by Gytha Lodge
But I also remember the next day. When I asked you how it felt, and you said you couldn’t remember that much of it, but you were glad we’d done it.
Glad we’d done it.
I remember laughing at your unromantic ways, while inwardly I felt like I was being crushed. I knew you had a capacity for romance. It had been clear from the little things you’d done early on, and from your proposal. I had somehow just stopped stirring it in you.
I was glad when the subject moved on to April and what she’d said at the wedding reception. How she’d drawn you to one side and said, unusually slowly, that I was the best person she knew, and she’d kill you if you ever hurt me. I remember the sheen of sweat on your brow as you told me about it, even a day later. I could see it had shaken you more than you wanted to admit. But you were angry about it, too.
Who does she think she is, saying that to the man who loves you?
I remember feeling for you when you said that. I would have been angry, too, I thought. But now I think not. I think I would have assumed April just cared about her best friend. I would probably have forgiven it.
Maybe your anger came from somewhere else. From guilt.
Those are the only really strong memories I have of our wedding. The photos seem to be of some fantastical dream I once had.
I sometimes wonder whether I would have gone through with it if I’d known everything I do now. In particular, if I’d known about the money.
I’m being honest when I say that I never even suspected it. The truth only hit home three months after our wedding, during that strange, rather disappointing time when the ceremony and the party were all done, when the gifts were all opened and had been used a few times or put away, when life had returned to normal and I’d really understood that marriage was never going to make me feel secure.
I remember trying to move things on. To think about the next thing. To bring up the subject of children again. And it was only on the fourth of these occasions, a Wednesday evening when we were eating a Greek salad and flatbreads that I’d thrown together in the hope of pleasing you, that you finally seemed to grow angry.
I remember the expression on your face as you put your fork down and said, ‘I don’t think you’re responsible enough to have a child, do you?’
I shouldn’t have asked what you meant. I already knew.
‘Come on. Anyone who gets blind drunk and can’t remember what they’ve done isn’t responsible.’ Your voice was loud. Full of outrage. ‘You lost your handbag and keys a week ago, Louise. At a nice restaurant. God knows what you’re like when I’m out of the country. How would you look after a kid?’
I felt breathless with hurt. We’d got drunk together. You’d been just as shitfaced as I’d been. And I’d been so, so well behaved the rest of the time. With April. When I was on my own.
‘But I don’t do anything when you’re away,’ I told you, my voice tight. Choking. ‘Not any more. Not after that – that horrible man …’
You got to your feet at that point, pushing your kitchen chair back so hard that it made a screeching sound on the lino.
‘Look, I don’t want to talk about this right now. OK? I’m tired. It’s been a long week.’
And it had, of course. It had been like every other week. You’d been away for three days, and I’d been either performing or rehearsing around that. This was the one night we’d had together, and I suddenly felt awful for having ruined it. So I let it go. I swallowed the hurt, and I cleared up the remains of our dinner in silence.
But I didn’t forget it. I dwelled on it for the next four days, until the morning I opened your bank statement instead of mine. There are probably a lot of truths discovered about spouses this way, though I imagine that some husbands or wives are clever enough to open them on purpose.
I’m happy to admit that I wasn’t clever at all. I assumed that your lavish gifts and lifestyle were based on a serious salary and savings. I thought I could sit back and enjoy it. That the amount we spent on our wedding had been entirely justified given how much you earned. I really did think this, Niall. It was never wilful ignorance on my part.
And then I read that statement, with its fully used overdraft of thirty thousand, and it filled me with horror.
It pulled the rug right out from under me. You were so together. So grown-up. How could you possibly have let this happen?
But as I looked at the payments in and out, I started to have some idea. The clothes you wear so well are all designer, aren’t they? And those company nights out where you lavish free drinks on everyone are costing you thousands per year. And then there’s your car, which I right then discovered wasn’t ‘a really good deal’. I know now that it costs you nine hundred a month. It costs a mortgage, Niall. A mortgage. And I find it incomprehensible that a week ago you mentioned swapping it for a newer model when you are so deep in debt that it’s terrifying.
