Too Close For Comfort (17 page)

‘So who?’ I asked.

‘Kimberley.’

‘
Kimberley
?’

‘Yes. Is that shocking to you?’

‘Well – yes. I mean – it was Sarah he killed himself for. Kimberley’s in charge of the PTA. She’s married to a Cabinet minister. Seems like a dangerous
target.’

‘Exactly!’ said Krall, tapping the Formica surface of the table to emphasise the point. ‘Don’t you think it suggests a pattern of highly unstable behaviour? Stalking.
Aggressive pursuit at any cost.’

I was struggling to process it, spooling back through all those subtle little hints and digs that Kimberley had uttered.

‘It’s hard to say that without more information. What actually happened? Why wouldn’t Ian have suspended him?’

‘It all blew up at a PTA fundraiser. Kimberley decided she wanted it to stay a private matter, for both their sakes. She spoke to Peter herself with Ian present. He apologised. They all
agreed to move on, not put it on his record.’

I could almost see it – Kimberley all magnanimous and saintly, accepting of the dangerous power of her spellbinding beauty. And then – what, he moved on to Sarah? It was hard to make
the elements of this story fit together, but perhaps it was because I was arrogantly insisting that my three-second impression of Peter in the playground held water.

‘And what – he was sending – suggestive – texts?’ I couldn’t bring myself to use the word ‘sext’ in front of Krall: it was too
TOWIE
for this arch and elegant man.

‘More than that. Nigel Farthing obviously travels a lot, and Grieve was spotted parked outside their house a couple of times.’

‘There are big metal gates at the front,’ I told him. ‘He wouldn’t have got much joy. Who saw him?’

‘I’d have to look at the notes. The nanny, I believe.’

‘Susan?’ I asked.

‘I don’t have the name to hand. But if that’s Kimberley’s nanny then yes.’

‘No, her nanny is called Lori. She’s only just arrived. There was a Susan, but she left in a hurry. That’s why I’m wondering if you tracked her down and interviewed
her?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Krall. ‘It’s possible this information just came from Kimberley, but if there was someone else living there during the period he was stalking
her, we should definitely follow up on it. Are you saying you think her leaving was connected?’

I thought of Lori’s small, pinched face, as pale as skimmed milk. There was something so vulnerable about her, locked up in that velvet cell. She’d wanted to snatch the name back as
soon as she’d uttered it: I didn’t want to get her into trouble.

‘No one’s said that. I might have got the dates mixed up.’

At the time I vowed that I’d ask Lysette, go back to him with more information if it seemed relevant. How simplistic I was.

Krall was already racing ahead. ‘In essence, everything points to Peter having been a man with serious emotional issues. He’d taken antidepressants his whole adult life, on and
off.’

‘Yeah, that’s been everywhere.’ The headlines were getting ever more lurid, the speculations from ‘close friends’ and ‘unnamed sources’ increasingly
damning and personal. I’d seen a snatched picture of Peter’s parents, heads bowed as they scuttled back into a small suburban house. It was hard to imagine what they must be going
through, grieving for him and defending his memory all at once. ‘But do bear in mind,’ I continued, ‘that they get handed out very readily by doctors. It’s a way cheaper
solution than therapy.’

Krall arched an eyebrow. ‘You don’t approve, I take it?’

‘I’m not saying that. All I mean is, the fact that he took them doesn’t necessarily make it more likely he killed her.’

‘And you’re not convinced Grieve fits the profile of a killer? Is that because of what you’ve gleaned here?’

My hand shot up between us unbidden.

‘I don’t mean to be rude, Detective Inspector, but I feel like I keep needing to remind you of the boundaries. I’m not a criminal psychologist. I’m sure you’ve got
access to plenty of them if that’s what you’re after.’

It was as if the words set alight as they left my mouth. He did have plenty of experts to ask, but of course it was me he wanted to question: none of them were stuck right in the eye of the
storm. I looked down at my watch – we’d been here long enough for me to make an exit.

‘My apologies – again,’ said Krall with a rueful smile. ‘The problem is, I’m genuinely fascinated by your insights. You’ve certainly made me think.’

My diary was lying on the table. I scooped it up, grabbed my phone, dropped them into my handbag. I paused a second.

‘I don’t want to patronise you, and I’m sure you know this, but our brains are hardwired to create plausible stories.’ He was listening intently, his expression
unreadable. ‘Even highly commended detective inspectors. Your evidence all sounds very circumstantial, and he’s not here to tell you different.’ I paused, the photographs from the
incident room looming up for me. ‘Neither of them are.’

