The Wrong Mother (19 page)

‘Mandy? Is that your assistant?’ Sellers glanced in the direction of the beaded curtain, but there was no sign of the pretty young girl who’d served him. I’ve already got a pretty young girl, he reminded himself: Suki’s my pretty young girl.

‘If she had the time to take each squiggle of crayon to the framer’s individually then she had time to park her car properly,’ said the old woman. ‘No doubt she thought she’d only be nipping in and out, but all the same, there’s no excuse for parking on a double yellow line. We’ve all got to obey the rules, haven’t we? We can’t go making exceptions for ourselves whenever we feel like it.’

‘Right,’ said Sellers, because he could hardly say otherwise. And he agreed, by and large. Apart from where matters of the heart were concerned. The heart and other equally important organs.

‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ Folds of skin rearranged themselves around the old woman’s eyes as she looked up at Sellers. ‘I saw it on the news.’

‘Right.’
And you’re still worried about her illegal parking habits? Get a life, you old bat.

‘What time is it?’

‘Nearly seven.’

‘You’d better make yourself scarce. Our evening event’s about to start.’

‘I’ve finished, anyway.’ Sellers eyed the three neat semicircular rows of grey plastic chairs in the middle of the shop. A wild time would be had by all, he didn’t think.

‘You should have come in the afternoon.’

‘I did. You were closed.’

‘Mandy was here all afternoon,’ the old woman contradicted him. ‘We’re open every weekday from nine thirty until five thirty. And, in addition, we have our evening events.’

Sellers nodded. So Mandy had snuck an afternoon off, had she? He was liking her more all the time. He wondered if she would be taking part in tonight’s event, and was about to ask what, precisely, Age Concern in Spilling had to offer him this evening. He came to his senses just in time, thanked the old woman for her help and left.

The Brown Cow pub, where he was due to meet Gibbs half an hour ago, was a five-minute walk away. As he strode along the High Street, smiling at any female with long legs and large breasts who looked as if she might be up for it, Sellers admitted to himself that he’d been thinking about other women a lot recently. Which had to mean he was a greedy bastard. He had two already; wasn’t that enough? And for how long would he be able to stop at thinking? How long before he gave in to the urge that was building inside him?

Sellers wasn’t good at denying himself things he wanted. He yielded to temptation instantly and gladly, and was proud of it. Much better to live for the moment and live it up than to be a puritan like Simon Waterhouse, avoiding anything that might prove to be pleasurable. Trouble was, Sellers didn’t want to be saddled with a third woman who would then feel as entitled to make demands as Stacey and Suki did. His third woman—not that he’d spent much time building a profile—should be obedient, virtually silent, and want nothing from him but sex. Mandy from Age Concern seemed unlikely to fit the bill. Keen as he was to find himself a new ride, Sellers drew the line at spending his evenings in charity shops, sitting on a grey plastic school-chair listening to some bearded vegan loser give a lecture on Africa.

He bumped into Gibbs in the pub doorway.

‘Thought you’d stood me up.’

‘Sorry. Took longer than I thought.’

‘Get a round in, then.’

Sellers ordered two pints of Timothy Taylor Landlord. At least Gibbs’ taste in beer hadn’t changed since his wedding. Everything else had, though Gibbs himself was either unaware of the changes or chose not to mention them. Sellers got his money ready, then glanced over to the small table in the corner to which Gibbs had retreated, never one to keep a mate company at the bar. He sat with two empty pint glasses in front of him, pushing a pool of spilled beer around the table-top with his index finger, trying to change its shape. Okay, so his behaviour was the same as ever but the way he looked . . . fucking hell, it was like being in the pub with the Madame Tussauds version of Christopher Gibbs—all bright and immaculate. What did Debbie do, put him in the washing machine?

The pub had changed too. Once it had boasted a no-smoking room; now the whole place was free of smoke. And the landlord had fallen for some wide-boy’s flannel about sandalwood logs and wouldn’t dream of putting ordinary wood on the fire any more, so the whole place was as fragrant as Gibbs’ shiny hair.

‘Nothing on the suit,’ said Sellers, putting the drinks down on the table. Deliberately, he trapped Gibbs’ finger under his pint glass before moving it and apologising.

‘I saw Norman this afternoon.’

‘Norman Bates? How’s his mother?’ Sellers quipped.

‘Norman Computer. Geraldine Bretherick’s laptop.’

‘Oh, aye?’

