by A. M. Castle
‘That’d be telling, wouldn’t it?’ Becca’s eyes met Abigail’s. The other woman stretched hers wide, all innocent incomprehension at Becca keeping the news to herself. Then she shot off the desk and got herself upright in two seconds flat. Becca looked behind her. The Sarge and the Chief Super were coming her way. She stood to attention too.
‘Rebecca? Got another moment?’ the Sarge said, head sideways. Becca nodded so briskly her neck hurt, and Abigail melted away.
Chugging along in the wake of the top brass, Becca wondered, not for the first time, if she’d got herself in too deep.
Once the office door had shut, Becca stood with her back to the glass windows. She knew her colleagues would be gawping, abandoning all pretence of filing their own reports. She took a moment to breathe. Her mother’s voice was in her ear, on auto-nag: stand up straight. Bet you wish you’d washed your hair this morning, don’t you? She silently begged it to cease and desist, realised the Super was talking, and tried to focus.
‘… the sort of detective work we like. Not that we’d want anyone to go off grid, strike out on their own … but I understand you ran everything past Sergeant Hindlip, here?’
‘At every stage,’ said Becca quickly. Thank God she’d given him the heads-up this morning. At the Super’s side, the Sarge inclined his fat neck imperceptibly. She’d said the right thing.
‘Showing initiative. That’s what we want, isn’t it, Sarge? Within reason.’ The Super’s meaty paw came down on the desk. All very matey.
The Sarge changed colour slightly. ‘Within reason is the word, Guv,’ said Hindlip ponderously.
No, that’s two words, thought Becca, but her underarms started to prickle and she felt an irresistible tide of colour sweeping upwards from her tight collar. That shade of red has never suited you. Hindlip was studiously avoiding looking at her. That wasn’t a good sign.
‘Just take us through it, PC Holt. What was it that first alerted you to the possibility of, ah, something unusual here?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting a moment, until PC Burke could join us? He was in on this from the first,’ said Becca in a rush. Burke would get half the credit, yes, but she’d double her Brownie points with him, and with that lot outside. Whatever happened to her career next, she knew that in the police, it was important to keep your mates with you. You couldn’t do much here without cooperation.
The Sarge and the Super looked at one another. ‘Of course, of course,’ the Super said smoothly. ‘But PC Burke is elsewhere this morning, I understand.’
‘That’s right,’ said her boss, his face getting more thunderous by the moment. He’d been up for the credit, a moment ago, but Becca sensed he was tired of having his strings pulled. ‘The sooner we get this over with, the better. Just start at the beginning, PC Holt.’
Becca thought back to the unbearable shine of that kitchen, Louise’s hair, her life. No, she couldn’t go there. Best skate over the intuition, concentrate on the concrete.
‘Sir, while I was at the Bridges’ house and we were informing Mrs Bridges of the death of her husband, I noticed her shoving papers in a cupboard. One of the papers had a logo from a well-known life insurer. I thought this was interesting and I flagged it up to PC Burke.’
Becca faltered. From now on, her efforts were moving inexorably off the grid. But both men were waiting for more. She continued, more slowly.
‘I was intrigued at Mrs Bridges’ subdued reaction to the death of her husband and I thought that this, together with the evidence of life insurance documentation, pointed at a line of enquiry. I ran this past PC Burke …’
‘Yes, PC Holt?’
‘Um, well …’ Becca thought quickly. The last thing she wanted was to get Burke into trouble. She remembered the swish of the windscreen wipers, his equally fast dismissal of her suspicions.
‘He, um, encouraged me to look into it further, but in my own time …’
‘What exactly do you mean by that, Holt?’ The Super was looking like there was a bad smell under his nose. She stumbled over her words, trying to fill in the gaps, allay any suspicion that she’d gone rogue.
‘PC Burke knew of my interest in IT systems and encouraged me to make some discreet, very discreet, enquiries …’
‘You acted with his full knowledge?’
‘Yes, of course, Sir. And as soon as I found something, I was then able to flag that up to the Sarge. Using the insurance documentation …’
The Super and the Sarge both did a bit of a double take. ‘… and then expanding my investigation …’
‘Just a minute.’ The Super held up that meaty hand. ‘Let me understand you. Are you saying you actually took this paper?’
