Just What Kind of Mother Are You?

by Paula Daly

  As I drive, my head is muddled with thoughts. I try listening to the radio but I can only get Radio 2 in this area, and I can’t stand the string of moaners who ring in to Jeremy Vine at this hour, so I turn it off.

  My exhaust is blowing worse than ever and as I press on the accelerator I frighten a young mother standing at the lights with a pram. I check my mirror and see she’s shouting something angrily in my direction. I hope I’ve not woken her baby, I hope—

  What the hell is Kate doing trying to kill herself?

  That’s what I can’t get out of my head.

  I wanted to shout it at her. I wanted to shake her senseless and make her tell me just what the bloody hell was going on.

  Now I can’t think straight. Now my head feels like someone’s firing pellets at it from close range, and every time I try to think rationally, every time I try to go through something from start to finish, the thought is obliterated before I can come to any proper conclusions.

  Why didn’t she ask for Lucinda when she woke up?

  Why did she fall apart so badly when she was told Guy had been arrested?

  And this is a minor point, but I’m going to go ahead and voice it because it’s pissing me off, why did neither Kate, Alexa nor, come to think of it, Guy, thank me for saving Kate’s life?

  I know they’re all over the place presently, but I’d have thought one of them might at least have said, ‘Thank God you came, Lisa.’

  But no. Nothing.

  My knuckles are a bloodless white on the steering wheel and I tell myself, Okay, stop. For now, just stop thinking. Because Bluey’s back. It’s the one good thing to come out of today.

  Bluey’s back and I’ve made the decision that tonight he’s coming home to live with us.

  34

  JOANNE’S IN THE incident room along with four other detectives, waiting for the arrival of DI McAleese. It’s a glass room, built last year after one of Cumbria’s longest-serving detectives – DS Russ Holloway – died from pancreatic cancer.

  A photo of Russ taken on his first day in uniform hangs in the corner; there’s a small commemorative plaque beneath. Joanne gazes at it now and remembers stopping the car when Russ mentioned pain in his abdomen, pain he’d complained about for the third time that week. Joanne had refused to drive any further until he rang his GP for an appointment, but by then it was already too late. Incredibly, he passed away just three weeks later.

  McAleese comes in and shuts the door behind him. He’s wearing a deep-red shirt and contrasting tie; the shirt is dotted with patches of sweat, something Joanne has never seen on McAleese before. He’s a meticulous man, educated to a higher level than most in the room. He studied to be an actuary, and when he joined the force he was fast-tracked. Made the grade of DI in record time.

  McAleese is looking harried, which, as the Senior Investigating Officer, is natural, but it’s not a natural state for him.

  ‘So I’m assuming the news has travelled, and you’re all aware that our third girl has turned up?’ He does a quick survey of the faces in front of him; there’s a quiet muttering of ‘Sir.’ Confirmation that, yes, they all know. ‘Francesca Clarke’s back with her family, and we’ll be conducting the questioning at her home shortly. She’s in no state to be brought in. Doc’s examined her, and he’s got what we need.’

  He clears his throat before continuing. Loosens his tie slightly.

  ‘Our man’s got more brutal this time.’ He says this as if it was half expected. ‘I’ll spare you the nasties for now. Suffice to say, she won’t be getting over this in a hurry. We’ve got a couple of FLOs with her, and a counsellor’s on her way from Preston. Some psychologist woman who’s had experience in dealing with violent rape.’ He breathes out wearily and says, ‘She’s supposed to be very good—’ But like the rest of us he’s thinking it doesn’t really matter how good she is. It’s another life ruined.

  McAleese chews at the end of his pen, everyone’s quiet because he’s mentally ticking things off a list in his head. He bites the side of his cheek and says, ‘Francesca Clarke’s father’s going ape-shit, he’s not happy with the handling of the case, etc., etc.… I need a volunteer for him … Anybody?’

  Since no one’s coming forward in a hurry for what’s bound to be a shitty job, Joanne says she doesn’t mind doing it. Sometimes she’s better at diffusing situations than her male colleagues; she has a way of making the complainant feel as if the force is genuinely sorry for whatever it is they’re being accused of … without it actually being accountable.