‘If she ordered GHB over the Internet, she did it from somewhere else.’

‘That’s possible. Maybe she went to an Internet café or used a friend’s computer.’ Though come to think of it there were no Internet cafés in Spilling and only one in Rawndesley. There were always the libraries, though.

Gibbs looked uneasy.

‘What?’ Sellers asked.

‘The diary file was created on Wednesday the eleventh of July this year, Norman said. Waterhouse—the arsehole—pointed out that the eleventh of July was the Brethericks’ ten-year wedding anniversary.’

‘Why’s he an arsehole?’ Sellers was confused.

‘He would be the one to spot it. In front of the Snowman.’

‘I wouldn’t have made the connection,’ said Sellers. ‘Water-house has got a good memory for dates.’

‘He never goes on any, that’s why. The original shagless wonder.’

‘So,’ said Sellers thoughtfully. ‘Geraldine put fake dates on the entries. Either that or she wrote them by hand on those dates, then typed them up over a year later.’

‘Why would she do that? And where’s the hard copy? It wasn’t in the house.’

‘She could have thrown it away, save on storage space.’

Gibbs snorted into his pint. ‘You saw the stately home. Could’ve stored a football team of elephants.’

‘All right, so she wrote the entries for the first time on Wednesday, July the eleventh, and put dates on them that were more than a year old. Why?’ Sellers started to answer his own question. ‘I suppose it could have been a way of saying to her husband, “I’ve felt like this for ages and you haven’t even noticed.” But then why only choose dates from a year ago? The first entry was dated 18 April 2006 and the last one 18 May 2006. Not much of a spread. Why didn’t she make the fake dates span three years instead of a month?’

‘Fuck should I know?’ Gibbs had ripped up a beer-mat and was floating small, ragged chunks of cardboard in the Landlord lake on the table. ‘Maybe someone else wrote the diary.’

‘What, someone who murdered Geraldine and Lucy? Who?’

‘Waterhouse’d say William Markes.’

‘Come on, for—’

‘Stepford’s looking shifty too—reckon he’s having his doubts.’

‘He’s still nervous because he’s new. This thing of the dates being out of kilter—it doesn’t mean the diary’s a fake. Think about it: if you’d murdered two people and wanted to fake a diary for one of them, to put them in the frame, you wouldn’t attract unnecessary attention by choosing a cluster of dates from well over a year ago, would you? You’d make it more recent. Whereas if you’re an unhappily married woman, pissed off with your husband, it’s going to hit you hardest on your ten-year anniversary, isn’t it? Ten long years of this shit, you’d be thinking—time to open a diary file and have a good bitch, let out some of the poison . . .’ Sellers stopped when he saw Gibbs’ face. He blushed. ‘Looking forward to your and Debbie’s anniversary, are you?’

Gibbs laughed. ‘There’s no danger Debbie’ll feel that way after ten years with me. She’s like a different woman since we’ve been married. She can’t get enough of me.’

Sellers didn’t want to hear about Gibbs being in demand. ‘Anything more on the laptop?’ he asked.

‘Norman’s still on it.’

The pub door opened and two young girls came in wearing strappy tops and miniskirts. One of them had a purple jewel in her navel. Sellers felt Gibbs’ elbow in his side. ‘Young enough for you?’

‘Sod off.’

‘Go on, go and drool over them. Colin Sellers the Chat-up King, with the stylish retro sideburns. “All right, love, wipe yourself, your taxi’s here. It’s four in the morning, pay for yourself if you don’t mind, love.” ’ His attempt at a Doncaster accent was appalling; it sounded more Welsh than anything else. All of a sudden Gibbs fancied himself as a comedian?

‘Cocksucker,’ said Sellers. He thought about Mandy and the Age Concern shop’s evening event, and realised he’d made the wrong choice. The way he was feeling at the moment, he’d happily sit in a grey plastic chair in a smelly shop for the rest of his life as long as Gibbs wasn’t sitting beside him.

 

When Charlie opened her front door and saw Simon, her heart dropped and landed with a thump on the floor of her stomach. Then, with equal speed and as little warning, it began to ascend, as if someone had filled it with helium. Simon was here; he’d made the effort to come and see her. About time.

‘Hi,’ she said. He was holding something behind his back. Flowers? Unlikely, unless he’d hired a private tutor in the social graces since Charlie last spoke to him.

‘What’s happened here?’ he asked, looking at the bare hall behind her.

