Paternoster (10 page)

Eden ran her hand through her hair. It felt lank, as though she’d been on a long train journey. ‘Mummy’s tired, Molly. Why don’t you come in and snuggle for a minute?’

The little girl tugged back the covers and slipped into the bed beside her. Eden wrapped her arms round her and pressed her cheek against Molly’s soft hair with its scent of apples and sunshine.

‘There, that’s nice, isn’t it?’

Molly wriggled. ‘Mummy? Mummy?’

‘Yes, Molly?’ Sleepiness overcame her.

‘Mummy, hold me! I’m slipping!’

She reached for the girl. So tired.

‘Mummy!’ She lunged for her. Their hands connected, slipped, and Molly plummeted, screaming. Eden awoke with a cry.

Two hours. She’d only slept for two hours. With a groan, Eden flopped back on the pillows. More than six years she’d been having these dreams, following Molly as she grew up and got steadily older. Had she lived. The dreams always ended the same way, with Molly falling out of reach, away from her grasp and the safety of her arms. Just as she had done in real life.

Sleep was impossible now. Once the dream had delivered its salvo she knew she’d have no peace, however hard her head ached or her mind yearned for repose. Eden threw back the covers and clambered out of bed, her back nipping. She set the taps running in the bath, pouring in lavender and bergamot bath soak and fluffing it into bubbles. While the bathroom filled with steam, she fetched a clean towel from the linen cupboard: it smelled biscuity from the tumble drier.

The thing Eden liked most about her flat was its bath, large enough that she could lie full length. Inching her numb body into the water, she slipped down until her head was submerged. The water blocked out noise and she was alone with her thoughts. A hot soak was just what she needed to scrub away all the grot and despair, and work out what to do next. Piece by piece she examined what she knew.

Paul was taken ill. He died. He told her his death was deliberate. Hours after he died, someone searched his flat.

On Monday, when she’d seen him, he mentioned that he was hoping that his business would pick up. He also asked her to investigate his ex-wife, suspicious that she was spending the money he sent for his daughters. The ex was also demanding more money from him, and he was refusing to pay. Was that a motive to kill him?

Paul had serious financial difficulties: that much was obvious from his bank and credit card statements, and the stack of unpaid bills. The antidepressants and sleeping tablets suggested he’d been under stress for a few months at least. Had he borrowed money from a loan shark and found himself unable to pay? Who else did he owe money to? And was it enough to get him killed?

There was another possibility, one she didn’t like at all. Maybe Paul tried to kill himself. Divorced, separated from his daughters, business struggling, money problems: he wouldn’t be the first man to crack and end it all. She knew that male suicide typically was a big, no-going-back affair: a shotgun, hanging, jumping from a tall building. Paul could have jumped from the top of his office block or his apartment block, though his tidy approach to life suggested this messy death, its trauma for others, would be abhorrent to him. An overdose was cleaner, if that’s what he did. But if he had taken something and changed his mind, why not tell the hospital staff what he’d taken, when he was admitted?

There was something else that bothered her. Paul was neat: his flat was clean and tidy, his financial records were filed and ordered. So where was the suicide note? He didn’t seem the sort of man to leave his daughters without explaining why. He loved them; he wasn’t cruel enough to sentence them to the rest of their lives with that question burning in their hearts.

Eden rose out of the bath water, shampooed her hair, and dunked down under the water again. Perhaps Paul was worried that his insurance wouldn’t pay out on suicide. Then why tell her it was deliberate? Why go to the hospital at all if he was set on ending his life?

This. Deliberate. Tried to kill me
. Not
tried to kill myself
. She swallowed, a horrible feeling crawling in her stomach. Murder. Who would want to kill him? His ex-wife, possibly hoping for more money or even just complete control over their two daughters. Then there was Chris Wilde, the employee with the fake bad back: Paul said he would give him an opportunity to explain himself. Had Paul seen him and how did the confrontation go? A jilted lover? A business rival?

Eden sat up and pulled out the plug. The water was too cool now to enjoy wallowing. As she stepped out of the bath, her mobile rang.

‘Hello, skiver.’

‘Hi, Judy.’ Eden tugged her towel closer about her and shuffled her feet into slippers. ‘I missed Zumba, didn’t I?’

She’d met Judy at Zumba classes shortly after she’d moved to Cheltenham and they’d soon become friends. Now they had a routine of going to the pub for a drink and a gossip after the class. In the turmoil at the hospital, it had completely slipped her mind.

