It Should Have Been Me

by Susan Wilkins

  The analyst gave her a friendly smile. ‘Looks like your boy might cough.’

  ‘You think?’ Jo peered over her shoulder at one of the screens. Ivan Rossi was disconsolate, seated at the interview table in a paper jumpsuit with his brief beside him. The sound was low. ‘What’s he been saying?’

  ‘Blames his Ukrainian uncle. Says he didn’t know what they were up to. Admits he thought it might be dodgy, but claims he didn’t want to upset his mum. All the others are going no comment, so getting him to testify against the rest could be useful.’

  Jo watched him for a moment. Slumped in his chair like an overgrown teenager he looked frightened and out of his depth.

  Sandra glanced at her. ‘Don’t feel sorry for him.’

  ‘I don’t.’ This wasn’t strictly true.

  ‘First big undercover job is always the hardest. You get close to them, earn their trust, then betray them. If you’re a decent person you will have some guilt. It’s natural.’

  Jo smiled. The truth was she’d enjoyed the duplicity. It was a carefully constructed con and the hapless Rossi was the mark. This is what villains did all the time. Jo didn’t like to admit how much of a buzz it had given her. Her earlier pangs of guilt at what she’d done to Rossi seemed to be fading. Perhaps she wasn’t as decent as either she or Sandra would like to think. After all, she’d just slept with her married boss. Rossi was a scumbag, he knew what he was doing. Why shouldn’t she enjoy taking him down? That was her job.

  ‘Can I ask your advice, Sandra?’

  ‘Several large G and Ts and a couple of days off, that’s my advice.’

  ‘This is something else.’

  Sitting down beside the older woman, Jo told her about Sarah’s murder, then a brief summary of recent events ending up with the death of Briony Rowe. Finally talking about it to someone who had professional detachment was a relief.

  The analyst shook her head and took a large slug from her mug of coffee. ‘Wow! That’s quite a tale. No wonder you look like shit, if you don’t mind me saying.’ She waved the mug at the screen and the forlorn Rossi. ‘I thought you had the heebie-jeebies about this.’

  ‘You think I’m that soft?’

  Sandra gave her a sardonic smile. ‘Probably not.’

  Jo pointed at the screen. ‘I passed my sergeant’s exams two years ago. I’ve been waiting ever since for an opportunity like this.’

  ‘What are you going to do about this other thing?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘So you suspect that this woman Cynthia knows the real killer, and after what’s-her-face—’

  ‘Briony.’

  ‘After Briony tells her she can ID him, she passes the information down the line.’

  ‘Yeah. But when I told her Briony was dead, she freaked. She had no idea. She’s the weak link. I need to find a way to put pressure on her. Starting with a proper investigation into Briony’s death.’

  The analyst tapped her pen on the desk. ‘Well, Vaizey can be unpredictable. Bit of a wing and a prayer man. But he’s smart as a nest of vipers. And he’s got political clout. Go to him, tell him about your sister and all this and ask his advice. Why not?’

  ‘I suppose I don’t want to—’ She sighed. ‘It’s complicated. I don’t want him to think . . . Oh, I dunno.’ Jo knew her face probably said it all.

  Sandra gave her a quizzical look. ‘You’re a complicated girl. But, y’know what, Jo, you were right before when we talked about Foley: don’t shit where you eat. That’s always gonna get you in a mess.’

  ‘I know that.’ Jo sighed. ‘You won’t—’

  ‘I mind my own business.’

  ‘Thanks for listening, Sandra.’

  The analyst shrugged.

  Jo Boden had been a police officer long enough to have perfected the art of looking busy even when you weren’t. She did have a report to write up on her dealings with Rossi. But she’d made plenty of notes so it was soon finished.

  She continued to mull over Sandra’s advice about talking to Vaizey. It was the sensible way forward. The problem was that going to him now with what might sound an outlandish story could make him think she was doing it simply to prolong something more personal. But she was short of other options. In the end, she decided he could think what he liked, she’d play it straight. But crossing the office she found his door wide open. There was no sign of him and no one knew when he’d be back.

