The Cruellest Game (23 page)

She stopped, seemingly unaware of the impact of her words.

Another light bulb lit up before me, almost as spectacularly as the previous one.

‘Sue, where did your father storm off to?’ I asked.

‘Well, I’m not sure, not really sure . . .’ she began.

‘I think you are, Sue,’ I said. ‘He went to see Robbie, didn’t he? The father of your child.’

She nodded.

‘Tell me, Sue, please tell me. Robbie is dead. Anything you know about what happened on the day of his death could be so important.’

She nodded again. ‘He told me he was going to see Robbie, yes, t-to sort him out, he said.’

I felt my whole body trembling. Could this be it? Could this be what lay behind my boy’s death? An angry dad berating the teenage father of his teenage daughter’s unborn child? Could
that have been enough to tip my Robbie over the edge?

Sue started to weep extravagantly again, her shoulders heaving, her face blotchy and distorted. I wanted the rest of the story, but first I had to calm her down.

‘Hush,’ I murmured gently. ‘Hush. You must try to keep calm. You’re pregnant.’

It seemed I’d unwittingly said just the wrong thing. Sue jumped to her feet, screamed once piercingly, and then yelled at me through her tears.

‘Oh no, I’m not. No, I’m damned well not. Not any more. Dad saw to that.’

My jaw dropped. I was just wondering if I dare ask another question without sending her totally hysterical when the sitting-room door opened and in walked Michael Shaw with, I assumed, his
wife.

Sue Shaw screamed once more then ran past her parents out of the room and up the stairs.

‘Leave me alone, just leave me alone,’ she yelled over her shoulder.

‘What the hell’s going on, woman?’ Michael Shaw asked me angrily. ‘What the hell are you doing in my house?’

‘I would have thought that was pretty obvious under the circumstances,’ I responded, not even entirely sure what I meant by the remark.

But Michael Shaw seemed to think about it for a moment or two. Then his belligerence fell away a little. His shoulders dropped and his voice was quieter when he next spoke.

‘Well, you’ve really gone and upset our Sue now, haven’t you?’ he said.

‘It seems to me you’ve already done that yourself,’ I countered.

I felt a cold fury enveloping me. I rose to my feet and squared up to him. He towered above me. I’d guessed he was a big man when I’d first encountered him sitting in his Range
Rover, and he certainly was big. I thought he was probably six foot four, or even five. Taller than Robert certainly, and far broader. I didn’t care.

‘After all, you’re the one who forced her to have an abortion, aren’t you?’ I yelled at him. ‘It was you who made my son’s fifteen-year-old girlfriend abort
his baby. You, you bastard. And it’s quite likely you’re responsible for my son’s death too, as well as the death of his unborn child. You went to see him on the day he died. What
did you say to him? What did you do to make my son want to kill himself? Or maybe I should be asking what you did to make it look as if he’d killed himself? I think you could have killed my
son. Perhaps you’re a murderer. You evil, evil bastard.’

My level of hysteria now left Sue Shaw’s earlier outburst in the starting stalls. I was boiling with rage and despair. I was in a frenzy that was quite off the planet.

Michael Shaw, big as he was, looked as if he’d been poleaxed. He sat down with a bump on the edge of the sofa, long legs akimbo, thick arms hanging loosely.

‘Whoa,’ he said. ‘Whoa. I didn’t murder anyone. I didn’t hurt your son. I never even saw him . . .’

‘You lying evil bastard—’ I began again.

This time he shouted over me.

‘Will you just listen to me, Mrs Anderson. I went to your house, but I didn’t see your son because he was dead when I arrived. The front door was on the latch. I thought the boy was
avoiding me. I was angry, all right, yes. I stormed right through the place looking for him. And when I found him, in his room up at the top, well, there he was, hanging by the neck. I took off
back home, trying not to touch anything, left the door on the latch again, wiped the handle with a tissue. I don’t know what I was thinking about—’

‘So why didn’t you call the police?’ I asked, my voice still raised. ‘If that’s how it was, and you found a dead body, the body of my son, why the hell didn’t
you call the police?’

Shaw shrugged. ‘I – uh, I realized how it would look, I suppose. I just didn’t think. I just wanted to get out of the place, back to my daughter.’

‘Oh yes,’ I continued at full pitch. ‘The fifteen-year-old girl you then made have an abortion. An abortion at that age, for Christ’s sake!’

