by Fiona Barton
Friday, 14 May 2010
The Detective
DAYS AND THEN WEEKS had ticked by without a decision being made to re-arrest Taylor. The new bosses clearly didn’t want to stumble down the same disastrous path as their predecessors and defended their inaction strenuously.
‘Where’s the evidence to link Taylor with this new CCTV? Or the internet club?’ DCI Wellington had asked after watching the images. ‘We’ve got a partial number plate and the dodgy word of a porn merchant. There’s no further identification of the suspect – apart from your gut feeling, Bob.’
Sparkes had been ready to resign, but he couldn’t abandon Bella.
They were so close. The Forensics team were working on the number plate of the van in the CCTV to try to tease out one more digit or letter, and experts were trying to match phrasing in the emails from TallDarkStranger and BigBear. He almost had his hand on Glen Taylor’s arm.
So when he heard that Glen Taylor was dead, he felt it like a physical blow.
‘Dead?’
An officer he knew from the Met had called as soon as the news came through to the operations room. ‘Thought you’d want to know immediately, Bob. Sorry.’
It was the ‘sorry’ that did it. He hung up and put his head in his hands. They both knew there would be no confession now, no moment of triumph. Bella would never be found.
His head suddenly shot up. Jean. She was free of him now – she could speak out, tell the truth about that day.
Sparkes shouted for Salmond and when she put her head round the door he croaked, ‘Glen Taylor is dead. Knocked over by a bus. We’re going to Greenwich.’
Salmond looked as if she might cry, but checked herself and went into Superwoman mode, organizing and chivvying.
In the car, Sparkes filled in the details for her. She knew as much about the case as he did but he needed to say everything out loud, to walk himself through it all.
‘I always thought that Jean was covering for Glen. She was a decent woman but she was completely dominated by him. They married young – he was the bright one, the one who did well at school and had a good job, and she was his pretty little wife.’
Salmond glanced at her boss. ‘Pretty little wife?’
He had the grace to laugh. ‘What I mean is that Jean was so young when they met, he swept her off her feet with his suit and prospects. She never had a chance to be her own person.’
‘I think my mum was a bit like that,’ Salmond said, indicating to turn off the motorway.
Not you, though, Sparkes thought. He’d met her husband. Nice solid bloke who didn’t try to outshine her or put her down.
‘Sounds like it could be a folie à deux, Sir,’ Salmond said thoughtfully. ‘Like Brady and Hindley, or Fred and Rose West. I looked at their cases for a paper I wrote at college. A couple share a psychosis or a delusion because one is so dominant. They end up believing the same thing – their right to do something, for example. They share a value system that is not accepted by anyone outside their partnership or relationship. Not sure I’m explaining it properly. Sorry.’
Bob Sparkes was silent for a bit, turning the theory over in his head. ‘But if it was a folie à deux, then Jean knew and approved when Glen took Bella.’
‘It’s happened before. Like I said,’ Salmond continued without taking her eyes off the road. ‘Then when you separate the couple, the one who’s been dominated can quite quickly stop sharing the delusion. They kind of come to their senses. Do you see what I mean?’
But Jean Taylor had not let the mask slip when Glen had gone inside. Was it possible that he had kept control of her from behind bars?
‘I wondered about cognitive dissonance or selective amnesia,’ Sparkes ventured, a little nervous about trying out his homework reading in Forensic Psychology. ‘Maybe she was too frightened of losing everything to admit the truth? I read that trauma can make the mind delete things that are too painful or stressful. So she deleted any details that challenged her belief that Glen was innocent.’
‘But can you really do that? Make yourself believe that black is white?’ Salmond asked.
The human mind is a powerful thing, Sparkes thought, but it sounded too trite to say out loud.
‘I’m not an expert, Zara. Just been doing some reading at home. We’d have to talk to someone who’s done the research.’
It was the first time he’d called her Zara and he felt a prickle of embarrassment. Inappropriate, he told himself – he’d always called Ian Matthews by his surname at work. He risked a quick glance at his sergeant. She showed no sign of offence or even of having registered his unprofessional slip.
