by Fiona Barton
A pair of tiny red wellington boots stand in Dawn Elliott’s hallway. Her daughter Bella chose them two weeks ago and has yet to wear them …
This was what the public wanted to read so they could shiver in their dressing gowns over tea and toast and say to their spouse, ‘This could have been us.’
And the editor would love it. ‘Perfect womb trembler,’ he’d say, clearing the front page and a spread inside the paper for her story.
After twenty minutes, Dawn began to tire. The drugs were starting to wear off and the terror crept back into the room. Kate glanced at Mick and he stood up with his camera and said gently, ‘Let’s take a photo of you, Dawn, with that lovely picture of Bella blowing bubbles.’
She complied, like a child herself.
‘I’ll never forgive myself,’ she whispered as Mick’s shutter clicked. ‘I shouldn’t have let her go outside. But I was just trying to get her tea ready. She was only out of sight for a minute. I’d do anything to turn the clock back.’
And then she cried; dry sobs shook her frame as Kate held her hand tightly and the rest of the world came back into focus around the sofa.
Kate always marvelled at the power of interview. ‘When you’re talking to real people – people without an ego or something to sell – it can be complete exposure of one person to another, an intense intimacy that excludes everyone and everything else,’ she’d told someone once. Who was it? Must’ve been someone she was trying to impress, but she remembered every line of every interview that touched her like this.
‘You’ve been so brave, Dawn,’ she said, squeezing her hand again. ‘Thank you very much for talking to me and giving me so much time. I’ll contact Detective Inspector Sparkes to let him know when the story will appear. And I’ll leave my card so you can get in touch whenever you want.’
Kate tidied up her things quickly, sliding the recorder into her bag and relinquishing her place beside Dawn to the family liaison officer.
Sparkes took her and Mick to the door.
‘That was great. Thanks, Bob,’ she said in his ear. ‘I’ll call you later when I’ve written it.’ He nodded as she brushed past and out of the house to face her furious colleagues.
In the car, she sat for a moment, running through the quotes in her head and trying to assemble the story. The intensity of the encounter had left her drained and, if she was honest, a little shaky. She wished she still smoked, but rang Steve’s number instead. It went straight to answerphone – he’d be on the wards – but she left a message. ‘It went really well,’ she told him. ‘Poor, poor girl. She’ll never get over this. I’ve taken a lasagne out of the freezer for tonight. Speak to you later.’
She could hear the catch in her voice as it recorded.
‘For goodness’ sake, pull yourself together, Kate, it’s work,’ she told herself as she started the engine and drove off to find a quiet car park and start writing. ‘Must be getting old and feeble.’
Dawn Elliott began ringing Kate Waters the next day, the day the story appeared. She rang from her mobile, standing in the bathroom away from the ever-attentive Sue Blackman. She wasn’t sure why she was making it a secret, but she needed something just for herself. Her whole life was being unpicked by the police and she wanted to have something normal. Just a chat.
Kate was thrilled – a direct line to the mother was the prize she’d allowed herself to hope for but hadn’t taken for granted and she cultivated it carefully. There were to be no direct questions about the investigation, no prying, no pressing. No scaring her off. Instead, she talked to Dawn as if she were a friend, sharing details of her own life – her boys, traffic jams, new clothes and celebrity gossip. And Dawn responded as Kate knew she would eventually, confiding her fears and the latest police leads.
‘They’ve had a call from abroad. Near Malaga? Someone on holiday there has seen a little girl in a park they think is Bella,’ she told Kate. ‘Do you think she could be there?’
Kate murmured reassurance while noting everything down and texting the Crime correspondent, a hard-drinking hack who’d had a couple of bad misses lately. He was grateful to be included in Kate’s exclusive tips, putting a call through to a contact in the incident room and telling the news editor to book a flight to Spain, pronto.
Not Bella. But the paper got an emotional interview with holidaymakers and a perfect excuse for another spread of photographs.
‘Well worth a punt,’ the editor had said to the news desk, adding as he passed Kate’s chair, ‘Well done, Kate. You’re doing a great job on this.’