Becca could only stand and blink. He tried again. ‘You took this paper from the woman’s house? Without her knowledge?’
Becca stumbled on her words and dried up. She nodded imperceptibly.
‘You realise that’s inadmissible evidence? That you had no business removing anything from the home of a member of the public like that without just cause, a warrant … I don’t know how many lines you’ve crossed there, Holt.’
Suddenly the mesh of lies and half-truths draped around Louise was developing holes, holes big enough for her to wriggle through to freedom.
‘But it wasn’t just the insurance angle I was following up,’ Becca spluttered. ‘I started investigating Louise Bridges’ past, I felt it warranted much deeper investigation, in view of the suspicious death of her husband …’ The men exchanged shifty looks. Was she coming over as obsessive? She needed to slow down, be measured … It seemed they’d liked the hesitant, stumbling ingenue. They weren’t quite so keen on the maverick cop, out on her own. She backtracked.
‘It was just routine policework, a little bit of digging …’ She didn’t want to do down her own sterling efforts, the hours of peering she’d put into the darkest corners of the internet. But she didn’t want to get their backs up. There must be a raft of regulations she’d flouted, she couldn’t afford to set herself adrift on it.
‘But the death wasn’t suspicious, was it, Holt? The office fire. Faulty wiring. Looked into by a detective … all fine and above board. Yes, the place was insured, but that is no crime. If it was, half of us would be going down,’ said the Super, his irony as heavy as the stomach his belt was holding back.
Becca glanced at her Sarge, for reassurance, but his face was thunderous. Dragged into all this by a PC taking the law into her own hands … Becca could just see the anger rising. She’d be for it, if she didn’t pull something out of the bag. ‘Well, I admit it may not all have been, erm, strictly orthodox, but you’ll like this bit, Sarge, Sir,’ she said, shaking in her chunky shoes now.
And hoping against hope she was right.
Chapter 60
Now
Louise
I love this. Just being at home. The scents, the sounds. I’ve got a new diffuser on the go, so we are currently wafting through a very expensive glade of French bay trees. My aversion to Jo Malone, thanks to Patrick and our rekindling weekend, has cost us dearly in every sense. I can’t bear scented candles. Always blamed it on Patrick and his so-called aversion to fire, and the kids believe it to this day. Maybe he came to believe it himself.
The sounds are more imperceptible. Teenagers gently munching. Well, Em’s not a teen yet, but she’s ahead of herself in so many ways. Where does she get it from? No mystery. I smile, shake more crisps into the big bowl on the table. Not that they’ll be getting unlimited carbs before supper, oh no. But a few won’t hurt anyone. Even me. I take one, nibble it carefully round the edges.
Both kids are content to stay down here, in my lovely open-plan house. I know, in this, that I’m doing well. Other mums moan they never see their kids anymore. When they get home, they disperse, make for their own little burrows – whichever bit is furthest away from a parent. Mine are happy down here. With me.
I know what you’re thinking. But it was the case, even when Patrick was aroun
d. They’ve always enjoyed just hanging out. Except when Giles has a new game. That’s when we lose him, but only until the novelty wears off. Then he’s back.
Don’t get me wrong, they’re secretive. If I pass behind their slumped forms on the sofa, there is a flicking of screens as they leap from whatever they’ve been viewing to something they consider anodyne enough for a mother’s eyes. But I know it’s nothing terrible. How can it be? I know what terrible is – and their world doesn’t contain it.
I glide away from the kitchen counter – it’s sparkling, of course. I’ve just spritzed it with my favourite spray, only available online, and buffed it with a soft cloth. I love it when those shiny bits catch the overhead lights that dangle low. All those little fossils, squashed in swamps so long ago, and I can’t help thinking that they didn’t die in vain. Here they are, their ancient misery converted to such beauty. I like the circularity of it. The reminder that things that come from mud can be transformed in the end.
