The Telling Error (20 page)

‘All in all, one of the worst nights of my life.’

‘When was this?’

‘Weekend before last. I know I should forget it, get on with my life, but it’s shaken me up. I don’t feel the way I used to. Couple of nights ago, I was at the supermarket and I saw this gorgeous woman, on her own. I was on my own … I didn’t go anywhere near her. Couldn’t do it. Anyway … enough about me and my sad life. Have you taken the plunge yet?’

Gibbs raised his eyebrows as his heart started to beat faster. ‘You mean …?’

‘Not the
plunge
plunge, not the big one. I meant have you told Simon and Charlie?’

‘Not yet. Liv was going to meet Charlie for a drink later and tell her, but then I had a message from her saying she’d changed her mind. So now we’ve moved to Plan B.’

‘Which is?’ Sellers asked.

‘A relief,’ said Gibbs. ‘Let’s face it, Charlie and Simon were always going to hate Plan A, weren’t they? I always thought telling them was a crazy idea.’

‘So what’s Plan B?’

Gibbs was prevented from answering by the sudden appearance of PC Robbie Meakin, looking irritatingly cheerful as always.

‘All right, Robbie,’ said Sellers. ‘How goes it? Get us a round in, will you?’

‘Yeah, all right, then. What you having?’

‘Pint of Landlord.’

‘Same,’ said Gibbs.

Instead of heading for the bar, Meakin answered the first question Sellers had asked him. ‘I’m knackered, but I think that’s a permanent state once you’ve got kids, isn’t it? How are you doing on the Blundy case? The man that every citizen of the UK expressed a desire to kill at one time or another.’

‘It’s going OK.’ Sellers looked at the bar.

‘Good. Glad to hear it.’ Meakin seemed to be waiting for something. Did he want money to buy the drinks? Gibbs wondered.
Cheap bastard
.

‘That silver Audi you mentioned – the one that turned round and sped away?’ said Sellers. ‘Turns out the driver took a suspicious interest in Elmhirst Road, not just once but lots of times throughout the day. It’s all on CCTV, the incident you described and several others: driving past Elmhirst Road multiple times, slowing down to have a look. The driver denies having a particular interest in Damon Blundy, but we don’t believe her, so we’ve got something to work on there.’

‘Right. That’s … great.’

Gibbs was puzzled by the anxiety in Meakin’s voice. ‘You OK, Rob?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, fine. When you say several times … I only saw that car once. Definitely just once.’

‘Driver’s a mother of two, had to go back and forth to her kids’ school a few times that day,’ Sellers told him. ‘Elmhirst Road’s her direct route. After the U-turn you saw, she didn’t risk getting so close again, but she had to drive past the bottom of Elmhirst to get to the school even going the long way. Each time, she slowed down and had a nosey in the direction of the Blundy house.’

‘It might not have been the house; it might have been …’ Meakin stopped and shook his head. His pale freckled skin had turned red. ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘Two pints of Landlord, yeah?’

‘Hang on,’ said Gibbs. ‘If there’s something you’ve not told us, spit it out. This is a murder case. You were first at the scene. You saw what some sick fuck did to Blundy. Just because the victim was Damon Blundy doesn’t mean—’

‘Course it doesn’t.’ Meakin’s eyes widened. ‘That’s what I’ve been saying since it happened. I had to have a word with a few smart-arses in the canteen this morning. They were saying Blundy had been asking for it for years. First time I’ve heard that said about a white, middle-class, famous male murder victim. I’m all for equality, but … let’s be equal by condemning all murderers, not all victims.’

‘Right,’ said Gibbs.

Meakin sat down again. ‘Tell you the truth, I liked Blundy’s columns. Don’t tell anyone I said that, especially not my wife. She reckons he was a bastard who hated women, but … well, he said things I’d never dare say, and that’s always good to read, isn’t it? He wasn’t scared of anything or anyone.’

‘That didn’t work out so well for him, did it?’ said Sellers.

‘What’s the deal with the silver Audi?’ Gibbs asked Meakin.

‘All right, look, I’m absolutely sure this has got
nothing
to do with Blundy’s murder,’ said Meakin, his face still red. ‘I’m going to feel horrible for telling you, and I still think I should probably keep it to myself, but … like you say, it’s a murder case. The driver of the Audi that turned round, Nicki Clements—’

‘How do you know her name?’ Sellers asked.

‘I’ve met her before.’

‘Shagged her?’

‘No. Definitely not.’ Meakin looked alarmed.

‘In a battered women’s refuge,’ Gibbs murmured so that only Sellers would hear.

‘Have you interviewed her?’ Meakin asked. ‘What did she say about why she did a U-turn?’

Sellers relayed the story of the missing wing mirror. ‘We think it’s a lie,’ he said. ‘It’s true she had to go to her kids’ school and back several times that day – we’ve verified that, and it’s the only part of her story that’s genuine. Elmhirst Road’s the only sensible route to the school. By bypassing it, she added half an hour to each of her journeys. We don’t believe for a second that her desire to avoid driving past Damon Blundy’s house had anything to do with a mirror.’

‘No, it didn’t,’ said Meakin. ‘But it also had nothing to do with a murder. Her detours weren’t about Blundy.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose at least once you know, you’ll be able to rule her out as a murder suspect. That’s some consolation.’

‘Robbie, you’re not making sense,’ said Sellers. ‘Do you have some reason for caring what happens to Nicki Clements?’

‘I gave her my word I wouldn’t tell anyone. I don’t want to let her down, that’s all. I felt sorry for her in the end.’

‘Robbie, you’re making no sense,’ said Sellers. ‘The end of what?’

‘What were her detours about if not avoiding a murder scene?’ Gibbs asked.

