The Loving Husband

by Christobel Kent

  ‘Then he just went off the radar,’ Miranda had gone on, her voice flat now. ‘I didn’t hear from him again for ten years, and suddenly five years ago he sent me an email. I was working in Germany then, I was at a bank in Frankfurt. He sent me a link to his webpage, he told me he’d been at college, got some qualification, and now, just like that, he’s some kind of builder. Gave me his mobile number, an address in north London.’ A quick laugh. ‘He hadn’t changed that much, though. Told me he’d got married in a text, six months later.’

  ‘And he didn’t tell you what he’d been up to since he left home?’ Gerard probed.

  ‘No, I told you,’ she said, urgent. ‘I knew someone he’d met at Black Barn got him that interview, gave him a leg-up. Whatever it was, it took him off the radar, he never looked back.’ Gerard had gone quiet then.

  Now Fran stood up under the living room’s low beams, and shoved the big book of photographs back into the shelves, high up. ‘There were police involved at Black Barn,’ she said. ‘A senior policeman.’

  Miranda looked up at her, as if she hadn’t registered what she said. ‘I never worried about him at Black Barn,’ she said, forlorn, and for a second Fran saw the kid sister behind her eyes. ‘I knew he’d survive.’

  ‘Only he didn’t. He didn’t survive this time.’

  Miranda stood up. ‘I want to see the house, I want to know what’s so special about this place. To bring Nathan back here.’

  In the corner Fran saw Emme go still. ‘I’m just going to show your auntie Miranda around a bit,’ she said.

  Miranda noticed the trapdoor into the attic straight away, stopping and looking up: the ladder was still leaning against the wall under it. ‘It’s got that smell,’ she said, her mouth turning down, the back of her hand to her nostrils. ‘Don’t you smell it?’ Fran tipped her head back. Old wood, the powdery scent of mould and something else. The air around those heaped possessions in the dark roof space, a creeping staleness. For a moment they stood under the trapdoor, both holding their breath – then they walked on. Into the spare room, where she’d found the figurine with its porn breasts, as if Miranda knew.

  ‘The one time I went to Black Barn,’ Miranda said, on the threshold, ‘I didn’t even go inside. I had the same feeling. I smelled the same smell, dirty sheets, old socks, dry rot, maybe, I don’t know.’ She walked on into the room, to the window, and stood there, her back to Fran.

  ‘I clean my sheets,’ said Fran, but her voice felt lighter than a whisper and Miranda didn’t seem to hear.

  ‘It was a place where bad things could happen,’ she said. ‘Were happening. I got to the door, I’d gone on my bike. It was all overgrown, a sweltering day, I remember the river too, the way it smells in the heat, all green and cold.’

  ‘Green’s not a smell,’ said Fran.

  Without looking round Miranda said in an undertone, ‘Some things you need more than one sense for, you can taste them, you can feel them.’ Her voice had risen a notch, breathless. ‘I heard something in the house, some groaning sound, someone laughing, high-pitched, and I just ran. I tripped over my bike in the lane and I thought I would die if I had to stay there.’ She drew her fingertips closer on the glass. ‘It was just right for Nathan. Like this place, maybe. A place where Nathan could feel at home, king of the castle, and the rest of us don’t even want to cross the threshold.’ Beside her Fran nodded, unseen. ‘It’s men on their own,’ Miranda continued, ‘left to their own devices. That’s the smell.’ Then she turned. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’

  The car the policewoman pulled up in was battered and ancient. She didn’t bother to lock it, she just stood at the kerb and looked up at them, at Miranda.

  ‘That’s Ali,’ said Fran. She stepped into Ben’s room to put him down and heard Miranda on the stairs, heading for the kitchen, or so she thought. But Fran was halfway down when she heard it, a loud grating and a shudder, and turning at the bottom she saw that Miranda, in her ignorance, had gone to the front door, and had somehow miraculously managed to get it open. Ali Compton was standing on the snow-dusted grass in front of the house, bewildered.

  ‘I just,’ Ali said, faltering as she looked around, ‘I just…’ She was wearing a battered weatherproof jacket and the same sweater as before only with a spatter stain across the bottom, as if someone had thrown food at her.

  ‘Gerard said you had trouble at home,’ said Fran, and Ali made an impatient noise and then was next to her, a hand on her elbow.

