The Wrong Mother (35 page)

Well-meaning but fucking useless, Gibbs was thinking.

‘Sorry. Just got in from work and I’ve managed to lose my wallet. I was upstairs looking for it. It’s been one of those days, I’m afraid. I’m sure I brought it home, but . . .’ He looked down at his feet, then turned to look behind them. ‘Anyway . . .’

‘DCs Sellers and Gibbs, Culver Valley CID,’ said Sellers, showing the man his ID.

‘CID? What . . . Are my children all right?’

‘We’re not here with bad news,’ Sellers told him. ‘We’re trying to trace the Oliva family. Was that the name of the people you bought this house from?’

‘Huh!’ said the man. ‘Wait here. Just wait.’ He dashed down the hall and disappeared into a room at the far end. When he came back he was carrying a pile of envelopes, about ten inches high, in both hands. ‘When you find them, you can give them these. They had their post redirected for the first year after they moved, but obviously they didn’t renew it because . . .’ He tried to pass the letters to Gibbs, who stepped back to avoid taking them.

‘Do you have a forwarding address?’

The man looked peeved. ‘They left one, and a number; turns out they were fake.’

‘Fake?’ Sellers felt a prickle of excitement. There was about to be a development. He could often feel it, just before it happened. Suki said he was intuitive.

‘I rang the number and the people there had never heard of the Olivas. I asked a few more questions and found out that the phone number didn’t belong to the address they gave me. So either they got the number wrong, or they lied, didn’t want us to know where they were going.’ The man shrugged. ‘Lord knows why. The sale went through amicably enough. We didn’t bicker over curtains and light fittings, like the stories you sometimes hear.’

Sellers took the letters from him. Most were junk mail, addressed to Encarna Oliva, Encarnación Oliva and Mrs or Ms E. Oliva. There were a couple of envelopes addressed to Amy. Nothing for her father, Sellers noticed.

‘Mr Oliva: what was his first name?’

‘Oh . . . um . . . hang on.’ The man at the door chewed his thumbnail.

‘Was it a Spanish name?’ said Gibbs.

‘Yes! How did you . . . oh, right, because they were Spanish and went to Spain.’ The man laughed, embarrassed. ‘That’s why you work for CID and I don’t. And why I’ve lost my wallet. Oh—Angel, that was it. Spanish for angel, but it’s pronounced Ann-hell. Different countries, different customs, I suppose. I wouldn’t like to be an English bloke called Angel.’

‘Do you know what he did for a living?’ asked Sellers.

‘Heart surgeon at Culver Valley General.’

‘And what’s your name?’

‘Harry Martineau. That’s e-a-u at the end.’

‘When did you buy the house from the Olivas?’

‘Um . . . oh, God, you’d have to ask my wife. Um . . . last year, May some time, I think. Yes, May. I remember because it wasn’t long after the FA Cup final. We watched it in our old house, but we’d already started packing. Sorry, I’m very shallow! ’ He laughed.

Gibbs disliked Martineau. There was nothing shallow about remembering where you were for the FA Cup final. Gibbs had missed it this year for the first time in his adult life. Debbie had had a miscarriage; they’d spent the whole day and a night in hospital. Gibbs hadn’t told anyone at work, and he’d told Debbie not to say anything in front of Sellers or the others. He didn’t mind her workmates knowing, but he didn’t want it talked about at the nick.

‘Have you still got that address and phone number?’ Sellers asked Martineau.

‘Somewhere, but . . . look, could you pop back tomorrow, about the same time? My wife’ll know where it is. Or, tell you what, why don’t you come in and wait? She won’t be long. Or you could nip back first thing in the morning. We don’t leave the house until—’

‘If you find it, ring me.’ Sellers gave Martineau his card, keen to staunch the flow of unappealing offers.

‘Will do.’

‘Tosser,’ Gibbs muttered as he and Sellers walked back to the car.

Sellers was already talking to Waterhouse. Gibbs listened to one end of the conversation, heard Sellers’ tone change from satisfied to frustrated to baffled.

