Gibbs muttered an awkward thank you. Liv had read it, after it won the Books Enhance Lives Award. In her opinion, it was “spectacular,” and Gibbs should ignore Damon Blundy, who was a philistine. Gibbs had told her it wasn’t Blundy’s scorn that would put him off so much as the possibility that Tasker was a sadistic murderer. Liv had rolled her eyes. “He’s just a suspect, Chris,” she’d said. “One of many. And anyway, you’ve got to separate the art from the artist. But you know, thinking about it . . . it strikes me as highly unlikely that the author of Craving and Aversion is a killer of any kind. Really, you should give it a try. Don’t look like that! I’m not asking you to marry the man.”
Marriage. Why did it matter so much? To Gibbs, Liv, his wife, her husband? It was no more than a word accompanied by a certificate.
It should and often does mean nothing. And yet, still, it means everything.
“Where and when did you and Jane meet?” Gibbs asked.
“What does it matter? Somewhere, sometime.” Tasker sounded bored. Disappointed—as if he’d hoped for a more interesting question. “I was probably stoned. No, I was definitely stoned,” he corrected himself. “Though that’s something I’ve knocked on the head.”
“What, the cannabis?” Gibbs was surprised. “You’re not using anymore?”
Tasker looked annoyed. “You didn’t know? See, this just proves how mud sticks. I’ve blogged about it, I’ve done interviews, but once you’ve been written off in the public eye for doing a thing, or being a thing—no matter what that thing is, whether it’s weed smoker or pedophile—there’s never any possibility of rewriting. You’re branded for all eternity. Thanks to Damon Blundy, I’ll be known for the rest of my life as ‘Skunkweed addict Reuben Tasker.’”
“How do you feel about Blundy’s death?” Gibbs asked.
A faint smile appeared on Tasker’s face. “I feel—and I can’t tell you how sincerely I mean this—that I’m not going to worry about it unduly. Lots of people suffer horribly who don’t deserve it. I’m going to reserve my sympathy for those people.”
Gibbs had heard this sentiment expressed many times before. He could understand it, and imagine feeling that way himself, but from someone else it always sounded wrong. Was it really so hard to be sorry that someone had died violently, however much you disliked them?
“I suppose I should be grateful to Damon Blundy for one thing,” said Tasker. “If he hadn’t started writing about my drug habit, I doubt I’d have had the motivation to give up. All the attention made me paranoid. Suddenly, all over the bloody media, people were talking about whether I deserved to keep my award or not, given that I’d written my novel under the influence of illegal narcotics. It was insane. I had hate-mail on Facebook, and to the house—one woman whose son died of a heroin overdose wrote to tell me she’d burned all my books in her back garden. Mad!”
Gibbs waited.
Eventually, Tasker said, “But . . . well, when you read enough tweets and online comments and letters about how you’re a drug addict, it’s kind of hard to avoid the conclusion that you’re a drug addict and that maybe that’s not ideal. Jane had been worried about my health, and my concentration, for a while—I’d always told her I was fine and not to be stupid, before. Obviously, I knew I smoked weed every day—I used to tell myself it made my books better, which was bullshit. I mean, I’m writing a book now and it’s no worse off for the lack of skunk.” Tasker smiled. “It’s probably better. I can think more clearly. Truth is, I was a drug addict who wanted to spend all day every day stoned and I came up with a convenient justification: I needed it for the words to flow—because, conveniently, I happened to be a writer too. It was bullshit.”
“And now, thanks to Damon Blundy, you’re drug-free,” said Gibbs.
Tasker’s smile turned to a grimace. “Yeah, well . . . let’s not give him too much credit. He wouldn’t have cared if I’d died in a ditch with a syringe hanging out of my arm. All he cared about was scoring points against Keiran Holland.”
Gibbs wanted to turn the conversation back to Tasker’s relationship with Jane, though he wasn’t sure why. He hoped he wasn’t becoming obsessed with marriages at the stranger end of the spectrum. “So when you gave up the drugs, your wife must have . . . supported that decision.”
Tasker looked momentarily confused. “Yeah, I suppose so,” he said.
