It Should Have Been Me

by Susan Wilkins

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Jo got to the office early and found Sandra already at her desk.

  The analyst invited her to come and inspect the image on her screen. ‘Ivan Rossi’s boat?’

  The forty-foot cabin cruiser was sleek and white with a sharp prow and wrap-around tinted glass to protect the helmsman in the cockpit. It was definitely not the sort of vessel that the average assistant manager in an estate agent’s could afford.

  Jo nodded. ‘Looks like a pretty good match to me. Where is it?’

  ‘A marina on the Beaulieu River down in Hampshire. We’ve tracked the company that owns it and made the connection back to Rossi.’

  ‘So what’s next?’

  Sandra was about to answer but Foley pre-empted her.

  He strolled over, hands in pockets, wreathed in smiles. ‘We’re putting a surveillance UAV up. Should be online and sending us some lovely live pictures within the hour.’

  A drone watching the boat, as a result of the intel she’d gathered. No wonder Foley had decided to be nice. ‘So are we still hanging fire on Rossi?’

  ‘Yeah, boss thinks that’s best. Until he makes a move.’ Foley gave no hint of his previous opposition to this course of action. His sunny smile made Jo suspicious.

  But she returned it. ‘Sounds great.’

  He had his hands on his hips and was scanning her, too closely she felt. It was creepy. ‘You’re on standby in case we need you to call him. A little twitch on the thread maybe. But we’ll see how things progress.’ He hadn’t given up his line completely.

  ‘Okay. Fine.’

  The DS wandered off and Jo realized Sandra was studying her.

  She pushed her glasses back into the mass of grey curls. ‘Whad’you think?’

  ‘About the op? Seems to be going well.’

  ‘About Foley?’

  ‘Foley?’ Jo frowned.

  ‘He’s trying to pluck up the courage to ask you out.’

  ‘What? You’re kidding! He hates me.’

  ‘Been trying to find out from your old crew if you’re with anyone.’

  Jo stared at the analyst in disbelief. ‘Y’know how much grief he’s been giving me? Everything I’ve done, he’s pulled apart.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s Cal. Gets confused, goes for the jugular. But he’s been running round like a scalded cat ever since you arrived. When you didn’t come in he was worried you’d gone back to your old squad. Immediately went down the corridor to find you and tell them what for.’

  ‘I took a day off. Personal stuff.’

  The look of horror on Jo’s face prompted a wry smile from the analyst. ‘Surely you’ve come across blokes like him before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh well. If you’re not interested, watch your back then.’

  ‘I’m definitely not interested.’

  Jo retreated to her desk. Overtures from Foley – that was the last thing she wanted or needed. She glanced surreptitiously across the room in his direction and wondered if Sandra was right. It seemed bizarre. Why be so unpleasant if he fancied her?

  For the rest of the morning Jo kept a low profile. She sloped out for coffee when she saw him busy talking to some other members of the team.

  The rest of the time she sat at her desk. Sandra sent her a link and she watched the live-feed from the drone. Down below through the eddying mist the cabin cruiser bobbed gently at its mooring. There was absolutely no one about. A couple of moorhens glided by.

  Secreted behind her computer screen, Jo pulled out her sister’s journals. The issue that had kept her awake half the night was the missing pages. Five pages cut out? Why? What had happened that Sarah had written about, then felt the need to erase even from her own private record?

  The only other items of her sister’s she possessed, that were personal to her, were the three letters Sarah had sent her. All written in the autumn term, the last one was dated 21 November. There were two other entries in the journal on 22 and 24 November, then the pages had been removed. It was a week before Sarah wrote her next entry. And it was short:

  Christmas vacation soon and I’m looking forward to it. Still feeling pretty wiped out but I hope that will pass. Now I’ve had a chance to think about it I don’t mind dropping out of Much Ado. I still think I should’ve played Beatrice not Hero. And anyway, who wants to see another bloody version of another bloody Shakespeare play? Rumour has it that Cyn’s been cast in my place, which just goes to prove what a crap director he is.