‘How can that be?’ Sellers wondered aloud, tapping his phone against his chin as they got into the car. Where was his intuition now? Maybe he had none; Stace never mentioned it. Maybe Suki was patronising him. ‘Waterhouse says he’s heard the name before,’ he told Gibbs. ‘Recently. He sounded worked up—you know the way he gets.’ Sellers pulled the list of names Barbara Fitzgerald had given him out of his pocket: the owl sanctuary trip list. No, it wasn’t there. Suddenly, all the names on the list struck Sellers as familiar somehow. Was he going mad? Was it because he’d read the list already, when the headmistress had first given it to him?

‘Waterhouse has heard the name Ann-hell Oliva?’ said Gibbs. ‘Then why the fuck—’

‘No.’ Sellers cut him short. ‘Harry Martineau. Spelled e-a-u at the end. That’s what he said—exactly what Martineau said. Word for word.’

 

Charlie Zailer sat cross-legged on her lounge floor with two swatches of fabric in front of her: Villandry Champagne and Caitlyn Biscuit. One was a ribbed light gold, the other a sumptuous crushed velvet, also gold. Charlie had been looking at them for nearly an hour and was no closer to making up her mind. How did one decide these things? It was dark outside, but she couldn’t be bothered to get up and close the curtains.

Choosing between the fabrics her sister had brought round wasn’t the only challenge; she would also need to pick a chair and sofa to be upholstered in the chosen material. A Winchester chair? A Burgess sofa? Charlie had spent most of the evening flicking through the pages of the Laura Ashley catalogue that Olivia had given her, flustered by her inability to decide. Despite her initial resistance, she was fascinated by the catalogue. She couldn’t stop looking at its pinks and mauves, the tassels, glass beads and sequins—things she would once have hated. The luxurious, shimmering rooms pictured in the ‘Inspirations’ pages looked like . . . well, they looked like rooms that belonged to the sort of women men wanted to marry.

Charlie groaned in disgust, horrified by the thought. What kind of drooling, simpering slush-brain was she turning into? Still, the idea persisted:
if my bedroom looked like this one, I could marry Simon and be certain it would work. Women with butterscotch satin bedspreads don’t get dumped.

How embarrassing to be more pathetic at the age of thirty-nine than she’d been at sixteen.

Caitlyn Biscuit. Villandry Champagne. Either would do. Charlie’s bones ached from sitting in the same position for too long.

The doorbell rang. She sprang to her feet as if she’d been caught out. Had whoever was at the door looked in through the window and seen her hunched over the two squares of gold cloth? Hopefully not. She looked at her watch: ten to eleven. Simon. It had to be. I’ll let him choose, she thought. Thrust the two swatches under his nose and give him five seconds to pick his favourite. See what he makes of that.

It wasn’t Simon. It was Stacey, Colin Sellers’ wife. Charlie’s smile shrivelled. Stacey was wearing pyjamas—white, with pink pigs on them—under a black belted raincoat. One of her feet was bare, the other stuffed into a navy mule slipper. The other slipper was behind her, lying on its side in the small front yard. Stacey was shaking, sobbing hard.

Charlie led her into the hall, then stood back, watching and wondering what to do. Stacey made a gurgling noise and wrapped her arms around herself. This will be easy, Charlie thought. You know nothing about Suki Kitson. You are not aware of any infidelity on Sellers’ part, but at the same time you’re not saying he’d never do such a thing; you simply don’t know. You have no information, and you have no opinion. All you have is vodka and Marlboro Lights, and all you can spare is half an hour.

She took Stacey through to the kitchen, poured two large drinks and lit a cigarette. She only had three left so she didn’t offer one to Stacey. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked. It was hard to sound sympathetic when all she felt was anger. Stacey probably had no idea of the effect the mere mention of her name had had on Charlie ever since Sellers’ fortieth birthday party. Did the sodden, bawling creature slumped over the kitchen table even remember?

Charlie did, and that was all that mattered. Stacey and two of her friends had peered into a bedroom with an open door, a room in which Charlie, stark naked, had been abandoned by Simon five seconds earlier. They’d been on the verge of getting into bed together for the first time when he’d fled without explanation, and they’d never properly discussed it since. Charlie had been too shocked and upset to run and close the door, or to grab a sheet to cover herself with. Simon’s departure had knocked her to the ground, too, so she was sprawled on the carpet when Stacey and her tipsy mates had decided to have a good gawp at her. The two friends had been embarrassed and retreated instantly, but Stacey, who knew Charlie, knew she was Sellers’ skipper, had giggled and said, ‘Oops!’ before disappearing. For that, Charlie would never forgive her.

