The Widow (12 page)

‘And you couldn't have phoned her?'

‘My mobile had run out of juice and I was passing the house anyway. And I fancied a cup of tea.'

Three excuses. He's spent too long putting together this story, Sparkes thought. He'd check the mobile straight after the interview.

‘I thought drivers had to stay in touch with the depot. I've got an in-car charger.'

‘So have I, but I'd left it in my car when I picked up the van.'

‘What time did your phone battery die?'

‘I didn't notice it was dead until I got off the M25 and tried to ring Jean. Could've been five minutes or a couple of hours.'

‘Do you have children?' Sparkes asked.

Taylor clearly hadn't expected the question and pressed his lips together while he gathered his thoughts.

‘No, why?' he muttered. ‘What's that got to do with anything?'

‘Do you like children, Mr Taylor?' Sparkes pressed on.

‘Course I do. Who doesn't like children?' His arms were crossed now.

‘You see, Mr Taylor, there are some people who like children in a different way. Do you know what I mean?'

Taylor tightened his grip on his upper arms and closed his eyes, just for a second, but it was enough to encourage Sparkes.

‘They like children in a sexual way.'

‘They are animals, aren't they?' Taylor spat.

‘So you don't like children in that way?'

‘Don't be disgusting. Of course I don't. What kind of a man do you think I am?'

‘That's what we're trying to find out, Mr Taylor,' Sparkes said, leaning forward to crowd his quarry. ‘When did you start driving for a living? Strange change of career – you had a good job, didn't you, at the bank?'

Taylor did his pantomime frown. ‘I fancied a change. I didn't get on with the boss and thought I would look at starting my own delivery business. I needed to get experience of every aspect so I began driving—'

‘What about the business with the computers at the bank?' Sparkes interrupted him. ‘We've spoken to your former manager.'

Taylor reddened.

‘Weren't you sacked because of inappropriate use of the computers?'

‘It was a stitch-up,' Taylor said quickly. ‘The boss wanted me out. I think he felt threatened by a younger, better-educated man. Anyone could've used that computer. The security was laughable. Leaving was my decision.'

His arms were so tightly crossed over his chest it was constricting his breathing.

‘Right. I see,' Sparkes countered, leaning back in his chair to give Taylor the space he needed to embellish his lie. ‘And the “inappropriate use” of the computer you were accused of?' His voice was casual.

‘Porn. Someone was looking at porn on an office computer in work time. Bloody idiot.' Taylor was on a roll of self-righteousness. ‘I would never do something as stupid as that.'

‘So where do you look at porn?' Sparkes asked.

The question stopped Taylor dead.

‘I want to see a lawyer,' he said, his feet now dancing beneath the table.

‘And you shall, Mr Taylor. By the way, we're looking at the computer you use at home. What do you think we'll find on it? Is there anything you want to tell us about now?'

But Taylor had closed down. He sat silently, staring at his hands and shaking his head at the offer of a drink.

Tom Payne was the duty solicitor that weekend. A middle-aged man in a dusty-looking dark suit, he strode into the room an hour later, a pad of yellow paper under one arm and his briefcase flapping open.

‘I would like some time to consult with Mr Taylor,' he told Sparkes and the room was cleared.

As Sparkes left, he looked at Tom Payne, the two men sizing each other up before Payne offered his hand to his new client.

‘Now, let's see what I can do to help you, Mr Taylor,' he said, clicking his pen.

Thirty minutes later, the detectives were back in the room and rootling through the details of Taylor's narrative, snouts to the scent of fakery.

‘Let's go back to your dismissal from the bank, Mr Taylor. We will be talking to the bank again, so why don't you tell us all about it?' Sparkes said.

The suspect repeated his excuses, with his lawyer impassive at his side. Apparently, everyone was at fault apart from him. And then there was his alibi. The detectives stormed it from all sides, but it proved unbreachable. They had knocked on the neighbours' doors, but no one had seen him arrive home the day Bella went missing. Apart from his wife.