  Thwarted, she headed for the basement canteen, bought a coffee and a sandwich, found herself a quiet corner and called her father.

  He picked up and the noise in the background, the whine of an electric saw, suggested he was on one of his building sites. ‘Jo! This is a nice surprise.’

  ‘I said I’d keep you in the loop.’ This had never been her intention but the journal had been weighing on her mind.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve called.’

  ‘Well, I thought you should probably know that Briony Rowe has turned up dead.’

  ‘Dead? Seriously. What happened?’

  Jo was reluctant to go into details. The last thing she wanted was him getting involved. ‘It’s complicated. It could be suicide, but I’m going to speak to some colleagues. There needs to be an official investigation.’

  ‘Presumably it means an end to this awful film?’

  ‘Who knows? Thing is, Dad, I’ve been reading Sarah’s journals and there are some things I need to ask you about.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you’re getting drawn into all this. The past is past, Jo. Reading your sister’s journals—’

  ‘I’m not like you.’

  ‘What on earth d’you think you’re going to gain by this? She’s dead, we can’t change that.’

  ‘So you won’t help me?’

  ‘Of course I’ll help you. That’s what I’m trying to do. I’ll come down and we can talk about this properly—’

  ‘There’s no need for that.’

  ‘I can be there in a couple of hours. I do want to help.’

  ‘Then answer my questions.’

  ‘Okay. But you need to trust me. I’m not the enemy. If we can’t talk to each other honestly and openly—’

  ‘Just bear with me, Dad.’

  There was a pause, followed by an audible sigh.

  ‘Fair enough. What do you want to ask?’

  ‘In her first term, November sometime, did you go down to Brighton and see her on your own?’

  ‘You mean without Mum?’

  ‘Yes. She wrote to me. I’ve still got the letter. She said you had some business down there and you popped in to see her.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe I did.’ He sounded evasive.

  ‘Mum doesn’t remember this at all.’

  ‘Jo, the number of prescription drugs and other forms of self-medication that your mother’s had over the years, I’m surprised she remembers anything.’

  ‘Was it a secret visit?’

  ‘Why on earth would it be a secret? If I was down that way I may well have popped in to say hello.’

  ‘She wasn’t having some kind of problem?’

  ‘Not that I recall.’

  ‘Okay, well, after this visit, there are several pages missing from the journal. It’s as if she wrote about something then changed her mind, which suggests there was something she wanted to hide. D’you have any idea what that might be?’

  ‘No. But I do remember going there now. We went out for a meal in town. She was absolutely fine.’

  ‘Did Mum know you did this?’

  ‘Of course she did. She’s just forgotten. I think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill here, Jo.’

  There was a terseness in his tone, which barely disguised his unease and behind that the murmur of something unspoken and long hidden echoing down the years. Jo felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Nick Boden and Cynthia Fenton-Wright had one thing in common: they were both lousy liars.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Being a detective for any length of time, parti
cularly on a Murder Investigation Team in the Met, had its downside. It was easy for suspicion to become your default setting. The fear that her own father could be responsible for Briony’s death gnawed at Jo Boden for the rest of the afternoon. It was a grotesque idea and yet it possessed a certain logic.

  Hiding behind her computer screen she tried to clear her head and look at the facts. He’d been pretty determined to put a stop to Briony’s film and had mentioned talking to his lawyers about an injunction. When he’d discovered that was unlikely to succeed, could rage and frustration have driven him towards an extreme solution?

  Jo would’ve been the first to admit that she didn’t know Nick Boden that well. Was he capable of murder? In the right circumstances most people were, that would’ve been her professional judgement. But the idea of her dad as a killer was nigh impossible to process. She felt weirdly ashamed for even thinking it. Yet it was a possibility that had to be considered.