  It’s a skill she developed as a teenager, working in a couple of the Lakes’ poshest hotels as a chambermaid. When outraged guests complained they’d found a hair between the bed sheets, or a rust-stained teapot, Joanne found it incredibly easy to apologize, going well over the top with how absolutely unsatisfactory the situation was. Because that’s all the guests were really after: a ‘sorry’. No one ever said you had to mean it. And yet, Joanne notices how often folk pull hard against saying it.

  DI McAleese tells Joanne, Thanks, but no thanks. He wants her to stay on Guy Riverty for the time being. Drag out any information he has about anything. ‘That bastard’s wife didn’t try to kill herself for nothing.’

  Fine by her. She didn’t want to abandon the interview anyway. She’s got the feeling they’ll only end up bringing him back in again, and she still wants to know where he was last night. Something’s telling her that it’s unquestionably relevant to this investigation, even if Guy Riverty says it’s not.

  McAleese continues with the meeting, designating the door-to-door, and there’s some grainy CCTV footage that needs looking at. When they quickly fall into discussion about what form the press release should take, Joanne’s phone vibrates twice in her pocket. She pulls it out and reads a message from Lisa Kallisto, saying:

  Sorry for inconvenience. Missing dog back. Much ado about nothing!

  Joanne reads the text again and interrupts her boss. ‘Sir, does the public know that girl number three is back yet?’

  ‘Not officially. It’s not been released. Why?’

  ‘Just got a text off the woman from the animal shelter – she rang me yesterday to say someone had stolen a dog. The old, grey one, remember?’

  ‘Same as the dog spotted with the guy loitering round the school?’

  Joanne nods. ‘Well, the dog’s back. A coincidence, you reckon?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he says, ‘but worth a look into.’

  She turns to Ron Quigley. ‘We ever DNA’d a dog before, Ron?’

  He smiles. ‘Not as far as I remember.’

  On her way back to the interview room, Joanne calls Lisa Kallisto.

  Lisa answers, saying, ‘Oh, God, sorry about all that. You must think I’m completely mad. Bluey’s back, and he seems fine, so no harm done.’

  ‘Are you with the dog now?’

  ‘What? No. I’m in my office sorting through bloody bills, he’s in a kennel.’

  ‘Don’t bath him. Or brush him. And keep him isolated until someone picks him up.’

  Lisa gives out a small yelp. ‘What has he done?’

  ‘He’s not done anything.’ Joanne smiles to herself. ‘It’s more a case of where he might have been, we need to test him for—’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Lisa says. ‘You’re saying that Bluey is evidence.’

  Joanne probably wouldn’t have put it quite so dramatically but, ‘Yes,’ she answers. ‘We need the dog for evidence.’

  ‘What do I need to do?’ asks Lisa.

  ‘You don’t need to do anything. Like I said, don’t let anyone wash him or brush him. Might be best if you don’t take him for a walk either.’ Joanne says this as an afterthought, not really sure if it will make any difference or not. ‘I’m going to contact Forensics, see if I can get someone out to you straight away. There might be a delay, though – what time are you there till?’

  ‘Forensics?’ Lisa gasps.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll wait for as l
ong as it takes for them to get here. My husband’s got the kids ’cause I need to catch up on things—’

  ‘I’ll contact you later if I need anything else, but that should be it for now.’

  ‘Detective?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Have you got Guy Riverty there with you?’

  Joanne’s about to say, Yes, he’s been detained in custody, but instead says, ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘It’s just that—’ and Lisa pauses here, seemingly reluctant to continue. Finally, she says, ‘Something’s wrong.’

  ‘With who?’

  ‘With all of them,’ she replies bluntly. ‘Today I felt very uneasy. I just got the feeling they were hiding something. The whole lot – Kate, Guy, Kate’s sister, Alexa. They acted strange, not as I would have expected under the circumstances.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I can’t really explain. But this morning Fergus told me something. He said his mum gets upset when his dad doesn’t come home, and I got the impression it’s not unusual for him to disappear like that. That it happens often. That’s weird, isn’t it?’