  ‘I just needed to know you were OK,’ she said. Miranda folded her arms across her body, weighing Ali up. ‘You and the kids.’

  ‘I…’ Fran felt it come up in her throat, the thing she had been fighting so long to keep down. ‘I need to…’

  ‘We need to talk,’ said Ali, and although neither of them looked at her, Miranda said, ‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’

  It had to be upstairs. Not just because it was where it had happened. Fran wanted to put doors between her and anyone who could overhear. Miranda and Emme; she didn’t even want Ben to hear.

  Ali closed the door behind them, looking around the room in the low pale light falling through the long windows. Fran sat on the bed, feeling suddenly completely alone, no Nathan, no Emme, no Ben. There was something in Ali’s face that made her avert her eyes.

  ‘I found a load of stuff in the attic,’ she said, mumbling. ‘I found John Martin’s wife’s stuff up there, and he’s still around. Where is she? Is she out there, is she in a ditch somewhere?’ She looked up and Ali’s eyes were wide. Fran swallowed. ‘Is she under the concrete in that barn, and Nathan worked it out?’

  ‘You think John Martin killed him?’ Ali said, and her voice was flat.

  ‘Gerard said the tights they found outside belonged to a woman with convictions for soliciting,’ she said, pushing it away, the thing she really didn’t want to say. John Martin’s stiff hair, his sliding eyes.

  ‘I know that,’ said Ali quickly. ‘DC Watts brought me up to date on her. The woman – she’s called Gillian Archer.’

  They’d told her that. Gillian. Jilly-Ann. This felt like the wrong conversation, somehow. They were each skirting something, not wanting to go there. ‘What about Black Barn?’ Fran said, faltering. ‘Would John Martin have known about the place? Would she, his wife? Someone died there.’

  ‘He might have done,’ Ali said, grim-faced. ‘Depends what kind of sex he was after. I remember that. I remember that girl. The one that died at Black Barn.’ Fran raised her eyes to Ali, and she couldn’t keep it in any longer.

  ‘He came into my bed,’ she said in a monotone, and Ali’s face changed.

  ‘Who?’ she said sharply.

  ‘The man who killed Nathan, the man who came into my bed. I wasn’t asleep. We … he came into my bed and we…’

  ‘You what?’

  Fran swallowed. ‘We had … we had sex,’ she said. ‘And now he’s out there. Leaving chocolates, flowers, Valentines. Writing stuff on my car. He’s been in here.’

  ‘He raped you.’ Ali spoke the word calmly, levelly. Wordless, Fran nodded. ‘I don’t need to ask,’ said Ali, ‘why you didn’t tell Doug Gerard,’ and now her voice was flat and angry.

  ‘I … I…’ Tell her. ‘I had washed the sheets,’ she said, stiff. ‘I don’t know why, it was before I knew, before I started to wonder. There was something about the way they smelled, something about how it felt, and I didn’t want … I didn’t want them looking. At me, at my dirty sheets. Gerard and Carswell.’

  Ali’s shoulders dropped, and she sighed. ‘Fran,’ she said, sadly, ‘Fran, Fran.’ Shaking her head, then her head was still. ‘There’s something I need you to know. But I can’t be the one that tells you.’ Frowning fiercely.

  Fran stared. ‘About the man that … the man that was in my bed?’ she said. ‘Is it, was it John Martin?’

  ‘It’s about your husband.’

  ‘About Nathan,’ Fran repeated dully. ‘Not that he was gay? I don’t care if he was gay.�
�

  ‘About his job,’ said Ali, arms folded tight across herself now. Fran stared and Ali went on. ‘Did you know your ex-boyfriend Nick Jason was allowing drugs to be dealt in his clubs? Did you know he was probably arranging drugs shipments himself, while you were his girlfriend?’ A pause. ‘Was Nick Jason a violent man?’

  ‘Violent?’ said Fran, shaking her head. ‘No. No!’ Though what did she know, about what he’d done, when she wasn’t there? She hadn’t thought he’d pimp her out to a business contact, either. ‘What’s Nick got to do with Nathan?’ Fran said, and Ali just looked at her, intent, willing her to understand something.

  Fran spoke slowly. ‘Nathan went down to London for an interview nearly twenty years ago and just disappeared. What was he doing? Was he in prison?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’ Ali held her gaze. ‘I think you know I can’t tell you.’ A pause. ‘Did you think it was just by chance Nathan took a unit on the same industrial estate as Nick’s warehouse?’