Two frustrating hours later, Glen Taylor was being swabbed and scraped before being taken to a cell, while the police checked his story. For a moment, when he realized he was not going home, he looked young and lost as the custody sergeant asked him to empty his pockets and take off his belt.

‘Will you phone my wife, Jean, please,' he asked his lawyer, his voice cracking.

In the bleached emptiness of the police cell, he sank on to a discoloured plastic bench along one wall and closed his eyes.

The custody sergeant squinted through the eyehole in the door. ‘Looks calm enough,' he told his colleague, ‘but let's keep a close eye on him. Quiet types make me nervous.'

I
USED TO LOVE
Sunday lunch. Always roast chicken and all the trimmings. It used to feel like a family thing, and when we were newlyweds we had our mums and dads over to share it with us. Sitting round the table in the kitchen, they'd half-listen to the end of
Desert Island Discs
and read the Sunday papers as I put the potatoes in the oven to roast and poured us cups of tea.

It was lovely being part of this grown-up world where we could invite our parents for lunch. Some people say they felt it when they started their first job or moved into their first home, but those Sundays were when I felt like a real adult.

We loved our house. We'd painted the sitting room magnolia – Glen said it was ‘classy' – and we bought a green three-piece suite on credit. We must've paid hundreds of pounds for it in the end, but it looked just right so Glen had to have it. It took longer to save up for a new kitchen, but we managed in the end and picked one with white doors. We walked round the showroom for ages, holding hands like the other couples. I liked the pine cupboards but Glen wanted something ‘clean'. So we went for white. Looked a bit like an operating theatre when we first put it together, to be honest, but we bought red handles, and snazzy jars and things to liven it up. I loved my kitchen – ‘my department' as Glen called it. He never did any cooking – ‘I'd only make a mess,' he'd say and we'd laugh about it. So I did the cooking.

Glen would lay the table around them, play fighting with my dad to move his elbows and teasing his mum about reading the horoscopes. ‘Any tall, dark strangers this week, Mum?'

His dad, George, didn't say much, but he came. Football was the only interest they shared, really. Only they couldn't even agree on that. Glen liked to watch football on the telly. His dad went to the match. Glen didn't like all those bodies squashed together, all that sweat and swearing. ‘I'm more of a purist, Jean. I like the sport, not the social life.' His dad said he was a ‘poofter'.

George didn't understand Glen at all and we thought he probably felt threatened by his education. Glen did well at school – always near the top of the class – and he worked hard because he was determined not to end up a cabbie, like his dad. Funny that he did end up in the same profession. I said it as a joke once, but Glen told me there was a world of difference between being a cabbie and being a driver.

I didn't know what I wanted to be. Maybe one of the pretty girls who didn't have to try. I didn't try, anyway, and Glen always said I was pretty, so it sort of came true. I did make an effort for him, but not too much make-up. He didn't like it – ‘Too tarty, Jeanie.'

On our Sunday get-togethers, Mary used to bring an apple crumble and my mum brought a bunch of flowers. She wasn't a cook. She preferred tinned veg to real ones. Funny really, but dad said it was what she'd been brought up with and he'd got used to it.

When I did domestic science at school, I used to bring home the dishes we cooked. They weren't bad, but if we'd done something ‘foreign' like lasagne or chilli con carne, Mum pushed it round her plate a bit.

So roast chicken suited everyone and I always did tinned peas for her.

There was lots of laughing, I remember that. About nothing, really. Funny things that had happened at the salon or the bank, gossip about the neighbours and
EastEnders
. The kitchen would get all steamy when I was draining the carrots and cabbage and Glen would draw with his finger on the windows. Sometimes he drew hearts and Mary would smile at me. She was desperate for grandchildren and would whisper to me when we did the washing up, asking if there was any news. At first I said, ‘Plenty of time for babies, Mary. We've only just got married.' Later, I pretended not to hear as I stacked the dishwasher and she stopped asking. I think she guessed it was Glen's problem. I was closer to her than my mum at the time and she knew I'd tell her if it was me. I never told her the reason, but I suppose she guessed, and Glen blamed me for telling her. ‘No one's business but ours, Jeanie.'