  Joanne ends the call thinking, Yes, that is weird. She would knock her husband’s head off if he disappeared overnight. But then, since she’s not married, really, who knows what she’d do? Women put up with all sorts of things they never signed up for when they started out in their relationship. Why should she be any different?

  Joanne pushes open the door to the interview room. She’s already steeled herself for the stream of abuse she’ll undoubtedly get from Guy Riverty. He’s been in here stewing for over an hour and must be ready for a proper row.

  But as she walks in she stops, startled for a second by the scene in front of her.

  Guy is slumped over the desk. He has the posture of a man who’s already broken. Joanne clears her throat to speak and he lifts his head. There’s a mixture of snot and spit running down his chin.

  Guy is weeping like a child. Shameless emotion too raw to hide. He looks at her sadly and says, ‘I have a wife.’

  ‘I know,’ replies Joanne uneasily. ‘But she’ll be okay, Mr Riverty. Your wife will be okay.’

  And he shakes his head. Wipes his nose on his jumper, leaving a silvery mucus slug trail on his expensive black turtleneck.

  ‘I have another wife,’ he says, and keeps his gaze steady on Joanne. ‘Another wife … and a son. A baby boy.’

  Joanne’s eyes widen involuntarily. If she’s being honest with herself, it’s not really what she was expecting him to say.

  35

  ‘DOES MRS RIVERTY know?’ Then she adds quickly, ‘Mrs Kate Riverty, I mean.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That must be tricky.’

  He sighs.

  ‘What makes her stay with you?’ An unprofessional question that has nothing to do with what Joanne really needs to know about the situation, but one any woman would be bursting to ask all the same.

  ‘I wish I knew. I wish she’d agree to a split, but she won’t. I’ve tried many times to convince her that it would be better for everyone, but she won’t agree to a divorce.’

  Joanne is perplexed by this.

  ‘So she’d rather share you?’ Her tone is more incredulous than she means it to be, her words coming out not so much confused by the fact that Kate Riverty is willing to share a husband, but rather that she is willing to share a husband like him. As if Guy Riverty were some kind of prize catch that Joanne is not aware of.

  The rebuff registers on Guy’s face.

  He says, ‘It’s a lot more complicated than it might appear,’ and Joanne, noticing that she’s still standing, pulls the chair from beneath the table and sits down.

  Without meaning to, she’s surveying Guy Riverty, trying to work out what would make a sensible woman compromise herself and her family in that way.

  Why not just tell him to fuck off to his new wife?

  Why not do what any normal woman would do? Why not chuck him out, why not chuck his clothes out, bad-mouth him to every person she comes across, then have her hair done, buy a ton of new underwear, sleep with someone better-looking and get on with life? That’s what Joanne would do.

  She smiles sympathetically at Guy. ‘She must really love you.’

  ‘That’s the thing,’ he says, sighing. ‘She doesn’t.’

  ‘So why does she want you?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ he says. Then: ‘No, actually, that’s unfair. I know the reason. Kate has very clear-cut feelings on marriage and family. If you do it, you do it for life, and you don’t put your children through a separation for the sake of whim, or just because the love isn’t as strong as it used to be. The children come first.’

  Joanne looks past Guy, turning the situation over in her mind a couple of times. After a moment, she says, ‘So why don’t you leave? Why not move in with your other wife?’ He’s about to answer when another thought occurs to her. ‘You’re a bigamist in the true sense of the word, then? You are actually married to two women?’

  He nods. ‘I married Nino—’

  ‘Nino?’

  ‘My Georgian wife. I married her in Georgia when—’

  ‘Hang on. I don’t understand—’

  ‘Nino came over here for work. I employed her to clean the holiday cottages and, without really meaning to, I found myself in her company more and more. I realized it was turning into something special … and before I went ahead and, you know—’

  ‘Slept with her?’

  ‘Yes, before I took the relationship further, I told Kate that I wanted a divorce. I told her I wanted to move out and start a life with Nino … Are you going to arrest me for being a bigamist?’