  Fran exhaled, shaky. ‘Not any more. What had Nathan got into?’

  When Ali still didn’t answer she pushed, harder. ‘Drugs? Was it sex? Was that what Black Barn was about?’ Fran was feeling the cold in the room, the long draughty windows rattling in their frames, letting the outside in. ‘Karen says the police knew about Black Barn and turned a blind eye. Miranda said a visitor to Black Barn was the one that got him the interview for his first job, the job that took him off the radar for ten years. What was that job?’

  She could hear Ali’s breath. ‘Ali? What was that job?’

  ‘You think about it,’ said Ali, pulling her jacket around her in the cold room. ‘I can’t tell you. Think about why I might not be able to tell you.’

  From downstairs there was a sudden clatter and Fran was on her feet, but Ali was on the stairs before her.

  In the kitchen Miranda looked pale and tired; a mug lay in pieces on the floor.

  Fran took Ali back to the front door, knowing it wouldn’t open for her but she tugged anyway. It resisted, she gritted her teeth and hauled then suddenly it gave, in a swirling gust of icy air. Hunching in the outdoor jacket, Ali said, ‘It’s going to snow. Just do me a favour. You’ve got her now,’ nodding towards the kitchen, ‘and I’ve got your back. I have. Just lock the doors and stay put. Go nowhere, talk to no one.’

  Fran opened her mouth but Ali just shook her head. ‘Nowhere,’ she repeated. ‘No one.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Miranda.

  Ali couldn’t tell her, but Miranda could. Softly, she closed the kitchen door behind them and knelt to gather up the pieces of the broken mug. She could feel Miranda watching her.

  ‘So you didn’t ask, even,’ Fran said, straightening, dustpan in hand. ‘When Nathan got back in touch. You didn’t say, where have you been?’

  ‘Not straight off,’ Miranda said, terse. ‘You must have known that much about Nathan. You poke him, he closes up. I had my ideas.’

  ‘What ideas?’ said Fran, determined. But before Miranda could answer, the phone rang, startlingly loud, on the wall.

  It was Jo.

  ‘Jo,’ she said, feeling a sob of relief. ‘Look, I’m sorry—’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Jo. ‘Two things.’ Brisk. ‘First off. There’s some work here if, when, you want it. Some maternity cover starting in two months’ time, yes … I know, crazy, but … and two interviews further down the line, it’s not much…’

  Christ knows how she would sort it, childcare, where to live … ‘Yes,’ Fran said quickly. ‘Yes, please, yes. Totally.’ And waited, because she heard a hesitation in Jo’s voice.

  ‘It’s Craig,’ Jo said, abrupt, and Fran was thrown. ‘Who?’

  Jo cleared her throat. ‘Craig’s the guy, the new guy. I told you about him. My … my fiancé,’ and suddenly she sounded uncomfortable. Fran put a hand to the wall, staring at Nathan’s handwriting, the list of useful names. Doctor. Dentist. Rob. Nathan’s office number, his mobile number.

  ‘I told you, he’s in construction, didn’t I? He’s a builder.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fran, turning, setting her back against the wall.

  ‘Anyway. At the wedding, your wedding, that guy that was there. Practically Nathan’s only guest, the guy.’

  ‘Rob?’ She turned back again, studying the numbers without really seeing them. She remembered Jo talking to Rob.

  ‘No, not him,’ said Jo, impatient again. ‘The big bloke.’ Fran’s finger went to the numbers, down the list. Julian.

  ‘Julian Napier,’ she said. Rob eyeing him along the table, after the wedding. Rob’s expression turning flat in the pub when Nathan took a call from Julian.

  ‘Anyway, Craig says he’s dodgy.’

  ‘Dodgy how?’

  Jo sighed, puzzling. ‘The company, for a start. The only jobs they ever run, he says, are vanity projects, bits and pieces put his way where the client’s abroad, or has money to burn.’

  ‘So?’ said Fran, almost impatient. It seemed like nothing.

  Jo went on. ‘Craig says someone must be propping him up, somewhere down the line, because he doesn’t run the company professionally. Plus…’ She hesitated. ‘He’s a serious Mason. You know, the rolled-up trouser leg, all that, connections here, there and everywhere, the network.’