‘Me,’ said Meakin. ‘She wanted to avoid me on Elmhirst Road on Monday. Nearly as much as I wanted to avoid her.’

‘I got
nothing
,’ says Ethan bitterly. ‘
No
marks. Even though I definitely got four of the five questions right! I should have got eight out of ten. The last question wasn’t even a question!’

‘Yes, tragedy, tragedy,’ Sophie drawls. ‘Can you bloody well shut up about it now? I can’t hear the TV.’

‘Mum, Sophie just—’

‘Yes, I heard her, Ethan. I’m standing right next to her chair. Sophie, don’t say “bloody”. It’s a swear word.’ I manage to recite my parental line of dialogue without fluffing it or sinking to the floor in a sobbing heap. I need Ethan and Sophie to be as easy and unobtrusive as possible for as long as there’s a strange man following me and police officers suspect me of murder. Unfortunately, I can’t explain this to them. I don’t want to; I want to have as much energy as their petty little dramas and fights require of me, not to be so consumed by my own ongoing crisis that there’s nothing left of me.

And so you’re going to do … what? Just hate yourself as usual and continue to behave like a self-destructive idiot?

‘You’re wrong, Mum,’ says Sophie. ‘“Bloody” is not a swear word. Neither is “Oh God”. Alexis in my class, her mum won’t let her say “Oh God”. If she says it and her mum hears, she loses her computer privileges for a week.’

‘I’m not bothered about “Oh God”, but “bloody”
is
a swear word.’

‘What about “damn”?’ Ethan asks.

Oh God.
‘Can we not debate rude words? Ethan, this test – if you got four out of five questions right, you’d have got some marks. If you got no marks, you can’t have got any right.’

‘I
did
,’ he squeaks indignantly. ‘One of them was, “What’s your name?” I put, “Ethan Daniel Clements.”’

‘That
is
his name,’ says Sophie, yawning.

‘OK, there’s some mistake or misunderstanding involved,’ I say, relieved. ‘After supper, you can show me the test and we’ll sort it out. All right?’ Ethan nods. I tick it off in my head: unhappy son, happier. Toast and juice delivered to lounge – already ticked off, eaten, drunk, sticky plastic tumblers and plates bearing crusts and crumbs on the floor.
Nearly free
. If I have to wait much longer to ring Kate Zilber, I’ll explode. She was away all yesterday and today on some kind of training course for head teachers. I managed to persuade Izzie to pass on a message, and was told grudgingly at home-time this afternoon that I could ring Kate on her mobile anytime after 4.45 p.m.

I glance at my watch. Dead on a quarter to five. I don’t care if I look too eager: I want to know the name of the man who’s been following me. I haven’t seen him in the playground since Monday, which is perhaps not surprising. Until I’ve spoken to Kate and heard whatever she can tell me about him, I won’t know if I want to tell Adam or the police.

I pull the door closed as I leave the lounge and head for the phone furthest away from Sophie and Ethan’s ears, the one in the box room. My right hand seems to start to sweat the moment I pull the scrap of paper with Kate’s number on it out of my trouser pocket.

Two doors between me and the children now: one pulled to and one firmly closed. This is how habitual liars measure their safety: by the number of closed doors between them and their loved ones. ‘Answer, answer,’ I hiss as I listen to the rings, feeling helpless. I can’t imagine that Kate Zilber has ever been as keen for someone to answer their phone as I am now.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Kate. It’s Nicki Clements.’

‘Hi, Nicki – Izzie said you’d probably ring. Is there a problem?’

‘I don’t know. Well, actually I do know.’ I laugh awkwardly. ‘Don’t worry too much – I mean, nothing’s happened yet, but … one of the dads from school has been following me. On Tuesday, he followed me all the way to London, where I used to live. Which means he must have followed me from my house to the train station and then on to a car-hire—’

‘Whoa, whoa,’ Kate silences me. ‘Which dad? Most of them wouldn’t have the gumption or the energy to follow the mother of another child. I’m almost impressed. Tell me everything, from the beginning.’

I do my best, aware of the inadequacy of my story. Until two days ago, I simply didn’t notice him apart from in the school car park. He might have been following me for months, or he might have only started on Tuesday.

The day after Damon Blundy was murdered.

I describe him as accurately as I can: the kind of clothes he wears, his car, the streaks in his hair. ‘I’ve always thought of him as Flash Dad,’ I tell Kate.

‘Can you describe his child or children?’ she says quietly, after a short pause. ‘Let me answer that question for you: you can’t, can you? You’ve never seen him with his children.’

‘No. Not that I’ve noticed. How did you know that?’

A longer pause. ‘You say you’ve noticed this guy in the car park at morning drop-off and home-time a lot – going back a few months?’

‘Yes. I can’t remember when I first noticed him, but … yes, certainly a month or two.’

‘Have you ever seen him talking to any of the other parents?’

‘No, but that’s not unusual for a school-gate dad,’ I say. ‘It’s the mums that want to talk, generally. Lots of the dads keep their heads down and pray no one’ll put them out by forcing them to have a conversation. Look, just tell me who he is,’ I blurt out.

‘I’ve no idea who he is,’ Kate says.

‘Then how did you know I’d never seen his kids? Why do you sound so worried, as if you’ve worked something out and you’re wondering whether you should tell me or not? You should. This man
followed me to London
, to my brother’s house!’

‘OK, don’t freak out. You will, but don’t. The guy you described isn’t a parent at Freeth Lane. I know every parent – more’s the pity – and there’s no dad with streaked hair and a blue Beemer. And before you ask, no, there are no mothers’ boyfriends, male nannies … There’s no one I can think of who fits that description, Nicki. No one associated with Freeth Lane.’ Kate sighs. ‘Which means … well, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you.’