The Widow (24 page)

The neighbour had told her story about him watching the children from a window and how she'd nailed up the gate between their houses.

None of it would go to waste now.

‘She won't go for the Killer headline but we've got a great first day,' he told his deputy, slipping his jacket on the back of a chair on the back bench and rolling up his sleeves. ‘Let's work on the editorial. And get the lawyers up here. Don't fancy Wormwood Scrubs just yet.'

The
Herald
splashed the story over the first nine pages, pledging to bring Glen Taylor to justice and demanding that the Home Secretary order a retrial.

It was journalism at its most powerful, hammering home the message with a mallet, inciting reaction, and the readers responded. The comment sections on the website were filled with unthinking, screaming vitriol, foul-mouthed opinion and calls for the death penalty to be reinstated. ‘The usual nutters,' the news editor summed up in morning conference. ‘But lots of them.'

‘Let's show a bit of respect for our readers,' the editor said. And they all laughed. ‘Now, what have we got for today?'

K
ATE
W
ATERS WAS
fuming over her desk breakfast. ‘We could've had this,' she told anyone who would listen as she turned the pages of the
Herald
. Across the newsroom, Terry Deacon heard, but carried on typing his news list. She abandoned her brown toast and honey and walked over. ‘We could have had this,' she repeated, standing over him.

‘Of course we could, Kate, but she wanted too much money and we've already had three big interviews with her.'

He pushed back his chair, looking pained. ‘Honestly, what is new here? Wouldn't have minded the picture with the kid next door, but the internet slags and the child porn have been everywhere.'

‘That's not the point, Terry. The
Herald
is now the official Bella Elliott paper. If Taylor is retried and found guilty, they'll be able to say they brought Bella's kidnapper to justice. Where will we be? Standing on the steps with our dicks in our hands.'

‘Find a better story then, Kate,' the editor said as he suddenly appeared behind them. ‘Don't waste time on this old rehash. Off to a marketing meeting, but let's talk later.'

‘OK, Simon,' she said to his retreating back.

‘Bloody hell, you've been summoned to the headmaster's study,' Terry laughed once his boss was out of earshot.

Kate returned to her seat and cold toast and began searching for the elusive better story.

In normal circumstances, she'd just ring Dawn Elliott or Bob Sparkes, but her options were vanishing fast. Dawn had decamped and Bob had mysteriously disappeared off the radar – she hadn't heard from him for weeks. She'd heard from the Crime man that there'd been a bit of trouble over interference in the Bella review and Sparkes' phone seemed to be permanently off.

She gave it another try and gave a silent cheer when it rang. ‘Hello, Bob,' she said when Sparkes finally answered. ‘How are you? Are you back at work yet? Guess you've seen the
Herald
?'

‘Hi, Kate. Yes. Quite a bold step for them, given the verdict. Hope they've got good lawyers. Anyway, good to hear from you. I'm fine. Had a bit of a break, but back at work. I'm in town, working with the Met. Tidying up some loose ends. Up near you, actually.'

‘Well, what are you doing for lunch today?'

He was sitting in the expensive, tiny French restaurant when she walked in, dark suit and black mood stark against the white tablecloths.

‘Bob, you look well,' she lied. ‘Sorry if I'm late. Traffic.'

He rose and offered his hand across the table. ‘Just got here myself.'

The small talk stopped and started as a waiter brought menus, offered suggestions and water, hovered for the order and poured the wine. But finally, with matching plates of
magret de canard
in front of them, she began in earnest.

‘I want to help, Bob,' she said, picking up her fork. ‘There must be some line of inquiry we can look at again.'

He didn't speak but sawed at the rosy meat in front of him. She waited.

‘Look, Kate, we made a mistake and can't unmake it. Let's see what the
Herald
's campaign produces. Do you think he'll sue?'

‘It's a dangerous game, suing for libel,' she said. ‘I've been there. If he does, he's got to go in the witness box and give evidence. Will he really want to do that?'

‘He's a clever man, Kate. Slippery.' He was rolling bread into beads of dough between his fingers. ‘I don't know any more.'

‘For goodness' sake, Bob. You're a fantastic copper – why are you giving up?'

He raised his head and looked at her.

‘Sorry, didn't mean to nag. I just hate seeing you like this,' she said.

In the lull, while both sipped their wine, Kate cursed her haste. Leave the poor man alone, she thought.

But she couldn't. It was not in her nature.