  Her childhood Dad had played Frisbee in the garden, taught her to swim, explained the mysteries of long multiplication. But that man had disappeared from her life long ago. He’d left them. She went to school one morning and when she came home Alison told her and Carl that he was gone. Gone where was never explained. She’d cried, mainly because Carl had cried. But when Nick Boden returned, more than a year later, she’d refused his hugs and his gifts.

  The wranglings of her parents’ divorce had largely passed her by. She’d been asked who she wanted to live with and her unequivocal answer had been Alison. In view of her mother’s sometimes fragile mental state, Nick had argued for and been granted joint custody of his remaining children. But whereas Carl went to live with him, Jo did her level best to avoid even visiting. Nick hoped she’d come round eventually and adopted a policy of never forcing her to do anything she didn’t want to. And this might’ve worked if Alison hadn’t been so resolute in her campaign of vilification.

  For Alison the grief and anger at Sarah’s murder melded with bitterness at her husband’s abandonment of her. She could see no way out of her despair and only one person to blame for the ruination of her life. As a result she clung on fiercely to her remaining daughter. No one would rob her of Jo.

  When Nick married Emily, Jo had refused to go to the wedding in solidarity with her mother. By then she was a surly teen, who responded to all overtures from her absurdly young stepmother with undisguised hostility.

  But when his new wife became pregnant it seemed to Jo that her father simply gave up on her. He didn’t have the energy for two families plus a new business. There were the usual cards and presents for birthdays and Christmas. He came to her graduation, an awkward and unpleasant event for all concerned, freighted with memories of Sarah. His attention was focused on his baby sons, his unscathed wife and his life in Norfolk. If Jo had simply been reflecting her mother’s resentments before, this was the time when the grudge grew into something toxically personal. Jo retreated into glacial politeness and indifference in all her dealings with him. Plenty of people had a parent who’d let them down and who they didn’t get on with, it was one of those things. Jo had accepted it and moved on.

  Feeling the need to placate Sandra, Jo went out for doughnuts and coffee. She’d returned with her haul and was distributing the sugary treats round the office when her phone buzzed. The handsome features of her brother Carl popped up on the screen. Like his father, he wore a beard; his was bushy, making him look more of a brigand. Jo had been wondering when he’d get in on the act.

  ‘Carl, how’re you?’

  ‘Hey, babes. Just been talking to Dad. He says you’ve got snow.’

  She was pretty sure that wasn’t all he’d said.

  ‘A bit. Probably not as much as Toronto.’

  ‘Went up to Mount St Louis at the weekend. It was awesome. Best skiing I’ve had this winter. When you coming over?’

  ‘When I can afford it.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to persuade Dad to bring Emily and the boys. I’m sure he’d stump up for you too. Make it a family trip.’

  Jo tried to ignore her brother’s jaunty tone.

  ‘I presume it was Dad who phoned you?’

  ‘Well, yeah.’ Her brother sighed. ‘Told me Nathan Wade’s been released. And some stuff about a film. How’s Mum taking it?’

  ‘How d’you think?’

  ‘Listen to me, Jo—’

  Here was the lecture. It’d taken barely sixty seconds. But then Carl Boden was even more impatient than her.

  ‘—you cannot take responsibility for her.’

  ‘Someone’s got to.’

  ‘She’s a grown woman. She’s of sound mind. She’s made her own choices. You can’t let her manipulate you.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘She plays you, Jo. She always has.’

  Jo said nothing.

  ‘You have to let the past go.’

  ‘And do what, Carl? Take up extreme sports, OD on the adrenaline rush. Get a new relationship every five minutes.’

  He chuckled. ‘Don’t be a bitch. That’s Mum’s trick. You can say what you like, you won’t shut me up. And for your information, me and Kristen have been together now for over a year.’

  ‘Congratulations. You’re doing better than me.’

  ‘You know what I think. You should move out here. Join the RCMP.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m cut out to be a Mountie.’

  ‘You’ve lived in London your whole life, Jo. You need to do something different. Take a risk.’

  She heaved a sigh. What did he know about risk, he was an IT salesman. ‘What if Nathan Wade didn’t kill Sarah? Doesn’t that interest you?’

