The Widow (34 page)

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.

T
HE 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.

A
FTER 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.

‘Eileen, love, I've got to go back,' he called through to her. ‘It's Jean Taylor. She says Glen took Bella.'

Eileen came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, with another pulled round her wet hair in a turban. ‘What? What did you say?' Then she saw the faces on the television and sank down on the bed. ‘Christ, Bob. Is there no end to this?'

‘No, Eileen. I'm so sorry, but there isn't until I know what happened to that little girl. Jean knows and I've got to ask her again. Can you be ready to leave in fifteen minutes?'

She nodded, loosening the towel on her head and rubbing her hair dry.

The journey back was quiet. Eileen slept as Sparkes drove on deserted roads, flicking on the radio every hour, on the hour to see if there were any updates.

He had to shake his wife awake when they reached home and they fell into bed with barely a word exchanged.

‘H
ERE SHE IS
, our star reporter!' the editor shouted across the newsroom when Kate walked in the next morning. ‘Brilliant exclusive, Kate. Well done!' There was a smattering of applause from her colleagues and calls of ‘Great stuff, Kate!' and she felt herself blushing and tried to smile without looking smug.

‘Thanks, Simon,' she said when she finally reached her desk and could shrug off her handbag and jacket.

The news editor, Terry Deacon, had already sidled over to bask in any glory being handed out by his boss. ‘What have we got for Day Two then, Kate? Another scoop?' the editor bawled, yellow teeth bared in triumph.

Kate knew he knew because she had filed the story overnight, but Simon Pearson wanted to put on a bit of a show in front of his people. He hadn't had much of a chance lately – ‘Bloody boring politics. Where are the exclusives?' was his mantra – and today he was going to make the most of it.

‘We've got the story of the childless marriage,' said Terry. ‘“Is This What Turned Mr Normal into a Monster?”'

Simon smiled widely. Kate winced. The headline was crass, turning her probing and sensitive interview into a screaming cinema poster, but she should have been used to it. ‘Sell the story' was another of Simon's mantras. He was a man for mantras. Brute force and rote learning were his preferred MO with his executives, with none of your poncey creative thinking and questioning. ‘Simon says,' the execs joked.