I move over to the sofa, slowly so they have plenty of time to finish the endless WhatsApp threads, pause their games, stop watching YouTube crap. Em is sprawled on the chaise longue, her toes now hanging off the end. When we bought it a couple of years ago, Patrick and I, she was just a little thing, could curl up there with the cat nearby, plenty of room for both to co-exist peacefully. The thought gives me a little stab.
We were hand in hand in the showroom, in the middle of a good phase, no shadowy other-woman lurking on his phone then, and the firm seemed fine – but what did I know. Oh yes, good memories. But mostly, I think, it’s high time we got a new sofa.
Oh yes, and we’ve always had a cat. Ever since Mephisto. This one is Hagrid, which dates him to the kids’ full flush of Harry Potter mania. A big black boy, as ever. I don’t love him as much as Mephs. Nothing could replace that furball in my heart. I think it was the shock of realising that I could be attached to a fellow creature. I’d had a lifetime, by then, of contempt for my mother, for her men, for everyone who came into our orbit.
But when I saved Mephisto from my mother’s place, it was as though I opened my heart a chink. It showed me that love was possible. It wasn’t so very long after that I saw Patrick for the first time. Would I have been capable of that degree of love, obsession, call it what you will, if Mephs hadn’t wormed his way under my defences first? Then once they were both in my heart, I was able to think about kids too. I owed that cat a lot.
Hagrid isn’t my favourite creature in the house, not by a long way, but he isn’t in my bad books either. And I know how important it is for kids to have something to love. Who could know better than I?
I meet Hagrid’s yellow eyes with grudging respect, and he purrs dutifully at the sight of me now, casting a quick look to make sure his bowl is filled with horrible dried food. It is, he approves, and rolls onto his back. I rub my hand along his fur. I can cope with this kind of transactional love – and with the unconditional love I feel for Em, her toe poking through a hole in her slipper sock, and Giles, crouched now over his Switch console. I reach over and pluck it from his hands. He moans, but it’s a token protest. ‘Homework first. And you, young lady. Those socks are a disgrace.’
‘Don’t throw them away, Mum. It’s just a hole. They’re so cosy.’ Her little face is pinched with anxiety. I love the fact that this is her main worry, and that I can allay it with a word. ‘OK. But you’re getting new ones for Christmas. And then they’re out.’
Books open at the table, pens spread across the sparkling surface. Glasses of water half-drunk, heads bent and studious. I feel a glow. I feel genuine happiness. Patrick? Yes, he’s gone. But we’re complete. We’re whole, and will only get better as the years roll by. This is my place, my home, my domain. My world.
Chapter 61
Now
Becca
Becca stood uncomfortably in front of her betters, dying to snap the top button on her trousers, to sit down, have a cup of tea, munch a doughnut, anything. But this was more important. She had to walk them through the mound of evidence pointing to Louise Bridges’ guilt. In slow motion, if that was what it took.
First, the insurance documents. A red flag. The search for the amount. The surprisingly large number of zeros that popped up after Patrick Bridges’ name. Then her deepening searches.
Louise’s names, very fruitful, very intriguing. Her employment history, much more straightforward. Showing an upward trajectory, but one that had been permanently interrupted by marriage and children. Not unusual, but, to Becca’s eyes, a bit odd, a bit old-school. That was a lot of faith to put in one person. And spending all that time with kids?
At this stage, both men grew pink and restive. Didn’t take a detective, hoho, to realise their own wives had taken similar paths.
At first, it had seemed that Louise’s confidence had been fully justified, where the wife of a policeman might feel some regret. Patrick Bridges, like Louise herself, was a blessed, golden creature. Not as attractive, certainly, but the odd snapshot on a company report showed a man who was handsome enough. It was his Midas touch with business that was so interesting. He’d been doing well, in the firm where he’d met his paramour. But once he struck out on his own, well, things took off with a bang.
Becca was still hazy about management consultancy. She’d Googled it and investigated what she could, and come up with not much that she could wrap her head around. It was a bit of a mystery, as far as she could see. But whatever it involved, Bridges had certainly had it mastered. He was brilliant at it. Firms fell over themselves to sign him up. Whatever it was that he did, he did it very well.
Until, that is, the economy started to falter. That’s when a lot of companies started to find they could do without the frills and folderols – and suddenly Patrick’s accounts, lodged at Companies House and under Becca’s interested gaze, started to blush red, like a debutante who’d heard a dirty joke.