‘Are you all right?’ Judy asked. Tall and statuesque, she had a voice to match, her vocal chords serviced by being mother to three lively boys and working as a teacher.

‘Yes, I’m fine. Sorry, it was a bit of a night.’

‘A likely story. You knew she was going to be a right sadist, didn’t you? She made us do those bum-toning exercises for about two hundred years.’

Eden giggled. Judy’s fake exasperation always cheered her. For a moment, the shock of the past hours ebbed away. ‘It’s good for you. Think how pleased Marcus will be with your new-found bottom.’

‘Marcus!’ Judy groaned. ‘Because my so-called friend – that’s you by the way – didn’t show up, I had to go home right at the end of the class instead of going to the pub and drinking wine and mainlining crisps until I’d put all the calories back on. I get home, and all the children are still up, not bathed, not in their pyjamas, and overexcited because he was teaching them how to wrestle.’

Eden laughed. ‘You decided to have three children, you only have yourself to blame.’

Judy tutted. ‘I didn’t choose to have three boys. Have you any idea how many socks and underpants are welded to my carpets?’

‘Thousands, I imagine.’ Eden always loved the cosy chaos of Judy’s house, and she liked Marcus, Judy’s husband, a kind, gentle man who was completely overshadowed by Judy’s huge personality.

‘Let this be a warning to you,’ Judy continued, ‘one mucky weekend in Venice and next thing you know it’s Calpol at all hours and boobs down to your knees.’ She paused for breath. ‘What were you up to, anyway? Snuggled up to that gorgeous Aidan, I bet, you lucky sod.’

‘Jealousy is a very unattractive quality,’ Eden said, teasing. ‘I was at the hospital. No, I’m OK, but a client of mine was taken ill and he asked for me.’

Judy’s tone changed to concern. ‘Oh dear, Eden. Is he all right?’

‘No; he died. I was with him when he died.’

‘How awful! What happened?’

‘They’re not sure at the moment.’
This. Deliberate. Tried to kill me
echoed in her mind.

‘Do you need me to do anything?’ Judy asked.

Eden was touched. Judy’s life was hectic with work and three young children to look after, but the offer to help and comfort, should Eden need her, was genuine. ‘I’m OK, thanks, Judy, but how about we catch up later this week?’

‘Sounds good. Take care, loves, bye!’

Eden hung up, thinking. Without a cause of death, she couldn’t tell when Paul was given whatever it was that killed him. She could, however, focus on opportunity and motive. She’d track Paul’s movements from when she saw him on Monday.

Janice scrunched up her tissue and reached for another. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said, again. ‘I’m sorry, what must you think of me? It’s just, he was a lovely man to work for, you know?’

‘I know,’ Eden said. She handed Janice a fresh tissue. The older woman took it and gave a hearty blow, her hands trembling. She was in her usual elegant trouser suit, this time in a pale jersey that flowed about her stout frame. Her eyelashes were coated with navy mascara, now clumped with tears.

They were in Paul Nelson’s office, side by side on the black leather sofa at the far end of the room, the door closed to prying, inquisitive eyes. A spare suit and shirt hung on the back of the office door. On Paul’s desk, all the pens were lined up beside the blotter and the computer was switched off. A model for a new development was set out on a table pushed against one wall.

The best way to find out what a man’s life was really like, Eden thought, was to speak to the person who knew him best: his PA. A PA ran his diary, his life; was simultaneously confessor, confidante and guard dog. Janice had been Paul’s PA for over ten years. If she didn’t know every detail of his life, no one else did.

‘Janice,’ Eden started, ‘are you up to answering some questions about Paul?’

Janice sniffed and drew back her shoulders. ‘Of course. Anything I can do to help.’

‘Take me through Monday. What he did, who he saw.’

‘Let me get his diary.’ Janice disappeared into her office and returned with a large diary. Post-it notes flapped from the pages. ‘Here we are. Monday. He met with the architect at ten, to go over the designs for a new development. There was a planning meeting about them that evening and I think he wanted to check he had all the facts at his fingertips. He was like that, meticulous.’

‘He came across that way,’ Eden said.

‘He had lunch at his desk, quite early, before twelve. He asked me to pop out and buy him a sandwich.’ She blinked a few times. ‘That was unusual; he wasn’t the sort of boss who gets his PA to pick up his dry cleaning and buy his wife a birthday present. I’ve known some who think you’re at their beck and call.’