  ‘Masons,’ said Fran, feeling her ignorance, the world outside black as a cellar and her blundering about in it. ‘I don’t know anything about Masons.’ She heard Jo hold her breath. ‘That’s not all, is it?’ she said, seizing on the hesitation.

  ‘Look,’ said Jo, exhaling, resigned. ‘It could just be gossip. I don’t like this kind of rumour, and I’m no investigative journalist, am I, but … well. Apparently Napier has got specific sexual tastes.’ And then Fran heard a sound in the background, a clearing of the throat.

  ‘Is Craig there?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jo, her voice muffling for a second, a door closing, then she was back. ‘Boys,’ she said. ‘Julian Napier likes boys. There were rumours he was … apprehended on the Heath having sex with a fourteen-year-old. Craig says more than rumour: someone who’d worked with Napier confirmed it.’

  ‘Apprehended?’

  ‘It never got to court, even though once that rumour went round there were plenty of others. The police never seemed to take them seriously, apparently.’

  She turned then and saw that Miranda had got to her feet, pale and intent, as if there was something she wanted to say. Quickly Fran said, ‘Thanks, Jo, look, that’s … that’s important. Really important.’ Staring back at Miranda.

  ‘Just take care,’ said Jo, suddenly awkward, she never liked being thanked. ‘I only want to know you’re all right.’ As she hung up Fran turned to Miranda.

  ‘What is it?’ she said.

  ‘Julian Napier,’ said Miranda. ‘That name. I remember that name.’

  Outside, someone was shouting.

  On the desk Derek barely lifted his head as he buzzed her through. Invisible, she was, thought Ali, lifting a hand to thank him.

  The carers’ agency had finally responded to her threats and pleas, after forty minutes of holding, of being hung up on, of being put through to the wrong extension, as she sat there glued to the mobile in her car, parked up outside the station. It had taken her telling them she was a police officer for someone to say, (deep long-suffering sigh), ‘We’ll get someone over there.’ A carer. ‘Your mother’s safety is our priority, Ms Compton.’

  Derek called up the stairs after her, ‘You won’t find them up there, Ali, they’re all off to Chatteris, or they were, to the morgue.’ And as she got to the turn of the stairs, refusing to take the lift, too many beer bellies in this business as it is, ‘They might’ve left Sadie behind to hold the fort.’

  And there she was, earnestly bent over her computer in the corner of the cramped operations room. She looked up warily as she saw Ali. ‘Ali,’ she said. ‘All right? How’s Mrs Hall doing?’

  Sadie hesitated. ‘Sounds l
ike we’re going to have some news for her soon,’ she said, then a shadow passed over her face as though she wasn’t sure she’d done the right thing.

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Ali, stopping.

  There were the photographs, pinned up. You could look at them on the computer, these days, but they all still liked the real thing, Ali included, when she was in one of these rooms. You could stand at this angle or that, you could touch them, get up close to the detail. Nathan Hall’s white face under flash, the blood reading black. The shirt, ripped up to the aorta and saturated. A close-up on his trouser button, undone, an image almost arty, folds of fabric in the dark.

  She put a hand up to the photograph. No sign of sexual assault, Gerard had said, almost disappointed. But something had gone on.

  There were other photographs. Fran Hall, smiling outside a registry office in a pale dress, holding a baby. Ali wondered who had provided them with that. A shot of Rob Webster taken from his hospital ID. A fuzzy mugshot of Martin Beston, Bez, staring sullen at the camera, bleary with booze. She stepped closer. Nick Jason, a photograph taken in a club, a tall man leaning back against a bar in a dark suit with bottles behind him, something about the line of his shoulders in the expensive jacket. Impossible to tell if he was capable of almost disembowelling a man, in the dark in a muddy field. If you had money you didn’t usually do that kind of thing yourself, but it didn’t feel like a hit. A hit would have been a shotgun. Nick Jason was nice to look at: if she’d been Fran Hall, she’d have been tempted back there. Of course she would.

  Gerard’s suspects. There was no photograph on Gerard’s whiteboard of the man who’d owned the Hall’s farmhouse: John Martin, whose wife had been a prostitute. That chicken barn out the back with its uneven concrete floor, she’d smelled it every time she went through their yard, you’d have thought they’d have had it taken down by now. Was that what John Martin was hanging around for? To see what they found?

  No reference to Black Barn, either, not here on the board, not to the girl who died, not to the rumours that had flown around, as to who was going there, and for what.