‘Who would we approach, Sir?’
‘I know an academic who might be able to give us a steer. Dr Fleur Jones helped us before.’
He was grateful that Salmond didn’t react to the name. It hadn’t been Fleur Jones’s fault that everything had gone bad.
‘Why don’t you call her?’ she said. ‘Before we get there. We need to know the best way to approach Jean Taylor.’
Salmond pulled over at the next service station and began to dial.
An hour later, Sparkes walked through the Accident and Emergency department doors.
‘Hello, Jean,’ he said and sat down beside her on an orange moulded-plastic chair. She barely moved to acknowledge him. She looked so pale and her eyes were blackened by grief.
‘Jean,’ he said again and took her hand. He’d never touched her before, beyond guiding her into a police car, but he couldn’t help himself. She looked so vulnerable.
Jean Taylor’s hand was frigid in his hot hands, but he wouldn’t let go. He kept talking, low and urgent, taking his chance.
‘You can tell me now, Jean. You can tell me what Glen did with Bella, where he put her. There’s no need for secrets now. It was Glen’s secret, not yours. You were his victim, Jean. You and Bella.’
The widow turned her head away from him and seemed to shudder.
‘Please tell me, Jean. Let it go now and you’ll have some peace.’
‘I don’t know anything about Bella, Bob,’ she said slowly, as if explaining to a child. Then she slipped her hand out of his grasp and started to cry. No sound, just tears running down off her chin on to her lap.
Sparkes sat on, unable to leave. Jean Taylor stood and walked away towards the Ladies’.
When she came out fifteen minutes later, she was holding a tissue to her mouth. She headed straight for the glass doors of A&E and was gone.
Disappointment paralysed Sparkes. ‘I’ve screwed up our last chance,’ he muttered to Salmond, who was now sitting in Jean’s chair. ‘Royally screwed it up.’
‘She’s in shock, Sir. She doesn’t know which way is up at the moment. Let her settle and think things through. We should go to the house in a couple of days.’
‘Tomorrow, we’ll go tomorrow,’ Sparkes said, rising.
They were at the door twenty-four hours later. Jean Taylor was in black, looking ten years older, and was ready for them.
‘How are you doing, Jean?’ Sparkes asked.
‘Good and bad. Glen’s mum stayed with me last night,’ she answered. ‘Come through.’
Sparkes sat beside her on the sofa, angling himself so he had her full attention, and began a gentler courtship. Zara Salmond and Dr Jones had rethought the situation and both suggested using a bit of flattery as an opener, to make Jean feel important and in charge of her decisions.
‘You’ve been such a rock for Glen, Jean. Always there to support him.’
She blinked at the compliment. ‘I was his wife and he relied on me.’
‘That must’ve been hard for you at times, Jean. A lot of pressure to take on your shoulders.’
‘I was happy to do it. I knew he hadn’t done it,’ she said, the constant repetition of her stock reply leaving it hollow.
DS Salmond got up and started looking round the room. ‘No cards yet?’ she asked.
‘Not expecting any – just the usual hate mail,�
�� Jean said.
‘Where will you hold the funeral, Jean?’ Sparkes asked.
Glen Taylor’s mother appeared at the door, clearly having been eavesdropping in the hall. ‘At the crematorium. We’re just having a simple, private service to say goodbye, aren’t we, Jean?’
Jean nodded, deep in thought. ‘Do you think the press will come?’ she asked. ‘I don’t think I could bear that.’
Mary Taylor sat on the arm of the sofa beside her daughter-in-law and stroked her hair. ‘We’ll weather it, Jeanie. We have so far. Perhaps they’ll leave you alone now.’
The remark was aimed at the two detectives cluttering up the sitting room as much as the press waiting outside.
‘They’ve been knocking since 8 a.m. I’ve told them Jean is too upset to talk but they keep on coming. I think she should come back with me for a bit, but she wants to stay at home.’
‘Glen is here,’ Jean said, and Sparkes rose to leave.
