The Loving Husband

by Christobel Kent

  Ben was asleep in his car seat. Ali held it carefully in her arms so as not to disturb him, setting it down in the corner. She gave the men a quick look.

  ‘Good as gold,’ she said in a whisper, turning to Fran. ‘He’s lovely. Everything all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Fran, and Ali sat beside her.

  Fran held out the picture; Gerard made no attempt to take it. ‘This is Nathan and two of his friends. This photograph was taken some time during the summer when they squatted in a house here in Oakenham, I told you about it. His friends are Rob and Bez. There may have been others at this house. They were there for no more than a few months, the summer of 1995. Twenty years ago.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gerard. ‘Rob. Mr Webster. I was going to ask—’

  ‘It’s Bez I want you to find,’ she interrupted. ‘Where is he? My daughter calls him the bad man, isn’t that reason enough? She says she saw him in the village, she thought she saw him outside Karen’s house. Rob said he’d got into drugs, he’d been living rough. He’s obviously unstable. Haven’t you even thought it’s worth looking for him?’ She drew a breath. ‘Have you talked to Rob again?’

  Gerard exhaled. ‘I’d like details of where your daughter saw this man, of course. I believe his name’s Martin Beston.’

  She stared. ‘You know who he is?’

  ‘We are working very hard to find your husband’s killer, Fran,’ said Gerard, patiently. ‘I wish I could make you believe that we are taking you seriously.’ She began shaking her head. ‘And as for Rob—’

  ‘We got news on Mr Webster,’ said Ed Carswell, and the way he said it, eager, excited, made her turn towards him. But Gerard held up a hand and Carswell stopped.

  ‘First of all,’ Gerard said, formally, his tone quite different since Ali’s appearance, ‘we need to ensure your safety and that of your children, Fran. We need to make sure you feel secure. You keep telling us you know there’s someone out there, but you refuse to move.’ Head on one side. ‘Why is that?’ Even Ali was frowning – Fran couldn’t tell any more if she agreed with him.

  ‘Now, I’m sure you understand, we’re working flat out on this. We don’t have the manpower to have someone outside the house, twenty-four seven. Why won’t you just let us make those arrangements we discussed right at the start? Why won’t you let us look after you and your children?’ He sounded earnest, he sounded puzzled. He sounded caring.

  And then Fran caught a flash of something, from Ali Compton, a spark of anger directed at Gerard that told her Ali didn’t trust him, either.

  ‘I’m not leaving my house,’ Fran said, on the strength of that look. ‘What would that do to the children? This is our home. I want him found. As long as I’m here, Nathan’s killer’s not going anywhere. You know that as well as I do.’ But Gerard began to shake his head, If we believed, but she pushed on. ‘And who’s to say I’d be any safer somewhere else?’

  Gerard regarded her. ‘Well, there may be another solution, as of tomorrow.’

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Your sister-in-law,’ said Ali, and for a moment Fran hadn’t the faintest idea who she meant.

  ‘Miranda Hall?’ Gerard said. ‘She called us, asked us to pass on the message. She’s on her way back from … wherever it is she’s working. Singapore?’

  ‘Seoul,’ said Fran, stunned.

  ‘She’s eager to help. Stopping over in Dubai or somewhere, she couldn’t get a direct flight.’

  Fran put her hands to her head, trying to take it in. ‘She’s coming here.’

  ‘Should be tomorrow some time, weather permitting. So.’

  He looked down at the photograph, that was now lying on the table. ‘Ed,’ he said, ‘scan that in for us, will you?’ As an afterthought he turned to Fran. ‘If that’s OK with you, Fran?’

  ‘What about Rob?’ said Fran, stubborn, at the sight of Carswell’s narrow shoulders. ‘So you have talked to him again? What does he say about Bez?’

  It was Ali who spoke, though, resting a hand on her shoulder. ‘Fran,’ she said, ‘we’re worried about your husband’s friend Rob. Mr Webster.’

  ‘I’m right in thinking, they never lost touch?’ said Gerard. ‘Rob and your husband?’

  She shook her head. ‘Rob was his best man. What’s happened to Rob?’

  The door opened and Carswell stood there looking at them, a kid playing pass the parcel, impatient for his turn, and in that moment the whole thing felt like a game played over her head, between the men. Rob and Nathan and Carswell and Gerard, more men further out, Julian, the farmers, the property developer at the wedding lunch whose name she couldn’t even remember, throwing a ball from one to the other and no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t get it.