She was on the inside, but she had to be careful. If Bob Sparkes found out about the secret phone calls, it would not be pretty.
She liked Sparkes. They’d helped each other out on a couple of the cases he’d run – he’d given her the odd bit of information to make her story stand out from the rest of the pack’s, and she’d tipped him off when she got something new that might be of interest. It was a sort of friendship, she thought, useful for both of them. And they got on well. But there was nothing deeper. She almost blushed when she remembered she’d developed a bit of a schoolgirl crush on him when they had first met, back in the nineties. She’d been drawn to his quietness and brown eyes and had been flattered when he’d singled her out for a drink a couple of times.
The Crime man at her last paper had teased her about her cosy relationship with Sparkes, but they both knew the detective was not a swordsman like some of his colleagues. He was renowned for never straying and Kate didn’t have the time or the inclination for extra-maritals.
‘He’s a straight-up-and-down copper,’ her colleague had said. ‘One of the last.’
Kate knew she risked burning Sparkes as a contact by carrying on with Dawn behind the detective’s back, but having the inside edge on the story was worth it. This could be her story of a lifetime.
She rehearsed her arguments as she drove into work: ‘It’s a free country and Dawn can talk to whoever she wants, Bob … I can’t stop her phoning me … I’m not phoning her … I don’t ask her any questions about the investigation. She just tells me stuff.’ She knew it wouldn’t wash with Sparkes. He’d got her in there in the first place.
‘Oh well, all’s fair,’ she told herself irritably, making a silent promise to tell Bob anything that might help the police. She crossed her fingers at the same time.
It didn’t take long for the phone call from Sparkes to come.
Her phone rang and she picked it up and headed for the privacy of the corridor.
‘Hello, Bob. How are you?’
The detective was stressed and told her so. Dawn’s latest bathroom conversation with her favourite reporter had been overheard by the family liaison officer and Sparkes was disappointed in Kate. Somehow, that was worse than if he’d been furious.
‘Hold on, Bob. Dawn Elliott is a grown woman – she can talk to whoever she wants. She rang me.’
‘I bet. Kate, this was not the deal. I got you in there for the first interview and you’ve been sneaking around behind my back. It could affect the investigation – you do understand that?’
‘Look, Bob, she rings me for a chat that isn’t about the investigation. She needs some time, even a couple of minutes, to escape.’
‘And you need stories. Don’t play the social worker with me, Kate. I know you better than that.’
She felt ashamed. He did know her better than that.
‘I’m sorry you’re upset, Bob. Why don’t I come down and meet you for a drink and we can talk things through?’
‘Too busy at the moment, but maybe next week. And Kate …’
‘Yes, yes. No doubt you’ve told her not to call me, but I’m not ignoring her if she does.’
‘I see. You’ll have to do what you have to do, Kate. I hope Dawn will see sense, then. Someone has to act like a responsible adult.’
‘Bob, I’m doing my job and you’re doing yours. I’m not hurting the investigation, I’m keeping it alive in the paper.’
�
�I hope you’re right, Kate. Got to go.’
Kate leant against the wall, having a completely different argument with Bob Sparkes in her head. In this version, she ended up on the higher moral ground and Bob was grovelling to her.
Bob would come round when he calmed down, she told herself, and texted Dawn to apologize for any trouble caused.
She got a message back immediately that ended ‘Speak later.’ They were still on. She grinned at the screen and decided to celebrate with a double espresso and muffin.
‘To life’s little triumphs,’ she said as she raised the cardboard cup in the canteen. She’d drive down to Southampton tomorrow and meet Dawn for a sandwich in the shopping centre.
Chapter 9
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
The Widow
KATE GETS IN MICK’S VAN a couple of miles further on, in a supermarket car park. She laughs and says ‘the pack’ had rushed up the path to see if I was in the house when she drove off alone. ‘Idiots,’ she says. ‘Fancy falling for that.’