  Jo re-read the passage a couple of times. Had Sarah been ill and therefore forced to withdraw from a student drama production? It sounded like that. But the thing that hooked her attention was the mention of Cyn. Briony had identified this person as someone on their course, the snotbag who Sarah didn’t like. And the journal entry certainly seemed to confirm that.

  Mulling this over, Jo found her thoughts drifting on to Nathan Wade. It did matter to her that the right man had been convicted. But was there any reason to think it wasn’t him? She didn’t like him, she knew that. He gave her the creeps. However, that didn’t necessarily make him a murderer.

  Her phone buzzed with an incoming text. She clicked on it and sighed as she read it.

  I’m downstairs. Let me buy you lunch. We need to talk. Dad x

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Briony Rowe had been a painfully shy teenager and her student years had been a struggle. But once she’d emerged from her twenties and accepted she’d never be a size ten, her life had improved. She had an excellent visual eye and an obsession for detail. Her career as a video editor blossomed, producers sought her out. She was instrumental in turning many a director’s incompetent mash-up into a sharp and coherent narrative. She earned the respect of her peers and was always in demand.

  Becoming a film-maker in her own right had always been a distant dream. Unfortunately a reputation as an editor didn’t tend to persuade those who controlled the purse strings that you were on the same intellectual and creative level as them. Documentary commissions were hard to come by and there was a wariness of a techie who didn’t know her place.

  But Briony was a terrier, she never let go and she never gave up. She believed in hard work and persistence, virtues she possessed in abundance. Ten-hour shifts in a dingy basement edit suite had hardened her resolve to succeed.

  Thanks to Briony’s coaxing, Jo Boden was finally moving from hostile to spiky but curious. She’d set Briony a challenge: go to the university archive and find a picture of Bruce. Briony knew that Jo believed the whole thing was a fiction and she wouldn’t be able to recognize him. But the cop was wrong about that. Briony had an appointment with someone in the registrar’s department and was confident that within days she’d have a result.

  Underneath the cuddly carapace Briony was still shy. But on social media she was in her element with her cool gifs, slick videos and clever quips. She had eight hundred friends on Facebook alone, loads more on Instagram and spent most evenings chatting and posting. In recent years Cynthia Fenton-Wright had popped up on her timeline occasionally. Like many old friends who’d never really been friends they’d embraced the concept of networking and exchanged a few polite likes.

  But putting a name to Bruce’s face was merely stage one in the campaign to get DC Boden onside. Stage two was Cyn.

  The restaurant was in Clerkenwell, it boasted a Michelin star and when Briony arrived, slightly late, at 1.15 it was packed with City suits.

  Cynthia was already at the table, thinner and blonder than Briony remembered, the dreads replaced by the sleek bob, but her manner hadn’t changed. She had the same effortless superiority but it was no longer quite so intimidating. She rose from her seat for air-kissing and polite greetings, then they settled with the menus. The invitation had been Briony’s but Old Cyn took charge.

  ‘Are you drinking? I don’t usually at lunchtime.’ Cynthia gave her a condescending smile.

  ‘I’ll have a gin and tonic.’ Briony glanced at the waiter. ‘Sipsmith
, if you’ve got it.’ A little Dutch courage wouldn’t go amiss.

  Cynthia laced her fingers neatly in front of her. ‘It’s been way too long, we should’ve done this ages ago.’

  ‘Busy lives.’

  ‘Indeed. And you’re a film-maker now. How exciting!’

  ‘It was always my ambition.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’ The tone implied surprise at such a notion. ‘Shall we order?’

  Briony picked the most expensive starter and filet of beef. She hoped her credit card could bear it. Cynthia had chosen the restaurant but Briony had no intention of giving the impression she wasn’t used to this kind of venue. Her dining companion opted for sea bream and salad.

  The menus were removed and they faced each other across the table. Briony was feeling a lot more relaxed than she’d expected. She noted with satisfaction that Cynthia seemed a little tense.

  ‘You mentioned you’re making a film about Sarah Boden. How on earth did that come about?’

  ‘I don’t think Nathan Wade did it.’

  ‘That’s a bold assertion after all these years.’

  ‘I never believed he was guilty. He adored Sarah.’