‘You’re right,’ said Krall, serious. ‘So far we can’t find any phone records that definitively support it; we’re still trawling through hours of CCTV, the
forensics are inconclusive. So if you end up finding out anything more concrete in the course of your work, it could be critical. I respect the boundaries, but please don’t forget your
responsibilities to the investigation. I’m convinced that someone here knows exactly what happened.’

As I left The Crumpet, the bell ringing loudly in my wake, I had to fight the urge to think too closely about who that might be.

I refused Krall’s offer of a lift back to Lysette’s, and set off down the high street. It was a strange jumble of shops: a boutique filled with pointlessly
expensive things – burnt vanilla candles you’d have to remortgage your house to afford, porridge-coloured linen scarves – next to a hardware shop, spilling out clothes pegs and
plastic washing-up bowls. Every single person I passed was white.

I took a detour across a field, determined to remind myself how beautiful it was. It was baking today, the sun beating down on me, my professional sandals with their dinky little heels no match
for the mulchy path. The smell of cowpat was overwhelming.

I arrived back at Lysette’s hot and bothered, my meeting with Lawrence playing back in my mind on a maddening loop. Had I said too much or not enough? I put my key in the lock, even though
part of me still felt I should be knocking. Lysette stuck her head out of the kitchen, her hair piled up on top of her head, a slash of lipstick brightening her face. The sight of her warmed me, as
instinctive and automatic as breathing.

‘Hey, stranger, you’ve been ages,’ she said.

‘It was a busy day,’ I said. ‘I met one of the teachers this morning – Alison? She’s really sweet.’

‘She’s lovely, isn’t she?’

‘And then I met up with Lawrence Krall.’ I sensed her tensing, even though it was invisible. She was right to be tense – I tried to lighten it. ‘He’s such a weirdo.
He wanted to meet in The Crumpet. He had carrot cake!’

Lysette took the bait: she didn’t want to go anywhere too dangerous either.

‘Well, there’s been baking going down here too!’ she said, rallying, her voice pitched like a ’50s children’s TV presenter. ‘We’ve been making cinnamon
biscuits. They’re in the oven . . .’

‘Smelling magnificent, I might add!’

‘Saffron and Max are playing in the garden until they’re ready.’

Max was here too. The thought of him at the funeral – so earnest, clutching his Woody doll like his life depended on it – had continued to haunt me. I’d asked Lawrence’s
team to reach out to Joshua, to let him know that I had experience with bereaved children, but had heard nothing.

‘Shall I go and see what they’re up to?’ I asked.

‘Good call. Only an hour till wine o’clock.’

‘Surely it’s wine o’clock already in Bogotá?’ I said, the words catching in my throat. Jim jolted his way into my mind, yet again. His presence felt more like an
itch than a yearning, an insect bite that refused to be soothed.

‘What time’s lover boy arriving?’ asked Lysette, laughing.

‘Lover boy said he’d drive down as soon as he could get away from work. So probably midnight. Tomorrow. He’s booked somewhere, though, so we’ll be out your
hair.’

‘Too right he has. I don’t want any hanky panky under my roof,’ shouted Lysette after my retreating back.

I turned round and gave her a sneaky V sign, then stepped through the french windows into the lush garden.

‘Auntie Mia!’ said Saffron. She was still on a seesaw of emotion, so it was a lovely treat to see her round face light up with genuine joy. I dropped to my knees to hug her, then
turned to Max. It was hard to let her wriggly, cinnamon-scented body go – I only did so that Max wouldn’t feel any more alone than he probably already did. He was watching me owlishly,
big, heavy-looking glasses reflecting the sun. He’d sat Woody in a chair, his legs stuck out in front of him.

‘Hi, Max, do you remember me? I hear you’ve been making biscuits.’

‘Yes, we have,’ he said in a formal voice. ‘I did the stirring.’

‘That’s great! They smell lovely. You must’ve done very good stirring.’

‘And I . . .’ said Saffron, pulling hard on my sleeve, ‘I did greasing the tray and breaking the eggs.’

‘Very good work. And what are you playing out here?’

‘Funerals,’ said Max, matter-of-fact.

‘And weddings!’ said Saffron, but my attention was focused on Max now.