‘No, no,’ said Shaw emphatically. ‘My God, where did you get that idea from? What sort of a man do you think I am? I didn’t make her have an abortion.’

‘Well, she’s not pregnant any more is she? And she’s just told me it was your fault, you bastard. You utter bastard.’

‘Mrs Anderson,’ the woman with Shaw, whom I’d already assumed to be his wife, blonde and pretty like Sue, but shorter, indeed not much taller than me, stepped forward and spoke
for the first time, ‘I’m Sue’s mum. And you really must calm down and listen to me. Sue hasn’t had an abortion. She suffered a miscarriage on the night of your son’s
funeral. She was only just pregnant, of course, but that made no difference. The poor love’s been beside herself ever since. We can’t do a thing with her, to be honest. She blames her
father because they had a such terrible row when she came back from Robbie’s funeral. He’d forbidden her from going, you see. Sometimes, well . . .’

She glanced quickly towards Michael Shaw, who was sitting staring down at his feet.

‘My Mikey’s a wonderful family man but he doesn’t always think things through,’ she continued.

And that was what I was afraid of, I thought. But I made myself stay silent, albeit with some difficulty. I needed to hear the rest of this.

Mrs Shaw glanced towards her husband. He took up the story.

‘I blame myself too, if you want to know,’ he said. ‘I felt it was the boy’s fault my girl got pregnant. We blokes do. Him being dead didn’t change that. And I
didn’t want our Sue to have anything to do with the lad’s family, with your family. I thought she’d get mixed up with the suicide thing, that fingers would be pointed at her. Her
life was suddenly in enough of a mess. So much promise. I was afraid it was all going to be ruined, and I didn’t know what to do about it. When I realized she’d disobeyed me and gone to
the funeral, I was hopping mad. We had a right shouting match, Sue and me, when she got back. Then, well, she just collapsed. And that was that. She lost the baby later that night.’

There was total silence in the room. I felt weak and drained. I sat down again in one of the leather armchairs and Mrs Shaw sat on the other. We were all sitting now.

I struggled to control my breathing.

‘I don’t know what to believe,’ I said.

‘It’s the truth, all of it,’ said Susannah Shaw.

‘You don’t know that,’ I snapped back, recovering some of my spark. ‘You weren’t with your husband when he drove to my home to confront my son, were you? You
weren’t with him when he claims to have found my Robbie already dead, were you?’

‘No, I wasn’t with him,’ said Mrs Shaw mildly. ‘But I know my Mikey. He’s telling the truth. He has a temper, but he’s not a bad man. He’d never have
hurt your son, not really, no more than he would hurt our Sue.’

I clenched my fists to stop my hands shaking. The revelations of the last few minutes had completely bowled me over. I wasn’t angry any more. In a way I was deflated. I didn’t know
what to do or say next.

‘I think the police had better decide that, don’t you?’ I said eventually. ‘Obviously I shall pass on what you’ve both told me.’

Mr and Mrs Shaw exchanged glances again.

‘You must do what you feel you must,’ said Mrs Shaw. ‘But I promise you that the results of any police investigation will be exactly as my husband has told you.’

‘He discovered a dead body and failed to report it,’ I said. ‘I don’t have any choice.’

Mr Shaw lowered his head and stared at his feet again. Mrs Shaw stood up. ‘Go and put the kettle on, Mikey,’ she said. ‘I’ll pop upstairs and see to our Sue.’

I should have left then, I suppose. But I didn’t. It was as if I hadn’t the energy to do so. I was running on empty. Michael Shaw obediently began to do his wife’s bidding. I
sat and waited while he clattered about in the kitchen next door and his wife got on with whatever seeing to Sue entailed.

The big man returned balancing an incongruously delicate china tea set on a tray: teapot, matching milk jug, sugar bowl, and proper cups and saucers.

He poured and passed me a cup, milk already in. I added sugar in spite of disliking sugar in my tea. If there was just a chance that there really was any substance to the old adage I had always
been so scornful of, that sweet tea was good for shock, then this time I really had to give it a go, because I was quite numb with shock yet again. And I had to drive home.

Mrs Shaw returned as I was forcing down the first sickly mouthful. Michael looked at her enquiringly.

‘She’ll be all right. She’s calmed down. Gone on her computer. Best leave her alone for a bit.’

Michael Shaw nodded. His wife stepped towards me, with surely genuine compassion in eyes that were so like her daughter’s.

