by GJ Minett
And a little further on from here, just after the Yacht Club, was where they used to bring him with his first two-wheeler bike, encouraging him to cycle without the training wheels. Sally would stand 75–100 yards away with her arms outstretched, offering reassurance, while he ran along behind Callum with one hand on the saddle, trying to judge the right moment to let go. Always ended in tears somehow.
And down there on the pebbles just before the pier, was where he’d sat one lunchtime with Sally and a couple of her friends, watching the gaily coloured yachts drift past, desperate for the others to leave the two of them alone for a few seconds so that he could ask her if she’d go to Dave Freeman’s twenty-first with him. And then, when the chance did present itself, he’d been too tongue-tied and nervous to go through with it and she’d gone with someone else instead. Seven months it had taken him to make up the lost ground. She’d almost given up by then, she told him years later.
A lot of history.
He walked back to the car, arrived at the Chinese a good while after the stipulated half hour and took the spare ribs and yung chow special fried rice back to Blondell Drive, trying not to think what it would do to his weight. He searched for a clean plate and threw the meal into the microwave to warm it through. Then he sat in front of the TV, channel-hopping on the off chance there might be something worth watching, settling finally for Casualty which was just running through the opening credits. He stuck with it for as long as it took him to eat the meal, then flicked lethargically through the channels once more before giving up.
He carried his plate through to the kitchen and dropped it into the sink along with the others which had accumulated there for the past week. Then he shuffled back into the lounge, sifting through the mail he’d picked up earlier that afternoon when he’d first got up. Two household bills, two letters urging him to switch energy providers, ah . . . his Boxing News magazine. He unwrapped the latter and read the first few pages but couldn’t get comfortable as he lay there, sprawled on the sofa, so he put it to one side and went back into the kitchen to get himself a Heineken.
Maybe a DVD, he thought, tugging at the ring pull, having decided against looking for a clean glass. He took the can back into the lounge and got down on his knees next to the TV to look through the collection that had been lying there for some time, gathering dust . . . literally: a number of sports compilations; a box set of The Sopranos that Callum (Abi, more like) had bought him for his birthday more than nine months ago and which was still in its cellophane wrapper; Fawlty Towers which he’d picked up in a charity shop near the Regis Centre a while back. Sally had loved it when it first came out. She thought Manuel was brilliant – loved the cruelty shown towards him by Basil which he always found odd, given that she never had an unkind thought in her life.
He took the DVD out of its case, turned on the TV again, slipped the disc into its slot and clambered to his feet. As he reached out and grasped the shelf for support, he knocked the photo frame, just managing to grab it as it toppled over the edge. He tottered for a step or two to regain his balance, his knees protesting that they deserved to be treated with a little more respect. Like a bloody old man, he berated himself. Fifty-four and falling apart at the seams.
He moved to put the photo frame back on the shelf, then changed his mind and held it out in front of him. Sally and him – Puerto Banus – 2010. Only four years ago. She was squinting slightly, not because of the sun but because a stiff breeze was making her eyes water. He looked fifteen years younger than he did now and a couple of stone lighter. Still had that shirt and those cut-offs upstairs somewhere although God only knew why – he wouldn’t be slipping into them any time soon.
In one of the drawers of the cabinet next to the TV there was a rack of DVDs of most of the holidays they’d had – more or less every trip since she’d bought the video camera, in fact. He pulled them out from time to time, when the need to see her smile and hear her voice again became too strong to resist, even though an hour or two of such self-indulgence came with an emotional price tag he wasn’t sure he could afford too often. The very fact that nearly two years had passed and her clothes were still in her side of the wardrobe told him all he needed to know about how much he’d been able to move on. Closure? Nice word.
He switched his attention away from the photo frame to the lounge itself, taking in the general air of neglect that had been creeping in over the past few months. When he’d first come back here after the funeral, he’d thrown himself into a frantic spring-cleaning session, determined to keep the place as immaculate as Sally had done. He’d managed to maintain it for more than a year but eventually things had started to drift. He had to admit it didn’t look so much like their home anymore.
He placed the photo gently back on the shelf and walked round the room, plumping up cushions on the settee, as if that was going to make much of a difference. Then he decided what the hell. He wouldn’t be going to bed much before three anyway. It was always the same, the first day after a four-week spell on nights. If he was going to be up that late, he might as well do something useful.
So he grabbed a bin liner from the kitchen and went round the lounge, picking up empty cans, wrappers, old newspapers. Then he rummaged around in the cupboard under the sink and found a rag and an old can of Mr Sheen which coughed and spluttered just long enough to enable him to make the shelves and the bookcase look a little more presentable.
When he’d finished in the lounge, he went into the kitchen, filled the dishwasher and turned it on. He ran a bowl full of hot water, squirted soapy liquid into it and set about cleaning the rest of the plates, dishes and cutlery which were dotted around the kitchen, scrubbing away with the brush as if scouring away at something else entirely. Something you could scour away at for the rest of your life and barely leave a mark.
