‘Don’t do things by halves, do you, Lizzie?’ The anger was back.
‘If I’m right,’ she went on, ‘and if by any chance you’ve ever treated any other patient, let alone operated on them, while under the influence of anything like that, then unless you swear to stop immediately and seek treatment for drug dependency too, I will report you without delay.’
‘I’m not an addict,’ Christopher said.
‘Did you take in what I just said?’ she asked sharply.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll deal with it.’
‘Swear it,’ she said.
‘If you believe I’m an addict,’ he said, ‘then you know better than to take my word for anything.’ She said nothing, just waited. ‘Very well. I swear it. On our children’s lives.’
‘Don’t,’ she said, violently. ‘Don’t ever say that.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Christopher took off his glasses again. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so bloody sorry for everything.’ His eyes were suddenly full of tears. ‘What I did to you that night, what I’ve done before – everything.’ He buried his face in his hands for a moment, then lifted it again. ‘Just please, please don’t tell the children – don’t destroy their belief in me, please don’t do that, Lizzie.’
‘I’ve already told you I’m staying,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’ It was a whisper.
‘One last thing,’ she said.
‘Anything,’ he said again.
‘Separate rooms. Here and in the flat, and anywhere we stay. Don’t worry, I’ll come up with reasons, tell the children and Gilly I’m having trouble sleeping and keeping you awake. Sophie will like having two rooms to invade.’
Christopher took a moment, letting it all sink in.
‘Do you think,’ he asked at last, ‘that you’ll ever be able to trust me again?’
‘No,’ Lizzie answered. ‘I don’t think I can imagine that.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Clare was in the office alone at nine forty-five on Thursday morning – manning the phones, updating records on the computer, tidying Mike’s chaos and generally taking advantage of his being out for the day on a dull, but profitable corporate job in Dagenham – when Joanne Patston telephoned.
‘Oh, no,’ she said, hearing that Novak was out of the office.
‘It’s okay, Joanne,’ Clare said, gently. ‘You don’t mind if I call you Joanne?’
‘Of course not.’
‘And I’m Clare, okay?’ She didn’t wait for a response, was aware that in the other woman’s precariously balanced world every second might count. ‘Listen, Joanne, I know you probably don’t want Mike to call you, so which would you prefer? You can call him now on his mobile – but he might not be alone – or I can arrange for him to be on his own somewhere private in, say, half an hour?’
There was a pause.
‘The second, please. Half an hour.’
Joanne washed up the breakfast things, dropped a cup on the floor, burst into tears, then quickly stopped when Irina started to cry too, and then, once every last fragment had been safely disposed of, she sat down with Irina on the living room sofa and read to her from Mole and the Baby Bird, her eyes misting every few minutes, absurdly touched by the tale, though infinitely more so by her daughter’s rapt expression.
At ten minutes past ten, Joanne stopped reading.
‘Mummy, read more.’
‘In a little while, darling,’ Joanne said.
‘Now, Mummy,’ Irina said.
Joanne eased herself up from the sofa, laid the book on the little girl’s lap. ‘You look at the pictures, sweetheart. Mummy won’t be long.’
In a Dagenham car park, Novak was checking the signal on his mobile when it rang.
‘Mike Novak,’ he answered.
‘It’s Joanne Patston.’
‘Yes, Joanne.’ He could almost feel her tension transmitting over the line. ‘Clare told me you’d be phoning. What can I do for you?’
‘Mr Allbeury said I should give you my answer,’ she said.
‘That’s right.’ He paused. ‘Or ask me any questions.’
‘It’s yes,’ she said.
Novak felt a kick of excitement. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘That’s great.’
‘Is it?’ Joanne asked.
‘I think so, yes.’ He paused. ‘Are you sure?’
‘As Mr Allbeury said, I don’t really have much choice.’
‘And is this just for you and Irina?’ Novak asked. ‘Or your mum too?’
‘Just us.’ Her voice was very quiet now. ‘I know if I tell her, she’ll try and talk me out of it, and she doesn’t know about . . .’