The Sunday lunches started to tail off because Glen and his dad couldn't bear to be in the same room.

His dad found out about our fertility problem and made a joke of it the Christmas after we were told by the specialist.

‘Look at this,' he said, picking up a satsuma out of the fruit bowl. ‘It's like you, Glen. Seedless.'

George was a nasty man, but even he knew he'd gone too far. No one said anything. The silence was awful. No one knew what to say, so we all looked at the telly and passed the Quality Street. Pretended it hadn't happened. Glen was white as a sheet. He just sat there and I couldn't bring myself to touch him. Seedless.

In the car home, he said he'd never forgive his dad. And he didn't. We didn't refer to it again.

I wanted a baby so badly, but he wouldn't talk about ‘our problem', as I had to call it, or about adoption. He disappeared inside himself and I kept myself to myself. Two strangers in the house for a while.

At the Sunday lunches Glen stopped drawing in the steam, he opened the back door to let it out. And everyone began leaving earlier and earlier and then we all started making excuses. ‘We're so busy this weekend, Mary. Do you mind if we leave it until next Sunday?' Then ‘next month', and gradually family lunches were just on birthdays and at Christmas.

If we'd had kids, they'd have been grandmas and granddads. It would've been different, but the pressure to perform for our parents became too much. There were no distractions. Just us. And the scrutiny of our lives was too intense for Glen. ‘They want to interfere in everything,' he said after one lunch when Mary and my mum had decided where would be best for me to buy a new cooker. ‘They only want to help, love,' I'd said lightly, but I could see the dark clouds gathering over him. He'd be quiet and busy with his own thoughts for the rest of the day.

He hadn't always been like that. But he started to take offence at everything. Tiny things – something the paper-shop man said about Arsenal losing, or a kid on the bus cheeking him – would upset him for days. I'd try to laugh him out of it, but I got worn down by the effort so I stopped and let him work it out for himself.

I began to wonder if he was looking for reasons to be upset. The people he'd always liked working with at the bank began to annoy him and he'd come home moaning about them. I knew he was working himself up to something – a row, probably – and I tried to talk him out of his moods. There was a time I might've been able to – when we were younger – but things were changing.

One of my ladies at the salon said all marriages ‘settle down after the “truly, madly, deeply” bit.' But was this settling down? Was this it?

I suppose it was then that he started going upstairs to his computer more. Closing himself off from me. Choosing his nonsense over me.

T
AYLOR'S DELIVERY VAN
was being dismantled and scrutinized, inch by inch, by the forensic boys in Southampton, along with his uniform and shoes taken from home, fingerprints, saliva swabs, and samples from under his fingernails, his genitals and hair.

And experts were conducting their dig into the dark recesses of his computer.

They were all over him. Now Sparkes wanted to try his luck with the wife.

On Easter Sunday morning, fresh from their Premier Inn breakfast in south London, Sparkes and Matthews knocked at 8 a.m.

Jean Taylor answered the door with her coat half on. ‘Oh God,' she said when she saw Sparkes. ‘Has something happened to Glen? His lawyer said it would all be sorted out today and he could come home.'

‘No, not quite,' Sparkes said. ‘I need to have a chat with you, Mrs Taylor. We can talk here rather than at the station.'

Mention of the station made Jean Taylor's eyes widen. She stood back to let the detectives in before the neighbours spotted them and wearily shrugged off the sleeve of her coat.

‘You'd better come through,' she said and led the way into the living room. Jean hovered by the arm of the sofa. She looked like she hadn't slept much. Her hair was lank with exhaustion and there was a scrape of throatiness to her voice as she asked them to sit down.

‘I answered all the questions yesterday with the other officers. This is all wrong.'

She was so agitated, she got up and then sat down again, lost in her own sitting room.

‘Look, I'm due at my mum and dad's. I always go on a Sunday to do Mum's hair. I can't let her down.' she explained. ‘I haven't told them about Glen …'