Two years ago he hadn’t known what an aneurysm was. Oh, he knew the word, knew it was something to do with blood vessels in the brain and that if they burst . . . Now he knows more than enough about aneurysms. Knows exactly what they are. An aneurysm is a cheat. A bastard. A sneak thief in the night that doesn’t announce itself – just creeps up and takes her away from you while you’re not looking. Makes a complete farce of all the plans you’ve been making, like maybe a villa in Spain when you’ve both retired and can afford it. Ha bloody ha. It doesn’t allow for any last-minute farewells or expressions of undying love. It loves the prosaic in life. Feeds off it. You can be sitting in the armchair one minute, watching X-Factor and she can get up and go into the kitchen to make you a cup of tea during the adverts, calling out to you while she’s in there, asking if you want a . . .
Want a . . .
Only you’ll never get to know what was on offer – a piece of cake? A couple of biscuits? – cos while you’re waiting for her to finish the sentence, she’s whisked away and when you hear the crash you think, oh no, sounds like another one of our mugs gone for a burton, like that’s the worst thing that can happen because you, knowing nothing about aneurysms, can’t imagine for one moment that your life’s just altered beyond all recognition. That’s what aneurysms are.
Yeah . . . that’s what aneurysms are.
OWEN
Oh my God, he’s fucking her.
Willie and his language again.
‘Please don’t do that.’
Oh come on, Owen. Lighten up, will you? It’s a perfectly genuine Anglo-Saxon word. What else would you want me to say? He’s tupping her? They’re having . . . carnal relations?’
‘We don’t know they are.’
I thought you said the bedroom light went on right after they got home.
‘I don’t know if he went upstairs.’
No, you’re right. He was probably making fairy cakes in the kitchen. This . . . is . . . fucking . . . fantastic. I can’t believe you followed him all night. How cool is that! Did they stay long at this place in Wick?
‘About three hours.’
And you
sat outside in your truck all that time? What if someone had seen you and phoned the police?
‘There was this lane down one side of the house. You couldn’t see the truck from the main road – I got out and checked.’
And from there to her place, they still didn’t know you were following them?
Shakes his head.
You’re sure?
Nods.
‘I was a bit worried when they pulled in to fill up with petrol but once we were back in with all the traffic it wasn’t difficult to stay a few cars behind them.’
Willie’s thinking now, trying to find a flaw somewhere.
So . . . when he came round just now to get his phone back. You didn’t give anything away then?
‘I wanted to hit him.’
Well of course you did. But you didn’t say anything to tip him off that you knew about this woman of his in South Mundham?
‘No.’
You’re absolutely certain?
Nods. He likes it when Willie is happy. You don’t often see him this excited. He’d like to share in it but there’s one thing bothering him. Feels he needs to get this out of the way first.
‘Do you think I should tell Abi?’
Willie bursts out laughing.
You are kidding, right? Ah . . . let me think about that for a moment. N-o-o-o.
‘But she needs to know.’
Again . . . N-o-o-o. You hear me? Trust me on this one. If she’s got anything about her at all, she knows already. Even if she doesn’t know the who, the where or the when she’ll have a pretty good idea as to the what. And if you think she’s going to thank you for being the one to fill in any gaps for her, you couldn’t be more wrong. She’ll hate you for it. Probably take your eyes out. Any time she thinks of you, she’ll remember you as the person who took the blindfold away. Trust me, telling her is the last thing you want to do.
‘But –’
You’re still not listening, are you? People like your sweet little Abi – deep down they want their men to be bastards. They like the whiff of danger. Why the hell d’you think she’s been with him all these years? It’s like Everest: the ultimate challenge. Every woman always thinks she can be the one who finally clips Casanova’s wings and makes him appreciate the attractions of a life of domestic bliss. At the moment she thinks she’s the one, right? The moment you open your mouth, you’re taking all that away from her, reducing her to the same level as everyone else. You think she’ll thank you for that? Trust me – you do NOT want to go there.
He’s not convinced. ‘It’s just . . . it doesn’t feel right, keeping secrets from her.’
She’ll know soon enough, don’t you worry. If he’s sloppy enough for you to find out – no disrespect – someone else will join the dots before too long and they’ll be quick to let her know. But until that happens, it gives you something a bit special.
‘What?’
Power, Owen. Power over Callum Fucking Green. Something you’ve never had in your life. A hold over him. A chance to get your own back after all these years. The moment you tell her, you’ve got squat. Say nothing for now and maybe, just maybe you’ll have a chance to make him squirm a bit. Have a bit of fun at his expense for a change. Watch him twist in the wind. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Well . . . wouldn’t you?’
And he would.
Has to admit it.
Maybe he shouldn’t, but he would like that.
4
NOW: THURSDAY, 2ND OCTOBER
HOLLOWAY
This was their third visit to Hall’s bungalow in Pagham in the past five weeks. The first time had been a mere formality, a simple alibi check – in and out in five minutes, ‘Thank you for your co-operation, Mr Hall’. The other, a few days later, had been just as brief because they’d picked him up and taken him to the station for a more formal interview with an AA present.