  ‘His neighbours haven’t seen him in forty-eight hours, maybe more,’ said Gerard. There was a pause. ‘You were seen there, yesterday morning.’ He watched her for a reaction. She just stared back.

  ‘We gained access to his house but found nothing,’ Gerard said.

  She remembered the mail on the mat. Forty-eight hours would take them back to around the time Rob had turned up in her kitchen, scared to death.

  ‘We got his car,’ said Carswell, bouncing on his heels in the doorway, the photo in his hand, unable to keep quiet.

  ‘His car?’ Fran turned to Ali, in dread.

  ‘We found it in the woods,’ said Ali, putting a hand over hers. ‘Up the other side of the airbase?’ Fran put a hand up to her mouth, suddenly stiff with fright, trying to place it, seeing only the tufted dykes and low willows, wind-blown. What else was up there? Something.

  ‘Someone … did he … did someone…’

  ‘Car seems clean but, you know,’ said Gerard, watching her. ‘If it was staged, let’s say, we’d expect more mess. We’re carrying out tests. You’d be surprised what we can pick up.’ Pointed.

  ‘Staged?’ Belatedly she registered the look he’d given her.

  He shrugged. ‘Made to look like … Violent, let’s say. It’s been known. Blood all over, rips in the upholstery. That kind of thing. In fact a clean car like that tends to sound a few more alarm bells.’

  ‘He’s … he’s that kind of man,’ said Fran, and in her head she could see him, climbing on his bike, meticulous with his Velcro straps, climbing into that car, with its air freshener dangling and maps stacked in the side pocket and then looking at Ali’s pale face, she cracked. ‘Someone’s hurt him,’ she said.

  Carswell made a face, uneasy. ‘Well, now,’ he said, but Fran didn’t let him go on.

  ‘He said he didn’t know anything about Nathan’s work,’ she said, slowly. ‘But he meant the opposite. He knew who Julian was, he knew what happened after that summer they spent in the squat, with Bez. He knew what Nathan was up to, when he was supposed to be working.’

  She looked from Gerard to Carswell and back but their faces were impassive. ‘Someone’s hurt him,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe best to be prepared,’ said Ali Compton.

  ‘He was frightened, when he came to see me.’ They were staring at her. ‘You don’t understand, Rob’s … he’s … without Nathan, he’s vulnerable. He was frightened of someone.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Unappetising, thought Ali Compton, didn’t even begin to cover what was on offer in the canteen, even if the previous hour and a half hadn’t already left a horrible taste in her mouth. But behind her Ed Carswell was bumping up against her, impatient. She turned on him and he blinked, leering. She turned back and at random took a ham roll in clingfilm from the cabinet.

  He nuzzled against her neck from behind. ‘The sexual tension, boss,’ he said, holding eye contact with Gerard. ‘Don’t know what to do with myself.’ She shouldered him out of the way roughly, feeling the sweat rise. At the till Mary-Anne in her polyester mob cap watched her tug her shirt back into place.

  They corralled her into a table in the corner by a window overlooking the car park. Carswell had the all-day breakfast, beans overflowing the
plate; Gerard plonked down his egg salad and immediately began to fork it stolidly into his mouth without interest. She tried to imagine him shacked up with a wife and kids and getting fat, but couldn’t. Carswell was different, Ed Carswell was a slave to his hormones, and that’s what landed you in a family situation, like it or not. Maybe he’d grow out of it – she wouldn’t bet on it. Twenty years of beer, fags and shagging, then drop dead of a heart attack.

  ‘Got her some nice lingerie for tomorrow,’ Ed said, nudging against her with his skinny elbow. He pronounced it with an exaggerated foreign accent, not necessarily French.

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Ali, pushing away her plate and reaching for the cooling coffee. The coffee didn’t taste of anything much but you drank tea till you were drowning in it, in this job. ‘Red, is it?’

  ‘Black,’ he said, looking offended. ‘She’s sophisticated. Older woman.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘Not as old as you, of course, no offence.’

  She laughed, one eye on DS Gerard, who had finished and was sitting back, staring through the glass. ‘None taken,’ she said, and Carswell scowled.