The money coming in was almost as worrying. It was clear that you were taking out loans. The sums were too big and too round to be anything else. And I know what those kinds of loans cost in interest.
The more I saw, the more I started to doubt everything you’d ever told me. More than anything, I doubted that you actually liked yourself. How could anyone who felt comfortable in their skin be so desperate to have so many symbols of status? Because there was status written all over every single payment you’d made.
I went pretty quickly from being frightened of those numbers to being searingly angry. Four nights ago, you’d held up my erratic behaviour as a sign of inadequacy. As definitive proof that I couldn’t cope with having a child. And while you were punishing me for that, you were busy being as irresponsible as it was possible to be.
I know you’ll wonder why I said nothing. I could so easily have confronted you.
But as I sat there with that statement in front of me, and I thought about having an open conversation, I felt everything in me protest. I wasn’t strong enough. Not just then. And part of me worried that you would react defensively, and tell me off for snooping. I don’t know even now if that was unfair of me.
So I took that statement, envelope and all, and I hid it in a copy of Handel’s Messiah, which I slid back onto the shelf in my music room. It was somewhere you would never look. We were three months married, and you had already lost interest in my music. It had become, if anything, an irritation to you when I played. I’m pretty sure it was before this that you first came and shut the music-room door while I was practising, so you could continue your evening uninterrupted.
It took three glasses of wine to stop me worrying about that bank statement. And then another three to make me calm enough to be normal when you got home. To make you dinner and to listen with a smile as you told me about the rheumatologist you’d converted into a champion for your drugs. I did my job well, I think, because you came over to me as I was clearing away, and smoothed my hair back out of my face. Your eyes studied me, and you said, ‘Love you, Lou,’ for the first time since our honeymoon.
And then, instead of having a difficult conversation, we made love, then put crap comedy on the upstairs TV and lay next to each other. It felt like a dangerous corner that I’d managed to swing into and out of. It felt like I’d made the right decision.
Perhaps I was wrong to hide it. Perhaps you had actually been waiting for a chance to talk about it. It might have been a massive relief for you, and it would have become our problem instead of yours. You might have thanked me for forcing it out into the open, instead of telling me I shouldn’t have been looking at your mail.
But I feel that your behaviour since Alex Plaskitt’s death has proved all my fears justified. Don’t you?
13
O’Malley agreed to take April Dumont’s information over the phone. What the DCI wanted from her now was a simple account of what Louise Reakes had done the night before.
‘Ask me anything you want,’ she said, firmly. ‘I can tell you she has no earthly thing to do with some poor guy’s death.
’
Anyone, O’Malley thought, who described Southern US accents as soft or lilting needed to talk to April Dumont. This Tennessee twang was all hard edges and rapid rhythms. There was nothing remotely lilting about it.
‘What makes you say that? Has Louise told you she feels under suspicion?’
‘She messaged to say you’d dragged her into the station again,’ April said. ‘So I guess there’s something going on.’
‘Not so much that,’ O’Malley said in a soothing tone. ‘We just need to check things. That’s all. Due diligence and all that. Could you tell me if you’d arranged to meet someone at the club?’
‘No, we didn’t,’ she said. There was a momentary pause and a murmur. O’Malley caught the words ‘whisky sour’, and realised she must be in a bar somewhere. ‘That’s never what we do. It’s always just the two of us. And Louise wasn’t even that keen at first. I insisted we had to go out. I thought she needed cheering up, and, to be honest, I did, too.’
‘Why would Louise need cheering up?’
‘Because her life’s been increasingly depressing.’ April made another impatient sound. ‘Look, I don’t want … This is Louise’s business. But … it’s hard when you want kids and don’t seem to be making any progress with having them. OK?’