Holloway decided, without clearing it first with Marie Loneghan, that this morning’s visit wouldn’t require an appropriate adult. He knew it was a fishing expedition, based on a gut feeling more than anything else, but if anyone chose to take exception to it later, he was confident he’d be able to pass it off as nothing more than a routine follow-up call. There was nothing to link this incident at the petrol station to the South Mundham case other than Hall’s involvement and, as links went, that was tenuous at best. Chances were, Hall would have a perfectly innocent explanation for his odd behaviour and they’d be in and out of there in no time. You didn’t need an AA for that.
He and Horgan didn’t disagree on much as a rule but Owen Hall was a rare exception and each saw it as a bit of a blind spot in the other. The one thing on which they did find common ground was his status as a vulnerable adult. Bright as he was, and no one seemed to be in any doubt about that, the lack of eye contact, the strange rocking back and forth and the seemingly random muttered asides were all cast-iron guarantees that they would have difficulties introducing potentially crucial evidence at a later stage unless they proceeded with due caution and provided him with all the support he might need at a formal interview. Any defence team worthy of the name would drive a lorry through their case otherwise.
But when it came to making sense of South Mundham and more specifically Hall’s involvement in it, they agreed to disagree. Horgan liked straight lines and Occam’s razor. To his way of thinking, Hall was big and unpredictable enough to have carried it off, had a motive that no one would have trouble understanding and an alibi that wasn’t anywhere near as watertight as it seemed – not when you took into account the fuzzy edges around the time of death. And he’d not been straight with them, which always counted for a lot in Horgan’s assessment of anyone. As far as he was concerned, you don’t lie without good reason and he wasn’t sure he bought into the explanation given for all the evasiveness. In short, in a small field of poor quality, he was odds-on favourite; and if he had his way, they’d be leaning a lot more heavily on Owen Hall right now.
Holloway on the other hand was more inclined to proceed with caution and accept Hall’s explanations at face value until such time as they were presented with solid reasons for supposing them to be false. He was as relentless as ever in checking everything down to the last detail but drew the line at putting excessive pressure on a vulnerable adult until such time as the evidence warranted it. He accepted this wasn’t a courtesy he extended as a matter of course but wasn’t about to apologise for any influence the Adrienne Lasalle case might still be exerting on him, even after all these years.
He’d been a young DC back then and had been swept along with everyone else in the all-consuming desperation to find the killer of a pretty French tourist whose body had been found in an alley behind the beach huts on Felpham seafront. The pressure had been intense and seemed to be coming at them from all sides. The French police were keeping a close eye on developments, itching for an excuse to get involved. The local MP had decided this was the perfect peg on which to hang his hat and demonstrate to his local constituents that he had his finger on the pulse. As for the media, his superiors had done their best to strike a balance between keeping the public informed and preserving the integrity of the investigation but it was clear almost from the outset that the two sides had very different ideas as to where that particular line should be drawn. So after a few days with no real signs of progress they were desperate for a breakthrough. And Derek Rafferty had come along at just the right time, like an answer to a prayer.
Everyone knew within minutes of bringing him into the station for initial questioning that he was two fries short of a Happy Meal and if anyone had sat down for long enough and asked serious questions about the so-called evidence that had brought him to their attention, they might just have taken things a little more slowly and made sure of their facts. They certainly might have thought harder about just how much pressure they were entitled to exert on him during his brief stay in custody.
But time was of the essence and the need for an arrest almost unimagi
nable. And when Derek Rafferty had hanged himself in his Rustington bedsit within twenty-four hours of his provisional release, the general consensus of opinion had been: well, these things happen. Terrible, of course, but what can you do? Can’t make an omelette without cracking a few eggs. And anyway . . . innocent people don’t kill themselves, do they? Not when they haven’t even been charged as yet.
But when incontrovertible new evidence emerged six months down the road that Adrienne Lasalle had been killed much earlier than originally believed and at a time when Rafferty had been visiting his mother in hospital, that had hit Holloway hard. He could rationalise it, tell himself that hindsight makes fools of us all, fall back on reminders of just how small his own role had been in the whole wretched affair, but it made no difference. Collectively they’d failed the poor boy – as the subsequent public inquiry had made abundantly clear.
So no, he’d never forgotten Derek Rafferty. And no, he didn’t see a few oddities in someone’s behaviour as a good enough reason to start piling on the pressure. He had an open mind about Owen Hall and was determined to go where the evidence might lead him, rather than nudge it in a pre-determined direction. Once burned . . .
They turned into Harbour View Road and pulled up outside a red-brick bungalow with a tile-hung roof and a built-in garage. The sight of the red Mitsubishi truck in the driveway was reassuring. Holloway shaded his eyes as he peered into the cab and smiled to himself while Horgan tried the doorbell. When no one responded, they walked round the other side of the house and opened a wooden gate leading to the back garden. Here they found Owen Hall working at a bench that had been set up on the back lawn, apparently disembowelling an old mower. He looked up at the sound of the gate opening, then returned to his work, head bowed in concentration.
‘Hello Owen,’ said Holloway, nodding at the entrails of the mower which littered the grass at his feet. ‘You sure you know how to put that back together again?’