  Gerard spoke, abruptly. ‘I need to be sure you’re staying within the remit. ‘Family liaison isn’t about going behind the backs of the investigative team and dishing out information at random to a victim’s family.’ And he smiled, that broad, shit-eating grin that charmed them when he turned it on, but didn’t fool her.

  ‘I’m a police officer, same as you, sir. I know how an investigation works.’ Gerard gave a snort that wound her up just enough.

  ‘But you don’t seem to be listening to her,’ she said, gritting her teeth. ‘I mean, I’m sure you have your reasons for keeping your focus so narrow, but would it hurt to explore a few more—’

  ‘Which of her theories,’ said Gerard, his voice all quiet and dangerous, ‘would you like me to follow up? The phantom husband who got into bed then got up again to get himself murdered? This mystery man standing in the field who seems very happy to keep his distance, just the odd box of chocolates to let her know he still loves her?’ To Carswell, ‘You put those flowers in for analysis?’ ever so casual. ‘And I hope nothing untoward has happened to that box of chocolates, by the way, Ed, I wouldn’t want anyone to have eaten the evidence.’ Carswell snickered, uncertain.

  ‘Chocolates?’ Surely he wouldn’t have. Arsehole.

  Gerard leaned back, looking up at the ceiling. ‘You want us to dig up the floor of that chicken barn looking for the body of John Martin’s wife? Get Beston out from under his stone? I’ll find him, don’t worry, but from what I hear he can hardly stand up, never mind kill a man as fit as Nathan Hall. Or perhaps you’d like me to track down the whore whose knickers we found in the field while I’m at it?’

  Yes, thought Ali. Of course I fucking would.

  ‘Tights, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘Not knickers.’ And took a breath. ‘With respect,’ she said, ‘I think putting all your eggs in one basket is a risky strategy, not to mention at odds with the evidence.’

  ‘With respect, Detective Constable Compton, you know fuck all about the evidence. About the other agencies we’re having to deal with over this. And for good reason, the way you’re cosying up to her.’

  ‘It’s my job, to keep her informed.’ She leaned forward. ‘Who are these other agencies?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say at this juncture.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ she said, under her breath.

  ‘DC Compton,’ he said, his voice dangerously low, ‘what was that? It wouldn’t take much more of that for me to take you off this case.’ Carswell was goggling at them over his massacre of a breakfast plate. ‘We’re hanging on to this investigation by the skin of our teeth and if I lose it … If we lose it because you fancy a bit of a feminist crusade…’

  He stopped, she could see him resetting.

  He sat back. ‘She doesn’t want you,’ said Gerard, smiling again. ‘I’d wash your hands of it if I were you, not like you haven’t got commitments elsewhere.’ She kept her face still.

  ‘Last time I looked at the conditions of my employment,’ she said quietly, ‘I stay on the job as long as the investigation runs, unless you find evidence of misconduct, of which there is none. And you wouldn’t want to be scurrying around looking for another FLO at this stage, would you, DS Gerard?’

  ‘All I’m saying,’ said Gerard, reasonable, ‘is remember who’s paying you. Kick back a bit. I can move you off this any time I want, and you know it.’

  ‘What do you think was on the hard drive?’ she said, tough. ‘Are you saying she took that too? From what I heard, there’s evidence he had it with him.’

  ‘Could have been anything in that briefcase.’ Gerard sat back, watching her. ‘She could have destroyed the hard drive and his phone while she was at it. We don’t know what he found out about her.’

  ‘A one-night stand?’ She scoffed. ‘You don’t need a hard drive to store that piece of information.’

  ‘More than that,’ said Gerard, and his smile spread. ‘You know it is. Not just that she’s been seen with a man, either. It’s who he is.’

  ‘Family liaison should be for missing kids, and that’s it,’ said Carswell, drumming his skinny fingers on the table top, a slop of ketchup on the side of the plate between his hands. Spouting Gerard again: she ignored him. She was thinking, hard. Other agencies, like who? Another agency that could have this case off them, who could get Craddock to take a Skype conference at crack of dawn.

  ‘See that book she had in her sitting room?’ said Carswell, sitting up straight, eager. ‘Very fifty shades, I don’t think.’

  Gerard clicked his tongue. ‘Porn for the middle classes,’ he said with a sour laugh. ‘They should see what we see. And it was her kitchen knife. Woman’s weapon of choice.’