Chapter 48
Thursday, 27 May 2010
The Widow
THE FUNERAL HAS come round so quickly I’ve let Mary choose the hymns and readings. I couldn’t think straight and wouldn’t have known what to pick. She’s gone for the safe options: ‘Amazing Grace’ and ‘The Lord Is My Shepherd’ because everyone knows the tunes – which is lucky as there are only fifteen of us singing in the crematorium chapel.
We went to see Glen in the Chapel of Rest, all smart in his three-piece bank suit and the navy and gold tie he liked. I’d washed and ironed his best shirt and it looked perfect. Glen would’ve been pleased. Of course, it wasn’t really Glen in the coffin. He wasn’t there, if you know what I mean. He looked like a waxwork Glen. His mum wept and I stood back, letting her have a moment with her little boy. I kept looking at his hands with their perfect pink buffed-up nails; innocent hands.
Mary and I went from the funeral home to John Lewis to buy hats.
‘You’ll find the range over there,’ the assistant pointed, and we stood in front of thirty black hats, trying to imagine ourselves at Glen’s funeral. I picked a sort of pillbox one with a little net veil to hide my eyes and Mary went for one with a brim. They cost a fortune, but neither of us could summon the energy to mind. We came out into the street with our carrier bags and stood, lost for a moment.
‘Come on, Jeanie, let’s go home and have a cup of tea,’ Mary said. So we did.
Today we put on the new hats in front of the mirror in the hall before getting into the taxi to the crematorium. Mary and I hold hands loosely, just touching. Glen’s dad stares out of the window at the drizzle.
‘Always rains at funerals,’ he says. ‘What a bloody awful day.’
Funny things, funerals. So much like weddings, I think. Gatherings with people you never see at any other time, catching up over a buffet, people laughing and crying. Even here at Glen’s funeral I hear one of the old uncles laughing quietly with someone. When we arrive, we are guided into the waiting area, me with my mum and dad, his mum and dad and a small crowd of Taylors. I’m grateful anyone has come, really.
No one from the bank or the salon. We’re not part of that world any more.
Then Bob Sparkes turns up, all respectful in black suit and tie, looking like an undertaker. He stands apart from us, on the edge of the Garden of Remembrance, pretending to read the names of the dead on the plaques. He hasn’t sent flowers, but we told people not to. ‘Family flowers only’ the undertaker advised, so there’s just my wreath of lilies and laurels – ‘Classic and classy’ the young florist said, almost chirpily – and Mary ordered Glen’s name in white chrysanthemums. He’d have hated it. ‘How common,’ I can hear him say, but Mary loves it and that’s what matters.
I keep looking to see where Bob Sparkes is.
‘Who invited him?’ Mary says, all cross.
‘Don’t worry about him, love,’ George pats her shoulder. ‘Not important today.’
The vicar from Mary’s church does the service, talking about Glen like he was a real person, not the man in the papers. He keeps looking at me as if he is talking just to me. I hide behind the veil on my hat when he goes on about Glen, as if he knew him. He talks about his football and his cleverness at school and his wonderfully supportive wife during difficult times. There’s a murmur from the congregation and I rest my head on my dad’s shoulder and close my eyes while his coffin slides forward and the curtains close behind him. All gone.
Outside, I look for Bob Sparkes but he’s gone as well. Everyone wants to kiss and hug me and tell me how fantastic I’ve been. I manage a smile and hug people back and then it’s over. We thought about putting on a tea but we didn’t know if anyone would come, and then if there was a tea we would have to talk about Glen and someone might mention Bella.
We keep it simple. The five of us go home to my house and have a cup of tea and some ham sandwiches Mary made and put in the fridge. I put my hat in its tissue paper and John Lewis bag and slide it on top of the wardrobe. Later, the house is quiet for the first time since Glen died and I put on my dressing gown and wander through all the rooms. It isn’t a big house but Glen is in every corner of it and I keep expecting to hear him shout to me – ‘Jeanie, where’ve you put the paper? … Off to work, love, see you later.’
In the end, I make a drink and take it up to bed with the handful of cards and letters from the family. I burned the nasty ones on the gas hob.