  ‘Didn’t everyone.’ There was a sourness in Cynthia’s tone. ‘Of course, the whole thing was awful. Such a lovely girl.’

  Briony beamed. She was beginning to enjoy herself. The gin arrived in a large bulbous glass beaded with moisture.

  Cynthia gazed at it longingly. ‘I’m starting to wish I’d ordered one of those.’

  The film-maker took a mouthful and licked her lips. ‘It’s delicious. Do let me get you one—’

  ‘No no! I couldn’t possibly. I’ve got a client flying in from New York this afternoon.’

  Briony took another sip. ‘What made you decide to go into branding?’

  ‘Mainly the intellectual challenge.’ Her brow puckered as if to emphasize the seriousness of the decision. ‘We’re a branding and digital design agency, so what we do is pretty cutting edge. I suppose I came to the conclusion that acting wasn’t for me. Being ordered around by some silly director. I like to be the one in charge. And business is more creative than most people think. Especially when you’re the CEO.’

  ‘You were always very well organized.’

  ‘Was I?’ Cynthia laughed. ‘Fancy you remembering that.’ She gave her companion a considered look. ‘So, do you think the case will be re-opened?’

  ‘I hope so. Otherwise I haven’t got much of a film.’

  ‘You genuinely believe he didn’t do it?’

  ‘There was such a lot of fuss when it happened. I’m sure you remember.’

  ‘Oh, it was horrible. I was scared to leave my room.’

  ‘The pressure was on the police to make an arrest. The boyfriend did it – that’s the usual assumption, isn’t it?’

  ‘If not Nathan Wade, then who?’

  Briony shrugged. ‘There are various theories.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I shouldn’t really say. I’m working quite closely with Nathan’s new lawyers.’

  The gin level in her glass was rapidly sinking and the delectable spirit was filling her with warmth and confidence. Cynthia Fenton-Wright was such a bitch, she always had been. But Briony had promised herself that all she was going to do today was rattle her cage. Very gently.

  ‘What I can tell you is that we’ve discovered some potential witnesses who weren’t interviewed at the time. Nathan met them on the way to the station.’

  The shock that passed through Cynthia was barely perceptible. She covered it by pressing her napkin to her lips and coughing. She returned the napkin to her lap and smoothed it out. ‘Which is relevant how?’

  Briony pretended not to notice. ‘If Nathan caught the train as he says, he couldn’t have committed the murder. They saw him. Talked to him.’

  Cynthia was rescued by two waiters bringing and explaining their starters: a salad with a quail’s egg on the top and a wild mushroom risotto.

  Sliding her fork into the risotto, Briony savoured her first mouthful. ‘I’m so pleased you suggested this place. This is amazing.’

  ‘It’s a favourite of mine.’ If Briony’s bolt from the blue had unnerved her, there was no longer any sign of it. ‘We always come here for a treat. So I did hope you’d like it.’

  ‘I’m definitely putting it on my list.’ It would be joining Nandos and Pizza Hut, but Briony didn’t mention that.

  Cynthia painted on a smile. ‘And have the lawyers tracked down any of these potential witnesses?’

  ‘Y’know, I’m not sure. I think perhaps they’ve got some addresses they’re following up. There’s been some talk of a private investigator.’

  Briony had to rein herself in. Exaggeration was fair enough, but that was a total lie. She shouldn’t go there. It wasn’t necessary.

  Cynthia had hardly touched her quail’s egg. ‘You’re not actually . . . involved with any of that?’

  ‘No.’ Briony scooped up the last forkful of risotto. ‘Not at all.’

  She should stop there, leave it at that. Outright lying was stupid. And unethical. She’d already succeeded in throwing Cynthia off balance. But another seductive thought snaked into her mind. She wouldn’t lie. But couldn’t she brag a little? Where was the harm in that?

  ‘Actually, the witness thing is only part of it. I’ve got a meeting at the university the day after tomorrow. Our old alma mater has agreed to let me trawl through its archives.’

  ‘Really. What do you hope to find?’

  ‘The boyfriend theory isn’t entirely wrong. We think the police just got the wrong boyfriend.’