‘You know, I really am sorry about your son,’ she said.

I looked away from her. What did she expect me to say?

‘And I’m even more sorry if my family has done anything to make it worse,’ she continued, flashing a sharp look in the direction of her husband.

I still didn’t reply.

We sat together awkwardly with little or no conversation. There was, however, one remaining question I needed to know the answer to.

‘Where were you on Friday, Mr Shaw?’ I asked abruptly.

‘On Friday?’ he queried, sounding puzzled. ‘At work, of course. As usual. Why?’

‘Because somebody broke into my home and wrecked the place,’ I replied in a level sort of voice.

‘And you’re accusing me of that, now?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to know where you were when it happened, that’s all.’

‘You’ve got no bloody right—’ Michael Shaw began, his voice raised.

‘No, Mikey,’ his wife interrupted him. ‘Mrs Anderson has just lost her son. That gives her the right to ask almost anything, in my book. And on top of that she says her home
has been trashed. Just tell her you didn’t do it. That’s all.’

‘Of course I didn’t bloody well do it,’ said the man. But his voice was no longer so harsh.

‘I’m sorry you’ve had that to put up with as well, Mrs Anderson. However, I can assure you it’s got nothing to do with this family,’ said Mrs Shaw, managing to
sound both gentle and assertive.

She was quite convincing. But I didn’t know whether or not I was convinced. Not by so much of what I had heard. I did know I really couldn’t stay with the Shaws any longer. I
abandoned the remains of my sweet tea and left.

Mrs Shaw escorted me to the door.

‘Are you going to the police?’ she asked, as we stood together in the hall.

‘What do you think?’ I responded.

Once back in my car I started the engine immediately and drove to the end of the road and round the corner until I knew I would be out of sight. Then I stopped again, and slumped forward over
the steering wheel. Had I already solved the mystery of my Robbie’s death? And if so, if I really believed that Michael Shaw was responsible in some way, then why on earth had I sat in his
house drinking tea with the man?

The truth was that I still didn’t know what to believe. That scenario just seemed too simplistic somehow. And Shaw? He might well be the sort to lash out in the pub or on the street, but
was it likely that he was a murderer? And was it remotely likely that he had the psychological make-up of a man who could effectively incite another human being to suicide?

I suppose that by staying with the Shaws for as long as I did, I’d perhaps hoped that something would present itself to answer those questions. It hadn’t.

One thing was certain though. I was definitely taking this new information to the police. At the very least, surely, it was enough to make them conduct further investigations into Robbie’s
death. Then I thought about exactly how I was going to approach the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary. My two local bobbies seemed to think I was a lunatic. DS Jarvis had made it quite clear he was
involved with a much more pressing case, and I could hardly disagree with that, if only on the grounds that little Luke Macintyre might still be alive and my Robbie was not. I considered driving
into Exeter straight away and taking my chances with the front office staff at Heavitree Road. But, of course, that Sunday everyone on duty was likely to be totally preoccupied with the case of the
abducted three-year-old. Nobody was going to have much time to spend dealing with someone half the force seemed to have already dismissed as a madwoman, were they?

I thought for a moment or two more. Then I made a decision. I would leave it until the morning, then I would drive to Exeter. On a Monday morning staffing at Heavitree Road would be at full
strength, and surely not everyone would be assigned to the Luke Macintyre investigation. In any case, it was even possible that the little boy might have been found by then. Yes, I would go to
Exeter’s premier police station and I would ask to speak to a senior CID officer. And maybe, just maybe, I would be seen by someone who would listen to me.

Feeling very slightly better at having made even that much of a decision, I checked my watch. More time had passed than I’d thought, both at the Shaws and sitting in my parked car using my
steering wheel as a pillow while trying so desperately to gather my thoughts. It was nearly midday. I didn’t want to encounter Tom and Eddie again, or indeed anyone else, that day, but they
should be well gone by now.

Just in case, as a further delaying tactic, I made myself stop at Waitrose, on the edge of the town. I loaded a much-needed starter pack of plain white crockery into a trolley – four mugs,
four dinner plates, four tea plates and so on; and also a couple of packs of cheap glasses – four tumblers and four wine goblets. I also bought milk and fresh bread, more eggs and bacon,
which seemed to be the only food I even half wanted to eat, and a couple of bottles of malt whisky, an even more effective anaesthetic than copious quantities of red wine, I’d found.