She has twisted round in the front seat so I can see her face. ‘Are you all right, Jean?’ she says. Her voice has changed back to caring and gentle. I’m not fooled. She doesn’t care about me. She just wants the story. I nod and keep quiet.
As we drive, she and Mick chat about ‘the office’. Seems her boss is a bit of a bully who shouts and swears at people.
‘He uses the C word so often, they call morning news conference the Vagina Monologue,’ she tells me and they both start laughing. I don’t know what a Vagina Monologue is but I don’t let on.
It’s like she and Mick live in another world. Kate is telling him about how the news editor – the Terry she was talking to on the phone – is very happy. Happy that she has got the widow, I suppose.
‘He’ll be in and out of the editor’s office all day, poor sod. Still, it’ll stop him bitching at the other reporters. He’s a funny bloke – get him in the pub and he’s the life and soul. But in the office, he sits at his desk twelve hours a day, staring at his computer screen. He only looks up to give someone a bollocking. He’s like one of the living dead.’
Mick laughs.
I lie down on the sleeping bag. It’s a bit grubby but it doesn’t smell too bad, so I doze and their voices fade into a background hum. When I wake up, we’ve arrived.
The hotel is big and expensive. The sort of place that has those enormous flowers that practically fill the lobby and real apples on the reception desk. I never know if those flowers are real, but the apples are. You can eat them if you want, the apples.
Kate’s in charge.
‘Hi, you have three rooms for us under the name of Murray,’ she informs the receptionist, who smiles and looks at her screen. ‘We only booked a couple of hours ago,’ Kate says impatiently.
‘Here you are,’ the receptionist says finally. Mick must be the Murray. He gives his credit card to the lady and she looks at me.
I suddenly realize what I must look like. A sight. My hair’s all over the place after having the jacket over my head and sleeping in the van, and I was hardly dressed to go to the shops, let alone a posh hotel. I stand there, in my old trousers and T-shirt, looking at my feet in my cheap flip-flops while all the form-filling goes on. They put me down as Elizabeth Turner and I look at Kate.
She just smiles and whispers, ‘This way, no one will find you. They’ll be looking for us.’ I wonder who Elizabeth Turner really is and what she’s doing this afternoon. I bet she’s going through the racks at TK Maxx, not hiding from the press.
‘Any bags?’ the woman asks and Kate says they’re in the car and we’ll get them out later. In the lift, I look at her and raise my eyebrows. She smiles back. We don’t speak because there’s a porter with us. Daft really because there’s nothing to carry, but he wants to show us our rooms. And get a tip, I suppose. Room 142 is mine, next door to Kate in 144. The porter makes a big show of opening the door and ushering me in. I stand and look. It’s lovely. Huge and bright with a chandelier. There’s a sofa and a coffee table and lamps and more apples. They must have some sort of deal with Sainsbury’s or somewhere to have so much fruit around.
‘Is this all right?’ Kate asks.
‘Oh yes,’ I say and sit down on the sofa to look at it all again. Our honeymoon hotel wasn’t as posh as this. It was a family-run place in Spain. Still that was lovely, too. We had such a laugh. When we got there, I still had bits of confetti in my hair and the staff made a big fuss of us. There was a bottle of champagne waiting – Spanish stuff, which was a bit sickly – and the waitresses kept coming up and kissing us.
We spent our days lying by the pool, looking at each other. Loving each other. Such a long time ago.
Kate says there’s a pool here. And a spa. I haven’t got a swimsuit – or anything, really – but she asks my size and sets off to get me ‘some things’.
‘The paper will pay,’ she says.
She books me a massage for while she’s out.
‘To relax you,’ she says. ‘It’ll be lovely. They use essential oils – jasmine, lavender, that sort of thing – and you can go to sleep on the table. You need a bit of pampering, Jean.’
I’m not sure, but I go along with it. I haven’t asked how long they’re keeping me here. The subject hasn’t come up and they seem to be treating it like a weekend break.