Charlie had stayed at the party until Sellers threw everyone out, determined to prove she was able to enjoy herself in Simon’s absence. Later, in the early hours of the morning, she’d overheard Stacey gossiping about what she’d seen. Stacey hadn’t spotted Charlie sitting on the sofa she was leaning against, and was busy telling her friends that Charlie had been pursuing Simon for ages, asking them to imagine how awful it must be to bag the man of your dreams finally, only to have him scarper the minute you take your clothes off. Charlie couldn’t have put it better herself.

She realised Stacey was asking her something. Wanting to know if she spoke French. French? What did this have to do with Sellers screwing Suki Kitson?

‘I did an A level in it, but I wouldn’t say I’m fluent.’

‘I thought you used to be a language teacher at Cambridge uni.’

‘Anglo-Saxon, Norse and Celtic. And it was more literature and history than language. Why?’

Stacey pulled a piece of paper out of the pocket of her raincoat and pushed it across the table. Charlie stayed where she was, too far away to read it. She could see that there were two chunks of text. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s my French homework, to do over the summer holidays.’

‘You know I’m learning French?’

Like it had been announced on the ten o’clock news. ‘I do now.’

‘Our teacher gave it to us.’ Stacey paused to tip some vodka into her mouth. It dripped down her chin. ‘It’s a verse from a song, the same verse in French and in English. We have to work out if the song was written by a Frenchman or by an Englishman. It’s impossible!’ Stacey wept. ‘I mean, I’m as clever as the next person, and I’ve been doing really well with learning my vocab and my verbs, but . . . I just don’t see how you can tell. It could have been written by a . . . Outer Mongolian for all I know. And Colin—I hate him! He won’t help me! I’ve asked some of my friends, but no one’s got a clue. I thought of you and . . . well, I thought you
must
be able to help me.’

Charlie felt a stirring of interest. She picked up the piece of paper, read the English text first:

The French version was headed ‘Mon Ami François’ and, apart from being in a different language, was exactly the same. Charlie wanted to laugh.
Good on you, Mr French Teacher.
Anyone could learn lists of vocab, but not everyone had a flair for the logic of languages. ‘I’m sure you won’t be the only one who’s stumped,’ she told Stacey. ‘Tell your tutor it was too hard.’

‘Colin knows the answer and he won’t tell me! He says if I can’t work it out I’m as thick as pig-shit and I’m wasting my time trying to improve myself. He can be so hateful sometimes!’

‘I used to think of him as the cuddly one, when we worked together,’ said Charlie. ‘But then, he was often standing next to Chris Gibbs.’

‘Did he ever used to . . . mention me? Say he loved me, or how he felt about me? I thought he might have . . . because you’re a woman . . .’

‘No,’ said Charlie flatly, sensing they were moving closer to the real reason for Stacey’s visit.

‘Can I stay here tonight?’ Stacey asked.

‘Sorry. There are no beds. Just a mattress on the floor, and that’s mine.’

‘I’ll sleep on the floor, I don’t care.’

‘No, you won’t.’
Absolutely not.

The doorbell rang. Stacey howled at Charlie not to tell Sellers she was there. ‘Your car’s parked outside, you stupid arse,’ Charlie muttered as she went to open the door. The possibility that her second late-night visitor might be anyone other than Colin Sellers did not occur to her, so she was startled into silence when she found, instead, Simon Waterhouse on her doorstep wearing his slightly puzzled grin, as if he was surprised to find himself there.

Charlie grabbed him with both hands and pulled him into the kitchen. ‘You’ll have to go now,’ she told Stacey. ‘Simon and I need to talk. Don’t we, Simon?’

He had rammed his hands deep into his trouser pockets and was looking embarrassed.

‘But you haven’t told me the answer!’ said Stacey. Her mouth hung open. The lower part of her face was covered in a shiny layer of mucus.

‘It defeats the object if I tell you,’ said Charlie. ‘What your teacher wants to know is whether you can figure it out, and you can’t.’

She watched as Stacey stumbled down the hall and out into the rain, hobbling past her second slipper without stopping to pick it up. Never before had closing the front door given Charlie so much satisfaction.