  ‘You mean Sarah was going out with someone else?’

  ‘It was a fling she had at the very beginning of the autumn term. With a postgrad. He was a sleaze so she dumped him. Then he started to stalk her.’

  ‘Wow! You know who he is?’

  ‘Not by name. But I’d certainly recognize him. His mugshot’ll be somewhere in the records. Once I find him, we can put a name to the face. Then we can nail him.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  ‘I think maybe they do food here.’ As Jo pushed open the heavy glass-panelled door an aroma of burnt fat and stale beer assailed them.

  The pub was cavernous, a tackily refurbished Victorian monstrosity round the corner from her office. It was the sort of place she knew Nick Boden would hate, which was why she’d chosen it.

  Following her in, he wrinkled his nose but said nothing.

  She walked across the room to the long wooden bar. Two young guys perched on stools looked her up and down and scuttled off. They were drug dealers who could smell a cop.

  Jo turned and gave her father a chilly smile. ‘What can I get you?’

  Tall and rangy, Nick Boden looked far younger than his sixty-two years. His grey hair was receding only slightly and the salt-and-pepper sculpted beard gave him, his wife assured him, a rakish air.

  He tilted his head and smiled. ‘I take your point, Jo. Now can we go somewhere decent?’

  ‘Such as where? I don’t have a lot of time.’

  Sighing, he pulled out his wallet and gave the barman a nod. ‘Half of . . . I dunno—’ he scanned the pumps. ‘Bud Light, and . . .?’ He glanced at his daughter.

  ‘Sparkling water.’

  ‘Sparkling water it is.’

  The drinks were served and paid for and they settled themselves at a rickety table in the far corner of the room.

  Nick shook his head wearily. ‘First of all, I’m sorry. I’ve handled this badly.’

  ‘This being what exactly?’

  He was wearing a Canadian goose down jacket and a cashmere scarf. Taking the jacket off he slotted it on the back of his chair.

  ‘What do I have to do to get beyond your hostility, Jo?’

  ‘I’m not hostile, Dad, I’m simply not interested.’

  ‘If I could wind back the clock, don’t you think I would? I’m only trying to protect you and your mother.’


  Jo shrugged. Dealing with him had always made her both belligerent and uncomfortable. This had been true as far back as she could remember but, in reality, probably dated from the time of her sister’s death.

  Nick Boden had chucked in his City job in insurance and walked away from his mad wife and the ghost of his murdered daughter. He’d been on some epic journey of self-discovery, Jo didn’t know the details and didn’t want to. When he’d surfaced a year later, thinner, fitter and with a tropical tan, her brother, Carl, had gone to live with him. She’d refused to leave Alison.

  They’d moved to Norfolk and he’d started converting barns. After he’d run out of barns he’d become a full-blown developer. His projects were upscale and bristling with the latest ecological design features. He’d made a ton of money, although Jo doubted any of it would ever come her way. He had a wife twenty-five years his junior and two little boys, her half-brothers, whom she hardly knew.

  ‘How are Emily and the boys?’

  ‘Good, thank you. You should come up. They’d love to see you.’

  He pulled a phone out of his pocket, brought up a snapshot and handed it to Jo.

  Two beaming faces gazed at the camera. It struck her she could almost be having a polite chat and admiring the family photos of a colleague at work or some other casual acquaintance. ‘How old are they now? I lose track.’

  Leaning over, her father pointed. ‘Jack’s nearly nine. Oscar’s seven.’

  Forcing a smile, she returned the phone.

  ‘It would be good for them to know their sister and, you never know, it might be good for her too.’ He smiled.

  Jo met his gaze. They shared the same slate-grey eyes. ‘What have your lawyers got to say about all this then? Presumably you’re in London to see them.’

  Nick crossed his legs and leant back in his chair. ‘I was upset. I went off at a bit of a tangent. When this woman got in touch, this wretched film-maker, I should’ve come to you. After all, you’re the detective.’

  Now he was trying to flatter her into submission.

  She sighed. ‘Dad—’

  ‘Hear me out, Jo. All I want is for us to discuss this and come to a consensus as a family.’