‘Irina,’ Novak finished for her. ‘I understand.’
‘But she won’t,’ Joanne said.
The sorrow in her voice made him want to cry. Sad women often set him off. Clare called him her big softie, but he knew she loved that side of him. It worked both ways.
‘What happens next?’ Joanne asked.
‘Nothing for a while,’ he said, ‘which is going to be tough on you, I’m afraid, having to sit tight and act normally while Robin makes the arrangements. He’ll be moving as quickly as possible, but these things take time.’
‘How much time?’
‘Could be as long as a fortnight,’ Novak told her. ‘Maybe less.’
‘Oh, God,’ Joanne said.
‘How are things at home?’
‘Not so bad.’ She hesitated. ‘He’s been in a better mood.’
It was true that Tony had been easier to live with since Allbeury had created his promised ‘diversion’. More work on Eddie Black’s BMWs, more cash, less time to booze. Except it wouldn’t last, Joanne knew that without any real shadow of doubt. On the contrary, if and when the work dried up which, given its source, it would, Tony would be fed up, angry, maybe worse than before.
‘It’s really vital,’ Novak told her, ‘that you act just the way you always do till you hear from me. Above all, you mustn’t, repeat, you really must not talk to anyone about the plan.’
‘Since I don’t know what the plan is,’ Joanne said, ‘that’s about the only thing that shouldn’t be too hard.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
The run-up to Christmas aside, October was one of the most active months for Christopher with regard to the charity. First, the winding-up of the financial end-of-year, closely followed by HANDS’ largest fundraising dinner at the Savoy, a period during which, as a matter of course, Christopher tended to spend almost as much time in meetings with Dalia Weinberg and the charity’s accountants and lawyers, as he did in operating theatres or consulting rooms.
Presenting the united front that Lizzie had tacitly agreed to was proving a strain on them both. Around the children, whom they both loved with equal passion, it was less hard, and in a way, of course, Lizzie had already had years of practice at pretending – as much to herself as others – that all in her marital garden was well. But her declaration of intent had shifted the seat of power in the marriage, and as humble as Christopher was trying to be in private with Lizzie, real humility sat uneasily on his shoulders.
‘Will you be coming to the Savoy this year?’ he asked her in the kitchen at the house eight days after their confrontation.
‘Have you seen a psychiatrist yet?’ It was late evening, but she was in the midst of baking, rolling out dough for a pie.
‘Appointment next week.’ He glanced towards the door.
‘Who with?’ Lizzie sprinkled a little flour onto her rolling pin. ‘It’s all right, the children are all in bed and Gilly’s taking a bath.’
‘It’s just for a preliminary chat and referral.’
‘Even so,’ she said quietly, ‘I’d like a name.’
‘Going to check up on me?’ His cheeks flushed.
‘I don’t expect so.’
‘Duncan Campbell,’ Christopher said. ‘Tuesday at eight pm.’ He paused. ‘He’s seeing me out of hours as a professional courtesy.’
> ‘Good,’ Lizzie said. ‘That’s nice of him.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Christopher said, ‘for making you drag it out of me. I know it’s part of our deal.’
‘It’s okay.’ Lizzie stopped rolling dough. ‘I have no wish to embarrass you.’
‘You’d be entitled,’ he said.
‘I will come,’ she said, abruptly, ‘to the HANDS dinner.’
‘Thank you.’ He paused. ‘I’m afraid I’ve another favour to ask you.’
‘What’s that?’ She fetched a pie tin from one of the cupboards, took some softened butter from a large pat, and began to grease the tin.
‘You know David Lerman’s just had a hip replacement?’
‘Of course I know. We sent flowers.’
‘I’ve been dealing with the senior partner, Robin Allbeury.’
‘Problems?’ Lizzie transferred dough from the board to the tin, pressed it evenly down, then deftly snipped around the edge.
‘On the contrary. He’s actually a matrimonial expert, but he’s doing this as a special favour, and he’s extremely able. He’s also, as it turns out, something of a fan of yours.’