“You don’t sound sure.”
“Jane’s supportive whatever I do. She was just as supportive when I was caning it fourteen hours a day. She’s a stand-by-your-man kind of woman.”
“Is that a bad thing? You sound as if you’re criticizing her.”
“No,” said Tasker in a listless voice. He clearly didn’t want to talk about his wife. Gibbs knew the feeling.
“Why didn’t you open the door when I rang the bell?” he asked. “And why the black paper on the window?”
“Oh, that.” Tasker shook his head as if he’d remembered an annoying detail.
“It’s that fucking school across the road. When I’m writing, I look out of the window a lot. Well, I’d like to—in an ideal world. But I don’t like looking at that school.”
“Why not?”
“Noisy, bratty kids everywhere—would you want to see that?”
No. Gibbs wouldn’t have bought a house that was opposite a school. Tasker, however, had. “Do you hate children?” Is that why you have none of your own?
“No,” said Tasker. “I don’t hate schools either. Only the one across the road. Jane and I are thinking of moving so that I don’t have to look at it anymore.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” said Gibbs diplomatically.
“I’m sure you don’t understand,” Tasker said accusingly, staring over Gibbs’s shoulder at the window. “The black paper makes no difference. I can’t see out, but I know what’s there.”
“Why wouldn’t you let me in before?” Gibbs asked.
“I did. I called Jane. She came and let you in.”
“You know what I’m asking. Are you going to answer or not?”
Tasker made a helpless gesture with his hands. “I’ve been judged by every newspaper in the land, thanks to Damon Blundy. I’ve had hate-mail. I had one death threat. There are a lot of crazy people out there, looking for a convenient target. How do I know whoever’s at the door isn’t going to chuck acid in my face?”
“You’d rather risk your wife’s face?” Gibbs asked.
There was a knock at the door of the attic room. Unbelievably, Tasker nodded at Gibbs as if to say, “You can let her in.”
It was easier to do it than to object. Gibbs opened the door to Jane Tasker, praying she hadn’t overheard the last part of the conversation. “Can I come in?” she asked.
“It’s your house,” said Gibbs.
She stayed where she was, on the top step, outside the room.
“You can come in,” Tasker called out to her.
She started to move at the sound of his voice, like a remote-controlled device at the press of a button.
“What do you want?” he asked her. He looked confused, as if her being there puzzled him. As if he’d rather not deal with it, but recognized that he had no choice.
“I just wondered if the two of you wanted a cup of tea?” Jane blushed as she asked the question, and slid the palm of her right hand over the palm of her left as if trying to wipe something off it. “DC Gibbs?”
“No, thanks.” Jane had offered him a cup of tea when he’d first arrived, before he and Tasker had come up to the attic.
“Not for me,” said Tasker.
“OK, but . . .” Jane didn’t move. Now she looked flustered, while Tasker was acting as if she’d already left the room. Gibbs had watched as his eyes slid off her and over to the black squares on the window. Jane was peering at him, as if trying to guess what he might want her to say next. Eventually, she said, “What about . . . something else? Can I get you anything? Water, maybe?”
“No, thanks,” Gibbs said again. “I’m fi
ne.”
“No.” Tasker was distracted. “Maybe later. Thanks.”
“Oh! All right, later.” Was that excitement in her voice, at the prospect of being able to bring refreshments in the near future? Impossible. Wasn’t it?
“Well, then . . . shall I go?” Jane asked. “Will you call me when you’re ready for a drink?”
No response from Tasker. Gibbs felt awkward. It wasn’t up to him to answer. The silence around him thickened.
“Reuben?” said Jane hopefully.
Still nothing.
“Mr. Tasker,” Gibbs prompted him.
“Pardon? Sorry, I was just . . .”
Yeah, I know. You were staring at some sheets of black paper that you stuck to your window earlier.
“Did you want something, Jane?”
“Shall I go downstairs, and you’ll call me when you’re ready for hot drinks?” asked his wife. “Or shall I wait here?”
Tasker looked uneasy. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s up to you.” He sighed. “I mean . . . go downstairs. If we want a drink, we’ll come and sort ourselves out.”