‘But he asked you to get his lunch that day?’

‘Yes, he said he had to make some calls. He seemed a bit preoccupied, now I think about it.’ Janice consulted the diary again. ‘One o’clock, you saw him. Then he was at his desk until nearly five, when he left.’

‘Where did he go?’

Janice folded her hands on top of the diary. ‘I think he went to see Chris Wilde. He made a comment when I took in his coffee at three. Something about Chris treating him like a fool and he’d see about that. A spur-of-the-moment decision.’

‘And after that?’

‘There was the planning meeting at seven. After that, I don’t know. He came in at the usual time yesterday, but he looked ill.’

‘What happened yesterday morning, Janice?’

Janice sighed and another tear escaped and ran down her cheek. She brushed it away with her hand. ‘Paul came in at eight as normal, and said he wasn’t feeling too well. He looked poorly: his face was grey and he was sweating, but he said he had work to do.’

She paused to blot her face. Eden smiled to encourage her to continue.

‘When I came in at ten with his coffee I could see he was very ill,’ Janice said. ‘I rang the doctor for him and he spoke to him over the phone. The doctor told Paul to go to casualty. I ran him down there, even though it’s not far, he was just too poorly to walk and I didn’t want him to go on his own. We got him checked in and I left him with the doctor.’ Janice reached for the tissue box. ‘I wish I’d stayed.’ She swallowed. ‘He rang me to let me know he’d been admitted. He sounded terrible, in awful pain. That’s the last time I spoke to him.’

‘What time was that?’

‘About two, I think.’

‘Did Paul leave the office at any time between eight and when you ran him to the hospital just after ten?’

‘No, apart from to go to the bathroom.’

‘And did anyone come to see him, go into his office at all?’

‘Chris Wilde. He saw Paul for about five minutes not long after he got to work.’

‘Chris Wilde? Didn’t you say Paul saw him the evening before? Monday evening?’

Janice turned to her. ‘He said he was going to see him, but I don’t know if he did. Maybe Chris was out.’

‘What did Chris come here for?’

‘I don’t know. There were raised voices, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying.’

‘And after Chris Wilde had gone, did Paul say what it was about?’

Janice shook her head.

‘Did Paul have a lot on his mind?’ Eden asked. ‘Was he stressed or worried about anything in particular?’

Janice gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘He runs this business, I should think that’s enough to give anyone sleepless nights.’ She caught the expression on Eden’s face and her voice dropped. ‘Why? What are you saying?’

Eden chose her words carefully. ‘Just before he died, Paul told me that what was making him sick was deliberate.’

Janice squeezed her hands together. ‘I don’t believe it. He wouldn’t kill himself, not Paul. Is that what he meant?’

Eden didn’t answer, just left the silence to hang there, and waited for Janice to fill it.

‘Yes, but … the girls … he wouldn’t do that to them. Not even if he was desperately unhappy.’

That’s what Eden suspected, too, which left her original interpretation, the only meaning she’d put on Paul’s words until she’d searched his flat and seen he was up to his eyeballs in debt.

‘Did Paul have any enemies?’ She threw out the question casually.

‘Paul?’ Janice turned round astonished eyes on her. ‘No! You know what he was like. His ex-wife, Zoe, she was always after more money. There were a few dozen solicitors’ letters flying back and forth, I can tell you. But enemies? Not Paul.’

Another thought occurred to her. ‘Did Paul have a cleaner? For his flat?’

Janice gave her a quizzical look. ‘I don’t see how that …’ She sighed. ‘Yes, he did. He asked me once if I thought he ought to buy her a birthday present. I told him it depended on whether she scrubbed behind the taps. He laughed at that.’

‘Do you happen to know which days she cleaned for him?’

‘Mondays.’

‘You’re sure?’

Janice shrugged.

‘Did the cleaner have a key to let herself in?’

A shake of the head. ‘No idea. Why? What’s that got to do with anything?’

Eden changed tack. ‘When I was here, Paul showed me a photo. There was something in it that puzzled him. Do you mind if I borrow it?’

She went to the filing cabinet and found the photo Paul had shown her, of a blond girl in the school hall, in front of a painting that had piqued Paul’s curiosity. Probably nothing, but worth checking out.