  Ali stared at him. ‘You think she could do that to her husband, I mean, physically?’ She gave up, her hands flat on the melamine table top. ‘He had his guts hanging out, from what I hear.’

  ‘Who’s saying she was on her own?’ he said, calm and cold. ‘There’s men all over her, this one.’

  Ali recoiled, because his hand was so close she felt the brush of the hairs on his knuckle. His little finger extended and tapped hers, softly.

  ‘I want her under police protection,’ she said, trying to ignore the flush that spread uncomfortably under her blouse. She didn’t move her hand – let him move his. ‘I want her out of there, whether she likes it or not. You’re playing her; you know that the more you offer her some grotty safe house, the harder she’s going to dig her heels in. She’s a victim until you have charges to press. But it suits you to have her out there, doesn’t it, for all the world to see, in the middle of nowhere next to a stinking chicken barn. If she did it, alone or with whatever man you’ve got pegged for her, she’ll crack, is that the theory? If someone else did it, he’s going to come after her, her and her kids, but that doesn’t matter to you, does it?’ She came to a halt, out of breath, the anger still pumping, she leaned towards him. ‘Because you’ve got her dangling.’

  And you love it, she thought as he just kept smiling, it’s where you want women, full stop.

  ‘Gonna nail her,’ said Carswell, gleeful, but Gerard didn’t turn his head, he didn’t speak.

  Men all over this one. Who had Fran Hall been seeing? A new boyfriend? Where would she meet one, not the type to go on Tinder, was she? Internet: no computer either. New boyfriend, old boyfriend, business contact, mate. She needed to talk to Sadie Watts.

  ‘She’s vulnerable, and it’s our duty to protect her and her kids,’ she said, unable to shut up. She had no power, and they both knew it, but that wasn’t going to stop her. Gerard sat perfectly still and she could feel him checking her out, examining her unwashed hair, her roots, her knackered skin. She stared him down.

  ‘She’s a bitch,’ said Gerard and Ali looked for witnesses but all she could see were backs turned to her, lined up along the service counter.

  ‘
She’s a bitch,’ he said again, leaning forward, turning his face to look into hers, ‘And she’s lying.’

  Beyond the pub the river slid by, dark green and slow, weed streaming in it like hair. She sat in the cramped car park under a dripping tree, Ben asleep in the back. Four months, two, he’d be sitting up, he’d be crawling, he’d be asking questions. Did you kill my daddy?

  Close to, the Angel in the Fields did still look like an ordinary pub, a little bit shabby, maybe, the low roof mossy, the crates of alcopop empties uncollected. The sandwich board chalked up with specials: you’d have to walk around it to see Sunday Night Drag Race, Valentine’s Special, and a pair of pouting red lips drawn on.

  The car cooled quickly and she closed her eyes, thinking of the woods where they’d found Rob’s car. Thinking of Rob, his big raw hands, Nathan’s oldest friend. Was it grief that had sent him up there, into the dark? Or had someone lured him there? She put both hands on the steering wheel and tried to think. All she could think of was his voice when she’d called to tell him, when he’d picked up the phone up there on that mountain and said Nathan’s name, cheery, expectant, and she’d had to tell him, Nathan was dead. The silence. Like he knew.

  Would Nathan have told Rob about the will? She opened her eyes again and took out her mobile, held it in both hands. She wrote a message, five words, sent it, deleted it.

  The woods, the airbase, that was where they’d found Rob’s car. This wasn’t her territory, this was theirs. Rob and Nathan and Bez – and whoever had taken that photograph of them, at Black Barn.

  The airfield, ringed with fencing. The trees. Then she sat up, she knew what else there was up there, beyond the woods. The flooded quarry where they’d used to swim. The picture that sprang up in her head thrummed, urgent. The expanse of black water, the spidery willows clumped on the dykes. The car’s temperature gauge said minus two: you would die in that water, wouldn’t you? In minutes. Even someone fit and healthy. Rob ran marathons; she grasped at straws. Not Rob.

  Behind her Ben stirred and wearily she climbed out and got in the back with him. She sat and began to feed him, cocooned in his wadded suit. A man in a tatty ski jacket with a shaven head came out of the back door of the pub and lit up a cigarette, standing with his back to her and staring at the water.