Jane looked bereft.
Gibbs watched in horrified amazement, trying to work out how he’d explain this scene to Simon later.
She acts like the faithful servant of a man who doesn’t realize he has a servant, and doesn’t want one.
“Tell you what,” said Gibbs. “I’d quite like a cup of tea. I’ll come with you to make it.” He moved forward so that he was standing between Jane and her husband, so that she had no choice but to turn and head downstairs. “Back in a minute or two,” Gibbs told Tasker.
“Do you really want tea, or do you want to get my wife alone and ask her if I’m a murderer?”
“Both,” said Gibbs.
“Reuben didn’t kill anyone,” Jane said vehemently. “He and I were here on the day Damon Blundy died. Together, all the time. Why would Reuben kill the man who was responsible for his book sales tripling? You can’t buy publicity of the kind Blundy created for Reuben. Have you read Reuben’s books?”
“Jane, stop.”
“The Scotsman called his latest ‘unforgettable.’”
“Why would I kill the man responsible for tripling my sales?” said Tasker angrily. “Let’s see—because he kept saying my work was shit, perhaps? I didn’t kill him, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have had a valid motive if I had.”
“Of course,” Jane agreed eagerly, as if she hadn’t less than a minute ago suggested that her husband ought to be grateful to Damon Blundy. “Right.” She clapped her hands together, making Gibbs jump. “Tea!”
He followed her down the stairs. In the kitchen, there was a lopsided blue bookcase next to a red Aga that looked as if it had seen better days. Gibbs spotted a copy of Verity Hewson’s memoir, A Hole in the Stone, alongside biographies of more famous people: Julie Andrews, Margaret Thatcher, Stephen Fry. “I see you’ve read Damon Blundy’s ex-wife’s book,” he said. “Well, maybe you haven’t read it, but you’ve got it.”
“Hmm?” Jane filled the kettle with water. She seemed more relaxed now than she had upstairs.
“This one.” Gibbs pulled it off the shelf. “Verity Hewson was Blundy’s first wife. This is about their marriage.”
The effect upon Jane was remarkable. She gasped, put her right hand in her mouth and bit down on her index finger. Gibbs watched the skin whiten around her teeth. Even when she spoke, she kept her hand close to her face, as if protecting it. “The writer of that book was . . . Oh my gosh. I’ve had that book for years. Since long before Damon Blundy first wrote about Reuben. I never read it. Normally, I’ll gulp down any biography, but that one was just too . . . nasty.” She started to shake her head. “Oh blimey. I never made the connection. I’d better . . .”
She moved to take the book from Gibbs, then stepped back. Her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know what to do,” she said.
Do? Gibbs didn’t understand. “Why is it such a shock?” he asked. “What does it matter that you’ve got a book by Damon Blundy’s ex-wife and haven’t read it?”
“Reuben’ll be angry.”
“Don’t be daft. Why would he be?”
“He’d hate the thought of me having a book about Damon Blundy—even just owning it and not reading it. He hates the books I read anyway. Lowest common denominator, he calls them. Affectionately, but he means it. I tried to read Middlemarch once, so that he wouldn’t think I was stupid, and he told me not to bother—I wouldn’t enjoy it. It wasn’t ‘my’ sort of book. Look, can you . . . ?” Jane froze, her face twisted in anxiety.
“What?” Gibbs asked her. He wanted to get out of this house and away from the Taskers. He felt as if something cold had passed through his soul. Was this how his and Debbie’s guests felt when they visited?
“Will you take the book away with you and get rid of it?” Jane asked him. “I don’t want it. If it stays here, I’ll have to tell Reuben about it—I can’t lie to him—and then he’ll be even more disappointed in me than usual.”
“He’s usually disappointed in you? Why?”
Jane glanced up toward the ceiling. “I shouldn’t talk about it,” she said. “I feel disloyal.”
Gibbs was wondering how best to encourage her to confide a bit more when she said, “I don’t know why. I do everything I can to make him happy. I don’t see what more I can do! Nothing works.”
“Were the two of you really here together for the whole of Monday morning?”