The bed feels bigger without him. He wasn’t always in it – sometimes he slept on the sofa downstairs when he was restless. ‘Don’t want to keep you awake, Jean,’ he’d say and pick up his pillow. He didn’t want to go in the spare room any more so we got a sofa that pulls out into a bed and he’d crawl into it in the middle of the night. We kept a duvet behind it during the day. I don’t know if anyone noticed.
Chapter 49
Saturday, 12 June 2010
The Detective
AFTER THE FUNERAL, Bob Sparkes had read the coverage and looked at the photographs of Jean at the crematorium and a close-up of the word ‘Glen’, spelled out in flowers. ‘How will we find you now, Bella?’ the papers had said, taunting him.
He tried to concentrate on the job but found himself staring into space, lost and unable to move forward. He decided to take some leave and get his head together. ‘Let’s pack up the car and drive to Devon. Find a place to stay when we get there,’ he said to Eileen on the Saturday morning.
She went to talk to their neighbour about feeding the cat and he sat at the table with the post.
Eileen crashed in through the back door, her hands full of runner beans. ‘I picked them quickly otherwise they’ll be over by the time we get back. Shame to waste them.’
Eileen was clearly determined that life would go on in their house, even if it was stuck on pause in her husband’s head. He’d always been a thinker – it was what she’d loved about him. Deep, her friends had said. She liked that. His deepness. But now it was just blackness.
‘Come on, Bob, finish slicing these beans while I pack a bag. How long are we going for?’
‘A week? What do you think? I just need a bit of clean air and some long walks.’
‘Sounds lovely.’
Sparkes did his chore mechanically, sliding a nail along each pod and pushing the peas into a colander as he struggled with his feelings. He’d let it get personal, he knew. No other case had touched him like this, had reduced him to tears, had threatened his career. Maybe he ought to go back to the barmy counsellor? He laughed, just a short bark of a laugh, but Eileen heard it and rushed downstairs to see what had happened.
The journey was painless: a warm summer’s day before the school holidays with little traffic on the motorway, which Sparkes took to put distance between him and the case as quickly as possible. Eileen sat close to him, occasionally patting his knee or squeezing his hand. They both felt young and slightly giddy at their spontaneity.
Eileen chatted to him about the children, filling him in on his family, as if he were emerging from a coma. �
�Sam says she and Pete will get married next summer. She wants to do it on a beach.’
‘A beach? Suppose it won’t be Margate. Well, whatever she wants. She seems happy with Pete, doesn’t she?’
‘Very happy, Bob. It’s James I’m worried about. He’s working too hard.’
‘Wonder where he gets that from,’ he said, and glanced at his wife to see her reaction. They smiled at each other and Sparkes’ stomach began to unclench for the first time in weeks. Months, really.
It was wonderful to be talking about his own life instead of other people’s.
They decided to stop at Exmouth for crab sandwiches. They had brought the kids here for a summer holiday when they were little and it held happy memories. It was all still there when they pulled up – the blue pompoms of the hydrangeas, the flags fluttering around the Jubilee clock tower, the screeching seagulls, the pastel shades of the beach huts. It was as if they had stepped back into the 1990s, and they walked along the promenade to stretch their legs and look at the sea.
‘Come on, love. Let’s get going. I’ve phoned the pub to book a room for tonight,’ he said, then pulled her to him and kissed her.
In another hour or so they’d be at Dartmouth, and then on to Slapton Sands for a fish supper.
They drove with the windows down and the wind blowing their hair into mad shapes. ‘Blowing the badness out,’ Eileen said, as he knew she would. It was what she always said. It made him think of Glen Taylor, but he didn’t say anything.
At the pub, they sprawled on the benches outside, soaking up the last warmth of the sun and planning their morning swim. ‘Let’s get up early and go,’ he suggested.
‘Let’s not. Let’s give ourselves a lie-in and then meander down. We’ve got all week, Bob,’ Eileen said, and laughed at the thought of a whole week to themselves.
They went up to their room late and, from habit, Sparkes clicked on the television to catch the late news while Eileen had a quick shower. The video clip of Jean Taylor sitting in her living room, being interviewed, made his stomach contract into its familiar knot and he was back in role.