‘That’s nice.’ She looked at him. ‘So what’s the favour?’
‘I’d like to give him dinner one evening, if you don’t mind too much.’
‘You want me to come?’ she asked.
‘What I was really hoping,’ Christopher said, ‘was that you’d cook.’
‘Depends when,’ Lizzie said.
‘But in principle you’re willing?’ he asked.
‘In principle,’ she answered.
‘Thank you,’ he said again.
Chapter Thirty-Six
A week had already passed, and the waiting was pure agony.
Already filled with doubts, guilt and a vast fear of the unknown that she was about to carry her child into, Joanne was now further tormented by the fact that Tony was still behaving like a normal father to Irina. No model, but no monster either.
We could stay.
If she could only know what lay ahead, know just a little more about how her and her daughter’s disappearance was going to be arranged, perhaps she might have been less terrified.
Or more?
She had entrusted her own and, far more important, Irina’s future, to strangers, to a private detective with a nice face, and to a rich and presumably powerful man who knew – said he knew – how to make things happen.
But how did he do that? How could anyone whisk a woman and child out of one world and into another, allegedly happier, safer one? With huge sums of money, obviously, and – surely in some respect – by breaking the law.
And why on earth – this above all the questions going round and round in Joanne’s mind as she waited and tried to be normal – should Robin Allbeury, this high-powered solicitor to whom she was nobody, want to do all that for her and Irina, to spend all that money on them? Presumably part of the reason had to be that he had so much he wouldn’t miss it. Yet that still didn’t explain why, not really.
Why? And when?
Because if took too much longer, she was going to lose her nerve.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
‘Michael Novak called for you,’ Ally King told Shipley when she returned from having lunch with her sister, Laura, down from Manchester (where she lived with husband Gary and their children) for one day. ‘I’ve just stuck a Post-it on your desk.’
Shipley was surprised. ‘What did he want?’
‘He said he was in the area and wanted to know how the Bolsovers are doing.’ DC King was aware that despite the team’s present involvement in a new drugs case, Shipley’s dissatisfaction with the murder case still lingered. ‘Seemed concerned about how the kids are coping.’
‘Did he?’
King heard the dryness, and a frown puckered her pretty forehead. ‘I know you still think there’s something off about him and Allbeury, but you surely don’t actually suspect them?’
‘Of murder?’ Shipley shook her head. ‘After all, we’ve got our killer.’
‘Seriously,’ the DC persevered. ‘I mean, if you’ve got some reason—’
‘I haven’t,’ Shipley said swiftly.
King knew when a subject was closed. ‘Nice lunch?’
‘Not really.’
King gave up and went back to work, and Shipley headed back to her desk. Lunch with her sister had been a pain, since all Laura had wanted to do was talk about the new house she and Gary were buying, and how much the kids loved it, and how terrific a husband Gary was, and how much Shipley was missing out on.
‘Honestly, Helen, you’ve no idea,’ she’d said, not for the first time.
‘I know,’ Shipley had said, and tried to focus on her spaghetti.
‘I mean, all this is okay,’ Laura had said, her tone implying that all this was some sort of aberration, ‘but if you don’t start thinking about the really important side of life soon—’
‘It’ll be too late,’ Shipley had finished for her.
‘Exactly,’ Laura had said.
Shipley wondered what Laura might think if she’d seen Lynne Bolsover’s body on the allotment, the hideous state of it, the ghastly incongruity of decomposition still dressed in a Next jumper and jeans. Definitely not Laura’s version of the ‘important’ side of life, but pretty bloody consequential to Lynne’s family.
And to her.
No stone unturned, they used to say, yet one bloodstained rock and rag unearthed by Kylie Bolsover – child’s play – and the law said whoopee and rolled over onto its proverbial back.
No, of course she didn’t suspect Novak of murdering Lynne Bolsover. Nor Allbeury. At least, she didn’t think so. But whether or not the odd couple had anything whatsoever to do with the killing, Shipley still felt there was a disturbing, ambulance-chasing quality about Allbeury’s self-confessed private work.