“Yes. And that’s the truth.”
“Why does Reuben hate the school across the road?”
Jane’s eyes widened. “You know about that? He told you?” She sighed. “I don’t know why. I can’t work it out. He never used to hate it. It’s recent.”
“How recent?” asked Gibbs.
“This year. January, February . . . Early this year—that’s when he started complaining about it, but this sudden hatred that just makes no sense—that’s really very recent.”
“When did it start?” Gibbs asked her.
“The first time he said he couldn’t bear it anymore and we were going to have to move was . . .” Jane stopped. Her pink face reddened. “Oh,” she said. “I’ve only just realized.”
“What?”
“It was last Monday lunchtime that he said it. Just after we’d seen on the news that Damon Blundy had been murdered.”
CHAPTER 9
Sunday, July 7, 2013
I CLOSE THE DOOR of the spare room behind me, lean against it and exhale slowly, until there’s no air left in my lungs to expel. Even then I try to squeeze out some more, until I start to feel faint. Only then do I allow myself to breathe in.
Alone in a room, at last. I told Adam and the children not to disturb me, that I won’t be able to concentrate on emailing Ethan’s class teacher if they do. I felt sick saying it. It’s so much harder to lie when you’re known to have lied. To people you love, anyway. You feel as if your false words are shining in neon all around you.
I never found it hard to lie to my parents. That felt good—like killing a monster.
And now there’s a different monster trying to wipe out my new family—the family I love without reservation, the one Adam and I have made together—and I’m too afraid to kill it. I can’t destroy it without destroying myself, because it’s inside me. It’s part of me: the part that’s whispering, Email King Edward. Tell him yes. Agree to the blindfold and the silence and everything—all his conditions. You need to find out who killed Damon Blundy, don’t you? How else will you find out? The police will never work it out—they can’t possibly. They don’t know what you know, and you’ll never tell them. What you told them already was hard enough.
If only I could resign myself to not knowing . . . I would vow never to email King Edward again, never to be unfaithful again. To save my family. That’s what I want to do. It’s what I must do.
In my right hand, I’m clutching the piece of paper that’s my official reason for being in t
his room: Ethan’s failed test from school, for which he got zero out of a possible ten marks. I’m supposed to be drafting an email to his teacher about it, asking her to explain to him where he went wrong, and reassure him that he mustn’t worry about having misunderstood.
Do that first. Something normal, domestic. That’ll make you feel better.
Adam wasn’t suspicious when I announced that I needed to lock myself away upstairs to draft a letter to Miss Stefanowicz. He genuinely seems to have forgiven me—incredible in itself—but also to trust me, which is even more surprising. I wouldn’t trust me. I don’t trust me. I never have; it’s just that I trust most other people even less.
All weekend, I’ve waited for Adam to lose his temper with me, or turn silent and moody. It hasn’t happened.
Can it really be that easy?
“It wasn’t real, Nicki,” he said to me last night, when I asked him for the two hundredth time how he was able to be so calm about my betrayal. “It was a fantasy—involving another person, but still a fantasy.”
Not real.
Adam doesn’t think Gavin—King Edward—matters, but he mattered to me. And my heartfelt confession was so small a portion of the truth that it was no better than any lie I’ve ever told.
What if Adam finds out the full story? Would he forgive me again? Would that be enough to kill his trust in me? Perhaps he doesn’t care if I’m faithful to him or not. He loves me, I know that, but perhaps not passionately enough anymore to be thrown into a state of anguish by the idea of me sending photographs of my body to another man.
How can he bear knowing that I did that? How can I bear him being able to bear it?
Maybe King Edward loves you more.
A killer.
No. He says he didn’t kill Damon Blundy. He knows who did. It wasn’t him.
And you believe him?
I sit down, switch on the computer, put Ethan’s test paper down next to the mouse pad. When the home screen appears, I go straight to Yahoo Mail—my good-wife-and-mother email account.
I’m about to open a box for a new message when the phone beside the computer starts to ring. I pick it up quickly, before Adam can get to the downstairs extension. When you lie a lot, you learn to get to the phone and the mailbox first, always, just in case.
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