  ‘Eventually, but not right now. Explain to me why you haven’t left Kate.’

  ‘Because she’s always threatened suicide.’

  ‘I see. So how did you find yourself married to the two of them?’

  He exhales. ‘My relationship with Nino developed over the next few months … Even though I tried my best to keep my distance I found that I simply couldn’t, and the whole thing really took its toll on Kate. More than I thought possible.’

  ‘So you found yourself between a rock and a hard place.’

  Guy looks at her dolefully. ‘Let’s say life didn’t quite work out the way I’d hoped it would,’ and Joanne thinks, Mister, join the club.

  ‘Nino became pregnant – unexpectedly. Again I begged Kate for a divorce, again she insisted that she’d kill herself before she’d ever let that happen. And I believed her. I can’t stress how much I believed her. I never would have gone through with this if I hadn’t. But now we were faced with the problem of Nino being an unmarried mother and being cut off by her own family if she remained as such. And I felt that, as understanding as she’d been about the situation with Kate, she really didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve to have nothing. Nino was petrified I’d stay with Kate and she would be left here in the UK with no guarantee, no evidence of our relationship. So I took the easy way out and married her in Georgia. In front of her family and friends.’

  ‘Who else knows about this?’

  ‘The children know there’s a problem, but not the full extent of it. Kate’s sister, Alexa, knows about Nino.’

  ‘Then last night you were with—?’

  ‘Nino – yes,’ he replies. ‘We have an apartment at Helm Priory in Bowness. It’s in a good spot. Nino doesn’t drive, so it’s handy for the village. She can pick up what she needs without being totally reliant on me.’

  ‘And that’s why Lisa Kallisto discovered your wife this morning. You were staying there.’

  He nods.

  Joanne remembers how she followed Guy Riverty two nights ago. How on leaving the doctor’s surgery he’d swung a left up Brantfell Road instead of going home.

  Brantfell Road loops round into Helm Road. The prescription he’d picked up must have been for his son. Nino’s son.

  Joanne’s thoughts then return to Kate. ‘Wh
y choose now to commit suicide … when this has been going on for – how long?’

  ‘I’ve been with Nino for four years.’

  ‘So why choose now?’

  Reluctantly, he says, ‘Because she couldn’t cope with my leaving her alone, with Lucinda missing.’

  Joanne sucks in her breath. That really is shitty.

  Guy says, ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ and Joanne tilts her head. ‘You’re wondering what type of man could do something like that to another person.’

  Joanne’s actually thinking that, if this was a TV crime drama, the detective would answer: ‘Doesn’t matter what I think. My job is to try to make sense of the disappearance of your daughter and bring whoever’s responsible to justice.’ But because this is real life, Joanne says, ‘What a total-bastard thing to do. Who taught you how to treat women like that?’

  He looks at her levelly. ‘You don’t understand. Kate has … Kate has issues. Complicated problems.’ And Joanne gives him a look as if to say, Yes, you, you bastard. You are her problem.

  ‘Let me guess,’ she says, sitting back in her chair, ‘your Russian wife understands you much better.’

  ‘Georgian,’ he corrects.

  ‘My mistake.’

  Guy takes a long, deep breath.

  ‘Kate has been seeing a psychotherapist for a number of years now at the Bupa hospital. When I first told her about Nino, she took it hard. Threw herself into being a doting mother.’

  Joanne nods, signalling for Guy to go on, but for now he can’t. It’s as if what he’s about to reveal is too painful, and it takes him a moment to summon the strength to continue.

  ‘Around that time, Fergus developed a problem with his eye. We tried everything,’ he says. ‘Took him everywhere. The eye would get dreadfully swollen and crusty-looking, and there was always a low-lying infection we could never quite seem to get rid of. At one point we thought he might lose the sight in it altogether. Kate was really good, taking him down to London to the eye hospital time and time again, but they couldn’t identify the cause. Until’ – Guy pauses here, folds his lips inwards and blows up his cheeks in an expression of sad resignation – ‘until a new Canadian doctor thought he found the answer.’