go inside,’ she said to Alastair. ‘Hopefully Abby will be here any second now.’
The sun had come out, stripping layers off the city. Wet streets dazzled in the rare sunshine. Ellen pushed open the restaurant door and stepped inside.
‘He’s not here.’
Ellen saw Loretta standing in front of her, looking jubilant.
‘What do you mean?’ Ellen asked.
‘I assume you’re looking for Nick?’ Loretta said. ‘He hasn’t come back from lunch and I doubt he will at this point.’
‘He’s stuck in traffic,’ Ellen said. ‘But he’s on his way. Mind if we wait?’
Loretta smirked. ‘Seems everyone wants to see him this afternoon. I wonder what he could possibly have done to become popular so suddenly?’
‘Who else has been looking for him?’ Ellen asked.
‘Pete and Charlotte were both here earlier,’ Loretta said. ‘Oh they didn’t come together, of course. Although that would be amusing, I suppose. No, Charlotte was here first and then Pete a few m
inutes after that.’
‘What did you tell them?’ Ellen asked.
‘Well, poor Charlotte didn’t seem to know what she wanted,’ Loretta said. ‘I tried to help her but, truth be told, she really wasn’t interested. Pete, on the other hand, was very interested. I emailed him earlier, you see. I thought it was only fair he knew what was going on. Naturally, he wanted to speak to Nick. I told him the apartment was his best chance.’
‘You gave him the address?’
‘Of course,’ Loretta said. ‘He asked, so I told him. Oh, I am sorry. I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?’
* * *
Nick parked in front of the house and ran inside. The journey from Docklands had taken a torturous two hours. Luckily, it hadn’t affected Cosima. She’d sent him a text over an hour ago, saying she had arrived at the apartment. He went to switch off the alarm but it wasn’t on. He called Charlotte’s name but there was no answer. The silly cow had forgotten to turn it on again.
Often, too many times to count, he’d come home to find Charlotte crashed out on one of the beds upstairs. Today, the one time he wanted her to be here, he couldn’t find her. He went upstairs, searched each bedroom but there was no sign of her anywhere.
He heard a noise downstairs. A creaking, like the sound the back door made when you opened it.
‘Charlotte?’ He stood at the top of the stairs, listening.
Nothing. Of course she wasn’t here. He was alone. He’d been alone for the longest time. Even with Loretta, there’d been no real connection between them. She hadn’t filled the aching emptiness he’d learned to live with. He’d grown to believe nothing could ever fill that emptiness. And then he met Cosima and everything changed.
All changed, changed utterly
A terrible beauty is born
As a young man, he’d loved poetry. Hadn’t picked up a book of any sort in years, of course, because he’d been so busy with work. Maybe once the divorce was sorted out, after he’d escaped the mess of his current life and started again, maybe then he would go back to reading. Cosima loved poetry. One of their first conversations had been about their favourite poems, both of them surprised to find someone at that God-awful party who shared the same passion. Funny how things worked out. Just when he’d given up on that side of things, he turned up at Cooper’s networking event and pow!
There was a library downstairs, a small, book-lined room off the dining room. He didn’t use the room as much as he probably should. Mostly, he used it to impress visitors. Any business meetings that took place in the house were conducted in the library. Nick felt the book-lined shelves played an important part in creating the image of himself he wanted to present to the world.
The books were stored alphabetically and by genre. Fiction on the right, poetry along the wall on the left and the longer middle wall filled with business manuals and other uninspiring nonsense he’d once thought was so important. He went to the poetry section, found the book he wanted, took it out and flicked through it until he reached the poem he was looking for.
It was his father who’d introduced him to the poetry of William Butler Yeats. The old man had preferred the poems about Ireland and the war, but Nick had always been drawn to the love poems. He’d recited this poem to her early in their relationship. He’d wanted her to understand that he was in it for the long haul. That there was substance to his feelings for her. Substance to him.
He was no good with words. Never had been, never would be. Numbers were his thing. That’s why his restaurants were so successful. Yes, he was an adequate chef but not one of the best. He didn’t care enough. The only thing he’d cared about was success. Making something of himself. Doing it for his father who had sacrificed so much for his only child.
And because he knew this about himself, he chose another man’s words to tell her how he really felt. Like all the love poems, this one was written for Maud Gonne, the woman Yeats had loved so single-mindedly and unrequitedly. When you are old and grey and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire.
It was about loving the real person, more than the superficial attraction all men felt for a pretty woman. Yeats is telling his beloved he will love her long after all that outer beauty is stripped away. Because what he really loves is her soul.
That’s what Pete needed to understand. That this was more than a middle-aged infatuation with a younger woman. He loved Cosima like no one else ever could or would. They were destined to be together. Soulmates. Nick smiled. He liked that expression. Felt it properly described the depth of their relationship.