The Sarge and the Super sat there, hands tucked over their tummies, Tweedledum and Tweedledee. It was a long time since they’d personally worried away at lines of enquiry like these, got a tangle to unravel so satisfactorily. Nowadays, their job was to join other suits, fending off the cruel truths about modern policing by writing slogans on whiteboards. And they didn’t want to hear this tale, either. But Becca was determined that they should, whatever the cost.
Now it was back to Louise, her past. The social workers’ reports, when they’d got near enough to this elusive child to have any findings. You could only catch a glimpse of her, now and then, in the forest of missed appointments, beginnings of medical treatment which were rapidly abandoned, attempts to delve that were effortlessly evaded by either the mother or, increasingly as she grew up, Louise herself. Or Leanne, as she’d then been.
Hiding must have been second nature to her, by the time she’d emerged from the crucible of that childhood. But leaving it, and her mother, behind, had been one of the few events in Louise/Leanne’s life that was properly documented.
Becca shifted on her feet, a little nervous now she’d come to the crux of the matter.
‘Well, spit it out,’ the Sarge said, shooting a covert glance at his watch and then at his superior officer. If the Super was happy to sit there, listening, then who was the Sarge to jump up and say he had more pressing things to do with his time? Becca enjoyed seeing his inner struggle. He settled himself again, flicked her a half-smile to soften the words.
‘Right you are, Sarge.’ She inclined her head. ‘We’re getting to the interesting bit, here.’
Again, there was a murmur from the Sarge. ‘About time.’
‘Well, the next bit covers why Louise left the flat. The one she shared with her mum, on the estate,’ said Becca, surer of her ground now.
‘Yes, yes?’
‘Well, the reason she left is … the place burned down.’
‘A blaze, eh? Well, they happen, estates like that. Look at Grenfell. What was it? Faulty electrics?’
‘It started in the kitchen. Hard to
say how, the damage was so extensive. Table was the epicentre. Plenty of vodka bottles around, would have gone up with a kaboom. Little bit surprising that there was so much, for a junkie’s place. It wasn’t investigated very thoroughly at the time. There was a feeling that, you know, what can you expect? And it wasn’t like she was even a nice junkie. Neighbours hated her, social services, reading between the lines, found her almost impossible. The kid was hard going too.’
‘What’s your point, Holt?’
‘Just that this … incident may have taught Louise, or Leanne, whatever you want to call her, that she was invincible.’
The Sarge sat up straight, started to splutter. ‘What on earth do you mean? This is sounding perilously like yet more evidence of your bias against this woman.’
‘Well, since you mention it, Sarge, yes. I do have something against people who get away with murder.’
Both men looked at her impatiently. Then she decided, finally, to put them out of their misery. As she imagined Louise Bridges had done with her mother, that day long ago. ‘You see, only one of them got out of that fire alive.’
‘Monica Butcher was burned to death.’
Chapter 62
Now
Louise
Patrick’s mum is making me see a psychologist. Paying for it, too. I resisted as long as I could, but I suppose I should be grateful to her. That twaddle is expensive. Eighty, ninety pounds a session, at the outside. And you don’t even get a full hour. Fifty short minutes. Barely time to get going. I already knew this, having arranged sessions for the kids. Never thought I’d be sitting here myself.
Does it work? I’m the last person to ask. But I’ve agreed to go. You might say that tells its own story. Well, it does – but maybe not be the one you thought you’d be listening to.
Jill was sweetly worried; my response to Patrick’s death has been so profound, so prolonged. My wretchedness has been palpable. My tears have flowed long and hard, like the bathroom taps on that weekend break. Oh, not when the children were around. But when I’ve seen her on my own. There’s such pain in her own eyes, her soft skin lined now by age as well as the cigarettes and booze. It gets me every time. And she still wears those cashmere sweaters, like the one that brushed my arm that very first day long ago in the garden, when Patrick was still everything to me and I yearned for her acceptance. It’s an irony that she put all her doubts on one side and welcomed me into the family and then, such a short time later, Patrick started to move away from me.