An hour later, I’m lying on the bed in a hotel dressing gown, practically floating I feel so relaxed. Glen would’ve said I smelled like a ‘tart’s boudoir’ but I love it. I smell expensive. Then Kate knocks and I’m back where I started. Back to reality.
She comes through the door with loads of carrier bags.
‘Here you go, Jean,’ she says. ‘Try these on to see if they fit.’
Funny how she keeps using my name. Like a nurse. Or a conman.
She has chosen lovely things. A pale blue cashmere jumper I could never have afforded, a smart white shirt, a floaty skirt and a pair of tailored grey trousers, knickers, shoes, a swimsuit, luxury bubble bath, and a beautiful long nightie. I unpack it all while she watches.
‘I love that colour, don’t you, Jean?’ she says, picking up the jumper. ‘Duck-egg blue.’
She knows I love it too, but I try not to show too much.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I really don’t need all this. I’m only here overnight. Perhaps you can take some of it back.’
She doesn’t reply, just gathers up the empty bags and smiles.
It’s well past lunchtime and they decide to have something to eat in Kate’s room. All I want is a sandwich but Mick orders steak and a bottle of wine. I look afterwards and the wine was thirty-two pounds. You could get eight bottles of Chardonnay for that at the supermarket. He said it was ‘effing delicious’. He uses the F word a lot but Kate doesn’t seem to notice. Her attention is all on me.
When the plates are put outside the door to be collected, Mick goes off to his room to sort out his cameras and Kate settles back in an armchair and starts chatting. Just normal chat, the sort of thing I would say to a client while I was shampooing her hair. But I know it can’t last.
‘You must have been under a terrible strain since Glen’s death,’ she begins.
I nod and look strained. I can’t tell her I haven’t. The truth is that the relief has been wonderful.
‘How have you coped, Jean?’
‘It’s been terrible,’ I say with a catch in my voice and switch back to being Jeanie, the woman I used to be when I first got married.
Jeanie saved me. She bumbled on with her life, cooking tea, washing customers’ hair, sweeping the floor and making the beds. She knew that Glen was the victim of a police plot. She stood by the man she married. The man she had chosen.
At first, Jeanie only reappeared when family or the police asked questions, but as more bad stuff began to leak under the door, Jeanie moved back into the house so Glen and I could carry on our life together.
‘It was a terrible shock,’ I tell Kate. ‘He fell under the bus r
ight there, in front of me. I didn’t even have time to call out. He was gone. Then all these people came running up and kind of took over. I was too shocked to move and they took me to hospital to make sure I was all right. Everyone was so kind.’
Until they found out who he was.
You see, the police said Glen had taken Bella.
When they said her name, when they came to our house, all I could think of was her picture, that little face, those little round glasses and the plaster over one eye. She looked like a baby pirate. So sweet, I could’ve eaten her. No one had been able to talk about anything else for months – in the salon, in the shops, on the bus. Little Bella. She was playing in the garden outside her house in Southampton and someone just walked in and took her.
Course, I’d never have let a child of mine play outside on her own. She was only two and a half, for goodness’ sake. Her mum should’ve taken better care of her. Bet she was sat watching Jeremy Kyle or some rubbish like that. It’s always people like that that these things happen to, Glen says. Careless people.
And they said it was Glen who took her. And killed her. I couldn’t breathe when they said it – the police, I mean. They were the first. Others said it later.
We stood there in our front hall with our mouths open. Well, I say we. Glen sort of went blank. His face was blank. He didn’t look like Glen any more.
The police were quiet when they came. No banging down the door or anything, like on the telly. They knocked, rat-tat-tat-a-tat-a-tat. Glen had only just come in from cleaning the car. He opened the door and I put my head round the kitchen door to see who it was. It was two blokes, asking to come in. One looked like my geography teacher at school, Mr Harris. Same tweedy jacket.
‘Mr Glen Taylor?’ he asked, all quiet and calm.
‘Yes,’ Glen said, and asked if they were selling something. I couldn’t hear properly at the beginning, but then they came in. They were policemen – Detective Inspector Bob Sparkes and his sergeant, they said.