He needed a pen. Wanted to write something special at the front of the book. He went across the hall to his study. To C, Soulmates forever. That’s what he’d write. Nothing fancy because he didn’t do fancy. Besides, there were enough fancy words in the rest of the book.
He kept a gold Cross fountain pen on his desk. Didn’t use it often, preferring the ease and lack of mess you got with a ballpoint. But he kept the pen on his desk because it looked good. He had an identical one in his office in Greenwich.
The pen was a present from Charlotte. Given to him years ago, when there had still been some hope for the relationship. Before he’d realised quite how bad she really was. Even if there was no Cosima, he knew he couldn’t do this anymore. The destructive nature of their so-called relationship disgusted him. She disgusted him. Worst of all, he disgusted himself for staying with her all this time. For not being man enough to end it once and for all.
He closed his eyes, breathed in and out three times, then wrote the note in the front of the book, taking care not to leave ink marks on the page. He’d just written the last word when the man behind him coughed.
Twelve
At Heath Lane, Nick turned left towards his house. Abby drove past, found a parking space in Pagoda Gardens, locked her car and ran back to the Gleesons’ house.
Nick’s car was parked outside the front of the house. Empty. The entrance gates were open. Abby walked up the drive, trying to walk quietly on the gravel.
At the front door, she paused. She was scared, but she couldn’t let that cloud her judgement. She should call Ellen. Tell her where she was and wait for back-up. It was the sensible thing to do. But being sensible hadn’t ever worked in Ellen’s favour. If Abby put in the call, she might as well go home. All she’d be doing was giving Ellen yet another opportunity to steal the limelight.
No.
No way.
She was close. That’s what made the difference between a good detective and a great one. Feel the fear but do it anyway. Or something.
* * *
He dropped the pen. He heard the clatter of it hitting the ground as he swung around. He already knew who was there. And why. All the lies he’d told himself drifted in and out of his consciousness, as insignificant and useless as bits of broken wood floating on the ebb and flow of a vast sea.
He’d let himself believe it would be all right. That there was nothing wrong with what they were doing and if he just got a chance to explain, to make Pete see how much she mattered to him, that Pete would be fine with it all.
It was a foolish belief to have held onto all this time. As he turned and looked into Pete Cooper’s eyes, Nick knew. This was it. Fear loosened his insides, dried his mouth. He wanted to speak, to say something – anything – which would delay things. But Pete was too quick. Came at him with a fist into the stomach. Nick lurched back. Another fist to the side of his face knocked him to the ground. From far away, he heard himself screaming, begging Pete not to hurt him, to give him a chance to explain. Pete was screaming too, calling him a pervert and a dirty bastard. Kicking and punching, fists and feet in his stomach, back and head.
Nick curled into a ball, arms over his head trying to protect himself, but Pete kept coming, wasn’t going to stop until he’d done what he came here to do. Through the pain, a line from a different poem was there. He couldn’t focus on the detail, but the sense of it was with him. Something about bodies broken like thorns. And
he knew that’s what Pete would do to him. Break him like a thorn. Keep breaking him until there was nothing left.
* * *
Abby moved around the outside of the house, sliding up to each window and looking into the rooms. Nothing seemed out of place. As she edged closer to the back, she heard a man’s voice. Shouting. No, not shouting. Screaming.
The thick walls made it impossible to hear what he was screaming about. Or whether there was more than one person doing the screaming. She made herself move forward, creeping closer and closer to the source of the sound.
Abruptly, the screaming stopped. The silence felt worse, somehow. It made the unsteady in-out, in-out of her own breathing and the rapid thumping of her heart seem too loud.
A large Victorian-style conservatory jutted out from the back of the house. When she reached the glass, Abby stopped. Someone was moving around in there. She could hear a scraping sound, as if something heavy was being dragged across the floor.
Taking a deep breath, Abby poked her head forward, just far enough to peek into the conservatory.
It was furnished to look like a colonial drawing room. All wicker furniture, green plants and a low-hanging, old-style ceiling fan. A long, low table ran along one glass wall, covered in family photos. Nick and Charlotte. A few of Freya. Even one of Freya with Kieran. Surprising given the way her parents had felt about Freya’s boyfriend. The photo was familiar. A copy of one she’d seen somewhere else. Freya and Kieran standing on a hill somewhere. Freya’s arms wrapped around his neck, wind whipping the hair around her smiling face. Kieran looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Something about the photo …
The door swung open. Two men, their backs to her, dragged something across the conservatory floor. Abby pulled her head back quickly. One of the men was Pete Cooper. Even from the back she recognised his tall, broad body. But what was he dragging? Who was the other man? And where the hell was Nick Gleeson? She calculated the time that had passed between Gleeson arriving home and now. Long enough for something bad to have happened.
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