‘Sure, OK,’ O’Malley answered. ‘And I know it seems intrusive, but all this stuff is useful so we can stop looking at someone who wasn’t involved.’
‘I guess I get that,’ April said, sounding a little less combative.
‘Louise’s husband was away, so you felt free to go out? Is that right?’
‘Darn right. Niall’s not too fond of his wife drinking anything these days.’ April gave a short laugh. ‘And he thinks I’m a bad influence, too.’
‘So he’d be angry with her if he knew?’
‘He’d be preachy,’ April corrected. ‘And that’s enough of a pain in the ass. Look, I’ve got about ten minutes before a meeting and I thought you wanted to know about last night.’
‘That’s fine,’ O’Malley said, easily. ‘Can you tell me when you arrived at the club?’
‘I guess … eleven thirty or something?’
‘And you were with Louise the whole time?’
‘Well, I went to the bar and the ladies a few times,’ April said. ‘And then I – sorta hit it off with this guy …’
‘And you didn’t see Louise talking to a young man?’ O’Malley asked. ‘He was tall and obviously athletic. He probably would have stood out.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ April insisted. ‘I didn’t see her talking to anyone except the bar staff all evening.’
‘And while you were with this fella …’
‘Louise went to get drinks.’
‘And then?’
‘And then I guess … I’m not sure after that,’ April admitted. ‘She would have queued a while. You always do somewhere that serves cocktails.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘On her way over there. So I guess … before midnight.’
O’Malley paused slightly. ‘So you left with this … guy? You didn’t say goodbye to Louise?’
‘I know I should have,’ April said, with a touch of defensiveness, ‘but I was rolling drunk by that time. And sometimes you don’t make great decisions in those circumstances.’
O’Malley waited a moment, certain that April would feel compelled to say more. He wasn’t disappointed.
‘Look. Whatever Louise did after that, she didn’t end up killing some guy,’ she said, sounding frustrated. ‘She’s this warm, loving, kind person. I felt bad this morning because I worried something could have happened to her, understand? I would never in a million years worry she’d hurt someone else. So you need to send Louise home so she can sleep and recover. She probably feels like a heap of shit right now, and she should be in bed, not being grilled by some drama-hungry cops.’
‘I’m sure she’ll be heading home soon,’ O’Malley said, not too concerned whether or not this was true.
‘You’d better listen to me and let her go home,’ April said, with a little steel, ‘or I’m going to come down there myself.’
‘We’ll bear that in mind,’ O’Malley told her.
Jonah tried to fill some time while waiting for his team to update him. As much as he valued the space to think during investigations, there were too many gaps in his knowledge to get to grips with it all, and the two other cases on their books from the week before were at similar stages, without the sense of urgency of a murder.
He decided to look at some of the earlier video footage sent over by Charlie as a starting point. It was all filmed from the same spot close to the door, and caught everyone entering and exiting. It was largely uninteresting, except for a brief brawl at eleven fifty. Then, at twelve ten, Step Conti appeared. He was markedly more sober than anyone except the staff. Jonah noted the time down and switched the video off a few minutes later.
At three he decided to chase up the technical team about Alex’s phone. He suspected that they would now be waiting another day. Getting the civilian parts of the force to come in on days off and work swiftly was a constant challenge. Only Janet McCullough would generally show willing, thanks to her obsessive attitude towards her work.
‘We’re nearly done,’ a begrudging Intelligence officer told him. ‘I’ll send it to you as soon as it’s ready.’
Jonah hung up with a rare feeling of satisfaction. DCS Wilkinson must have done a good job of leaning on them.
He spent a few minutes writing up his notes on Louise’s interview, and headed back out to CID. Lightman was back at his desk, and Hanson was making her way back over with Jason Walker, who had presumably met up with her outside rather than going along for the ride.
Jonah arrived at Lightman’s desk at the same time Hanson did, and watched in some amusement as Jason melted away, and Hanson blushed very slightly.