‘I’m redecorating.’

‘Oh, right. Sorry, I ...’ He craned his neck, looking for paint and dust-sheets that Charlie hadn’t bought yet.

‘Not
now
, at this precise second. I was just about to grab a spoon and have some cold, ready-made chilli from a jar for my dinner. Fancy some?’

‘Why don’t you heat it up?’ Simon looked puzzled. ‘You’ve got a microwave.’

‘I suppose you’d rather it was home-made as well. With organic beef.’
You’re going to drive him away before he’s even through the door.

‘Why didn’t you give that letter to me?’ Simon produced a hostility to match Charlie’s. ‘About Mark Bretherick not being who he says he is? Why did you take it to Proust?’ They glared at one another; it was like old times. Strange how quickly they could switch back.

‘You know the answer to that.’

‘No, I don’t. I don’t know the answer to anything. I don’t know why you stopped talking to me, or jacked in CID. Do you blame me for what happened last year, is that it?’

‘I don’t want to talk about that. I mean it.’ Charlie gripped the door, ready to close it. It was too late, of course—the shame was already in the house. It was there even before Simon had said the words ‘last year’; she knew he knew, and that was enough.

Simon stared at his shoes. ‘All right, so you’re punishing me,’ he said quietly. ‘And I’m supposed to guess why.’

How could Charlie tell him that her respect for him had grown since she’d removed herself from his life? From the start Simon had had the good sense to stay away from her; he’d known there was a taint about her, waiting to happen.

‘So, you’d fuck up your career just to spite me,’ he said viciously. ‘I’m flattered.’

Charlie laughed. ‘The world doesn’t begin and end with CID, you know. What about your career? Don’t you think it’s time you took your sergeant’s exams?’

‘One day someone’s going to realise how ridiculous it is that I’m still a DC, and they’ll do something about it. I’m not applying for anything.’

‘Oh, what shit is that?’ Charlie couldn’t keep the words back. How did Simon do it? How did he manage to hit her bang in the middle of her temper reflex every time? ‘You can’t be made a sergeant unless you put in for the exams and you bloody well know it.’

‘I know how many people are aching for a chance to kick me in the teeth. No way am I going begging for a promotion. I’d rather be a DC for ever and embarrass everybody by being better than them. I’ve got as much money as I need.’

Charlie knew no one but Simon who would adopt this attitude and stick to it. Who would really mean it. She wanted to weep. ‘Look, we can’t talk on the doorstep. Come in, if you can bear my shell of a house. But I meant what I said: certain subjects are closed.’ She turned and headed down the long narrow hall towards the kitchen. ‘What are you hiding, anyway? If it’s wine, hand it over.’ She took the jar of chilli out of the cupboard. There was nothing to go with it apart from some egg fried rice in a foil carton in the fridge, left over from a takeaway two days ago. It would have to do.

There was a rustle of plastic, the sound of something being taken out of a bag. Charlie looked round and saw two ugly greeting cards standing on her kitchen table. Both were creased and looked as if they’d travelled here in Simon’s trouser pocket. She took in the pastel-coloured flowers and swirly gold letters. ‘What are they?’ she asked, moving closer. ‘Wedding anniversary cards.’ Strange but true. She laughed. ‘Darling, don’t tell me I forgot our anniversary.’

‘Read them,’ said Simon gruffly.

Charlie opened them both at the same time, looked from one to the other. She frowned.

‘Don’t worry, I’ve not stolen them from evidence,’ said Simon. ‘The originals are back at the Brethericks’ house. But that’s what was written in them, word for word.’

‘Sam made you buy two more cards and copy out the messages? Why not just photocopy them?’

Simon’s cheeks reddened. ‘I didn’t want to bring photocopies. I wanted you to see them as cards. As I saw them, on the mantelpiece at Corn Mill House.’

Charlie tried to keep a straight face. Who else would bother? For greater accuracy, Simon had even made sure to cast in his reconstruction cards that had been designed specifically for marriages of ten years—like the Brethericks’, Charlie assumed. Both had embossed number tens on their fronts. ‘Where did you buy them?’

‘Garage down the road.’

‘The romance is killing me.’

‘Don’t laugh at me, all right?’ The warning in his eyes went beyond what he’d said. Something inside Charlie shrivelled and slunk away. Was he reminding her that she was no longer in a position to feel superior to him? To anyone? It didn’t matter if he was or wasn’t; she’d just reminded herself.