  ‘Whoever did it, she’s still dead. That’s the thing that will never change. And it’s the thing Mum won’t accept. Answer me one question, do you want your life to always be about Sarah?’

  ‘No, and it isn’t, but—’

  ‘There are no buts. That’s the decision.’

  ‘In your view.’

  They’d reached their usual impasse.

  Carl huffed. ‘Got to get back to work.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Jo wrapped up the call and bit into a doughnut. Then she emailed copies of her report on Ivan Rossi to everyone on the distribution list. Her job for Operation Grebe was done.

  Steve Vaizey returned to the office around five. His raincoat was sodden, his hair wet and sleek like an otter surfacing from a stream. He must’ve walked a considerable distance in the rain. Jo watched him, mesmerized. He shot a penetrating glance across the office, it pierced straight through her without recognition. He bellowed. ‘Sandra!’

  The analyst got up, grabbed a notepad, raised her eyebrows and headed for his office.

  Any remaining inclination Jo had to ask for his help evaporated. She checked her bag; fortunately she had remembered to bring an umbrella. Getting up, she retrieved her jacket from the pegs and left.

  She took the DLR to Greenwich and found her mother with a large glass of wine and a small bowl of tinned tomato soup.

  Alison looked up in some perplexity as Jo propped her umbrella behind the door. ‘Oh. Wasn’t expecting to see you.’

  ‘I was wondering if I could borrow the car.’

  Her mother shrugged. ‘Want some soup?’

  ‘Is that all you’re having?’

  ‘It’s what old people who live on their own do. They eat soup.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  The drive to Norfolk took Jo close to three hours. The traffic out of London was still heavy. She opted to take the A2 out to the M25, which she hoped would be a longer but easier route than the Blackwell Tunnel. But the tailbacks at the Dartford Crossing still held her up.

  She didn’t tell Alison what she was doing or where she was going, opting for evasion as opposed to an outright lie. I’m wondering if Dad murdered Briony Rowe wasn’t a conversation she needed to have with her mother. She mentioned Tania Jones and some information she needed to check. This seemed to satisfy Alison, who’d re
treated into a bubble. Jo noticed that the old photo albums were out but the journals, still piled in the corner, remained untouched. She left her mother pouring a second glass of wine, hunkering down probably for another wallow in nostalgia.

  The village of Brancaster was on the north Norfolk coast and in the winter months it was half empty. The carefully renovated second homes were deserted. There were a few birdwatchers and weekend walkers who weren’t put off by the freezing fog rolling in off the North Sea.

  Jo drove into the village on the main road at about nine thirty. There was still some snow on the verges and a hoar frost sparkled in the headlights. She turned the Astra into a winding lane and from this onto the narrow track that led up an incline to Nick Boden’s renovated barn.

  It stood on rising ground, an imposing structure, the original flint walls carefully preserved but with the addition of huge windows to take in the magnificent view over marshland and sea. Not that any of that was visible in the eerie halo of the security light, which came on as Jo pulled up on the gravel drive.

  She’d texted her father, saying that he was right, they did need to talk face to face. There was a temptation to turn up unannounced, but she decided that would be too melodramatic.

  As she got out of the car the front door opened and he appeared. He smiled but there was a decidedly wary look in his eye.

  He gave the Astra a nod. ‘I’m surprised that old rust-bucket still goes.’

  Jo slammed the door with a forceful clunk. ‘It does the job.’

  ‘I would’ve come to you, y’know.’

  She allowed him to envelope her in an awkward hug. He patted her shoulder. ‘Anyway, come on in. It’s freezing.’

  ‘It’s always freezing up here.’

  ‘You just need a proper jumper.’

  As the front door closed the warm fug of the interior engulfed her. It glowed in muted tones of brown and beige and grey with splashes of orange and red, like a home in a design magazine. In fact, if Jo remembered correctly, it had featured in a recent edition of Homes and Gardens or House Beautiful; seaside boltholes for those with shedloads of cash. Nick Boden knew his brand and how to promote it.