‘How was the sister?’ he asked them both.
‘She had a few things to say,’ Lightman said, thoughtfully. ‘She’s not on great terms with the victim’s husband because Issa apparently wanted Alex to stop doing his fitness videos. He disliked the trolling. Phoebe Plaskitt refused to take Issa’s side.’
‘She described her brother much as Step Conti did,’ Hanson added. ‘Alex was a patient, protective person who generally defused fights rather than getting into them.’
Jonah nodded again, digesting this, and then asked O’Malley for an update on April Dumont.
‘Everything matched what Louise Reakes said most recently,’ O’Malley told him. ‘April copped off with a guy she’d met there. She then left with him, at around midnight. She’s positive she didn’t see Louise talking to anyone who looked like Alex Plaskitt. She’s also pretty keen that we let Louise go immediately. A concerned, mildly threatening friend.’
‘Well,’ Jonah said, getting to his feet, ‘she gets what she wants. Louise is going to have to be released while we work out if we want to arrest her.’
‘I’ll drive her home,’ Hanson said, swinging her chair round. ‘She’s tired and hungover, and it’s possible she might say something she shouldn’t.’
‘Good,’ Jonah said. ‘Was there any update on CCTV on London Road?’
‘Sod all,’ O’Malley said. ‘I’ll ring them again.’
‘Thanks,’ Jonah said. ‘I’d like to chase the traffic cameras up, too.’
He collected Louise from the interview room, glancing at her sweat-sheened face. She’d put her coat on now, and the white fur lining made her look both younger and even more off-colour. But she’d been out drinking last night, so there wasn’t necessarily anything suspicious in looking nauseous. He’d been there himself on other occasions.
‘Detective Constable Hanson has offered to give you a lift home,’ he said, once they were close to his team.
Louise faltered. ‘Oh. That’s OK. I can get a cab.’
Hanson grinned at her. ‘It’s no problem. I want to grab a sandwich, anyw
ay.’
Louise’s expression was clearly unenthusiastic, but she let Hanson walk her out. Jonah, watching Hanson’s very slight smile, felt almost guilty for handing Louise over to her. Almost.
‘I’m so sorry about this,’ Hanson said quietly, once they were out of CID. Up close Louise looked, if anything, worse than she had from a distance. There was a heavy look to her eyes that spoke of barely being able to keep awake and she was gleaming with perspiration. ‘I know it’s not much consolation, but it’s just the DCI doing his job.’
Louise gave her a doubtful look. She said nothing.
‘I’ve got some ibuprofen and co-codamol,’ Hanson tried, once they’d climbed into the ice-cold Nissan. ‘Would you like some …?’
‘God, I’d love some,’ Louise said, with sudden feeling. Hanson grinned and rifled through her handbag until she’d found them. Louise held out a hand and let Hanson squeeze four tablets onto it, two sugar-coated and two chalky. ‘Oh, do you have any water …?’
Hanson reached round to the back seat and retrieved a half-full bottle of Evian.
‘It’s only from yesterday,’ she said, ‘and I promise I don’t have the plague.’
Louise seemed unconcerned by the idea of germs. She tipped all four tablets into her mouth and then drank all of the remaining water as she swallowed them down.
‘Such awful timing, having to deal with this on a hangover,’ Hanson commented, as she started the ignition and began manoeuvring the little car. The steering wheel was painfully cold. She wished the heating worked better. If she turned it on now, it would blow cold air at them and then never really get hot. The only answer was to leave it for a good ten minutes with the engine running and then put it on full blast.
‘It’s horrible,’ Louise agreed in a low voice, and then added in a rush, ‘I don’t know where the hangover ends and the shock starts. I wish he’d, you know … gone somewhere else.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Hanson said. ‘It must feel completely unreal, him turning up like that with no warning.’
Louise nodded, but said nothing else. A short while later, she made a sniffing sound, and when Hanson looked over at her, there were tears tracking down her cheeks.