‘And how do you play funerals?’ I said, keeping my voice deliberately gentle. It felt very important for him to know that I wasn’t shocked or angry.

‘Someone has to die,’ he said. ‘And then you tell people they have died. I told Woody.’ He turned to look at him, giving a proud smile to his plastic stoicism.

‘Did Woody love the person very much?’ I said, measuring out my words carefully.

Saffron was pulling on my sleeve, and I pulled her in close again, hoping it would buy me another minute or two.

‘Woody’s daddy died,’ he said, ‘but he is very brave. We’ve dug him a hole to live in and he is also in heaven.’

The words sounded like a tongue-twister he’d learned to recite – death is confusing enough for adults, but the way children are expected to wrap their brains around it is more for
our benefit than theirs, I often think. Max gestured to a nearby flower bed. Lysette’s roses grew there: I wasn’t sure how thrilled she’d be at the gaping trench the children had
dug, but I didn’t let on.

‘That’s the grave!’ said Saffron in a suitably dramatic tone.

Max looked at me, dark eyes searching my face for a reaction. There was so much need burning away inside of him.

‘Do you want to show me?’ I said softly, extending my hand. He slowly reached his hand to meet mine and we walked across the lawn, Saffron following.

‘This is where he will live now,’ he told me. ‘Did you know that worms eat people?’

‘They eat people!’ shouted Saffron at the top of her voice, laughing like a hyena. She was trying to make sense of it too, in her own, very different way. She ran across the garden,
returning with a bashed-up-looking doll. It was naked, curly hair askew. Other than Sindy, saved by her impeccable sense of style, I’ve always found dolls borderline creepy. Max solemnly took
it from her and laid it in the makeshift grave.

‘I am going to bury him now.’

‘He’ had quite a wild haircut, but it wasn’t the point.

‘Are you?’ I asked. ‘Do you want to say anything?’

‘Ashes and ashes,’ he said solemnly. ‘Dust and dust . . .’ He petered out.

‘Is there anything you want to say about Woody’s dad?’ I said, hoping I wasn’t overstepping the mark. He felt so ripe with emotion, I couldn’t help but want to give
him a means to let it out.

‘Woody’s dad,’ he declared, ‘you were a very kind doll. You always read Woody his bedtime story, even when he had stayed up too late because he hadn’t finished his
tea and needed a snack of pepperoni.’ I felt my eyes prickle, but I pushed down the emotion, made my focus absolute. ‘Woody will miss you very much and he will look after his daddy
– no, his mummy – very much. Amen.’

‘Now we sing a hymn!’ shouted Saffron, immediately breaking into a rousing rendition of ‘Let It Go’, complete with swaying and arm waving.

Max stayed silent a second, then joined in. After a couple of lines he abandoned singing and started violently pushing the soil back into the trench with his hands, his little face intense with
effort. I stayed kneeling next to him, silently telling him that he wasn’t alone.

Lysette appeared at the french windows, her hands encased in big white oven mitts so she could hold the hot baking tray.

‘Biscuits are served!’ she trilled. ‘And sauvignon blanc,’ she added, sotto voce. Saffron stopped singing, rushed towards her mum like she’d been shot from a gun.
Max ignored her, his hands, even his glasses, covered in soil like he was a small, bookish mole. ‘Come on, Max,’ she said, ‘come and try your creations.’

He looked up for a split second, then went back to scrabbling in the dirt.

‘We were playing funerals,’ said Saffron.

The smile on Lysette’s face immediately disappeared. She stared over at me, face like thunder, and I stood up, brushing grass from my knees. I walked over to her.

‘I think it’s really helpful for him,’ I said quietly.

‘Oh do you?’ said Lysette, acidly. She turned on her heel, her next words spat over her shoulder. ‘Well, thank God you’re here then.’

I tried to keep calm, to stop the acid of her words burning into me. I crossed back to Max, aware my whole body was shaking. I knelt back down. He was patting the soil flat, filthy hands
thumping hard against the ground.

‘You’ve done such a brilliant job, Max.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, peering round at me.

‘It’s up to you, but now you’ve finished, we could go in and taste your biscuits?’

He looked up at me, almost dazed. ‘OK,’ he said automatically.

‘Is there anything else left that you want to say to Woody or his dad before we go?’

‘No,’ he said, abruptly standing and brushing the soil off his trousers, his eyes not meeting mine. Was he ashamed of letting me see his grief, however obliquely? ‘We
don’t always have to do talking.’