Unpaid work, she reminded herself yet again. Which made it either more laudable or weirder, depending on how jaded one’s outlook. And Lord knew hers was pretty bloody jaded.
Novak phoning her meant nothing.
Except it was a well-documented fact that some killers felt compelled to stay as close as possible to the investigation into their crimes.
Overreacting, Shipley.
She looked at the message King had left, picked up the phone and dialled the number for Novak Investigations.
Novak wasn’t there, just his wife, who knew nothing about any specific reasons for his getting in touch.
‘Would you like me to ask Mike to call you again?’ Clare Novak asked.
‘If he wants to,’ Shipley said. ‘Though I’ve no news for him, other than what I’m sure he already knows.’
‘That John Bolsover’s been charged,’ Clare said.
‘That’s it,’ Shipley said. ‘And the family are coping as well as they can.’
And went back to work.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
‘I’ve said I’m sorry,’ Christopher told Lizzie in the kitchen at Holland Park on Sunday afternoon while she strained freshly made chicken stock and tried not to let her irritation get the better of her. ‘You’re usually so relaxed about dinners I thought you wouldn’t mind – and you’d already said I could ask him—’
‘I expected more than forty-eight hours’ notice.’
‘I know, and I apologize. Again.’
‘I don’t like being away from the children at weekends.’
Christopher’s jaw tensed and his eyes narrowed, but then he shook his head very slightly, and took a breath. ‘What can I do to help?’
‘Nothing,’ Lizzie said, still shortly. ‘Except phone Gilly and apologize.’
‘I thought you already had.’
‘I think it might be nice coming from you,’ she said.
‘Since it’s all my fault.’
‘Quite,’ Lizzie said.
She’d been more than irritated for much of the day, mostly because on Friday – less than twelve hours after broaching the to
pic with her – Christopher had issued their dinner invitation to Robin Allbeury, and the solicitor had happened to mention that his weekend plans had gone awry, and Christopher had assumed that Lizzie wouldn’t object, and had said he should come to them on Sunday evening. Dinner on Sunday meant shopping on Saturday, and Lizzie had been hoping to get back to some writing that weekend, and Gilly had been going to have Sunday off, and Sophie had started a cold, and Lizzie hated being separated from any of the children when they weren’t well. So all in all, she’d been going to tell Christopher to postpone, but then he’d explained to her how remarkably generous Allbeury had been with his time.
‘And rather than charging us at his normal rate – almost double David’s – he’s going to bill us at the usual rate, which is bloody good of the man.’ Christopher had paused. ‘Which was why I thought, when he told me about his cancelled weekend . . .’
‘All right, Christopher,’ Lizzie had given in.
‘Are you quite sure?’
‘Yes, of course.’
He’d been very grateful, brought her roses from Moyses Stevens, sent a bouquet to Gilly for messing her about, had even sent a little bouquet of miniature pink roses to Sophie because of her cold. Lizzie hated the fact that those gestures no longer worked on her, but still, she supposed Gilly and their daughter would both be happy, and she had to think of HANDS, and it would have been churlish to make him cancel.
Though their dining room in Marlow was more splendid, Lizzie liked this more intimate room, all pale cream and green, set off tonight by the tall lilies she’d bought that morning in Holland Park Avenue. At the house, any gathering of less than six had to be brought to the big oak table in the kitchen, but here, even with just two guests, there was no sense of being dwarfed.
The suggestion to invite Susan had been Christopher’s, one that Lizzie had gladly agreed to, provided the solicitor was not led to believe there was any matchmaking attached, and indeed, sitting drinking her crayfish bisque and observing Robin Allbeury as he listened to Susan (more loquacious than usual due to the huge gin and tonic Christopher had poured her before dinner and the very good Montrachet they were all drinking now) talking about her last disastrous romance, Lizzie had to agree that he did seem every bit as delightful as Christopher had described – though charm, which Allbeury had in abundance, was a commodity she’d learned to distrust over the years.
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