‘So what've you been doing with the Met today?'

‘Loose ends, like I said. Sorting through some stuff from a couple of joint investigations – car thefts, that sort of thing. Actually, there were also some bits and pieces left over from the Bella case. Early stuff, when we first picked up Glen Taylor.'

‘Anything interesting?' she asked.

‘No, not really. The Met went to make sure the other Qwik Delivery driver was at home while we drove up from Southampton.'

‘What other driver?'

‘There were two drivers in Hampshire that day – you know that.'

She didn't, or she hadn't remembered.

‘The other one was a bloke called Mike Doonan. He was the one we went to see first. Perhaps his name didn't come out at the time. Anyway, he's crippled with a crumbling spine – could hardly walk – and we never found anything to pursue.'

‘Did you question him?'

‘Yes. He was the one that told us Taylor was also making a delivery in the area that day. Not sure we'd have found that out without him. Taylor did the drop as a favour, so there's no official record of it. The case-review team went to see him, too. Nothing added, apparently.'

Kate excused herself from the table and went to the Ladies', where she scribbled down the name and put a quick call through to a colleague to find an address for Doonan. For later.

When she got back to the table, the detective was putting his credit card back in his wallet.

‘Bob, I invited you,' she said.

He waved away her protest and smiled. ‘My pleasure. It's been good to see you, Kate. Thanks for your pep talk.'

She deserved that, she thought as they walked out in single file. On the pavement, he shook her hand again and they both headed back to work.

Kate's phone began vibrating as she hailed a taxi and she waved away the cab to take the call.

‘There's a Michael Doonan in Peckham, according to the electoral roll – I'll SMS the address and the names of the neighbours,' the Crime man said.

‘You're a star, thanks,' she said, raising her hand for another taxi. Her phone rang again almost immediately.

‘Kate, where the hell are you? We've got a buy-up with the ex-wife of that footballer. It's up near Leeds, so get on the next train and I'll email you the background. Ring when you're at the station.'

S
OMEONE PUT THE
Herald
through the door today – they've accused Glen all over again and he put it straight in the bin. I got it out and hid it away behind the bleach under the sink for later. We knew what was coming because the
Herald
were banging on the door yesterday, shouting questions and pushing notes through the letter box. They said they were campaigning for a retrial so that Bella would get justice. ‘What about justice for me?' Glen said.

It's a blow, but Tom phoned to say the paper will have to have deep pockets to pay the costs and, most importantly, they have no evidence. He said to ‘batten down the hatches', whatever that means. ‘The
Herald
are coming at us with all guns blazing, but it is all just sensationalism and tittle tattle,' he told Glen, who repeated it line by line to me.

‘He talks like it is a war,' I say and then shut up. The wait will be worse than the reality, Tom predicts, and I hope he's right.

‘We've got to keep quiet, Jeanie,' Glen explains. ‘Tom will start legal proceedings against the paper, but he thinks we should go on a bit of a holiday – “remove ourselves from the picture” – until this all blows over. I'll go online and book something this morning.'

He hasn't asked where I want to go and to be honest, I don't care. My little helpers are beginning to have less effect and I feel so tired I could cry.

In the end he picks somewhere in France. In my other life, I would've been thrilled, but I'm not sure what I feel when he tells me he's found a cottage in the countryside that's miles from anywhere. ‘Our flight leaves at 7 a.m. tomorrow morning so we need to leave here at four, Jeanie. Let's get packed up ready and we'll take our car. Don't want a taxi driver tipping off the press.'

He knows so much, my Glen. Thank God I've got him to look after me.

At the airport, we keep our heads down and sunglasses on and we wait until the queue is almost down to the last person before we head to the desk. The woman checking us in barely looks at us and sends our suitcase on to the conveyor belt before she's managed to say, ‘Did you pack this bag yourself?' let alone waited to hear the answer.

I'd forgotten how much queuing there is in airports and we're so stressed by the time we get to the gate that I'm ready to go home to the press pack. ‘Come on, love,' Glen says, holding my hand as we walk to the plane. ‘Nearly there.'

At Bergerac, he goes to get the hire car while I wait for the bag, mesmerized by the passing luggage. I miss our case – it is so long since we used it, I've forgotten what colour it is and have to wait until everyone else has lugged theirs off. I finally go out into the bright sunshine and spot Glen in a tiny red car. ‘Didn't think it would be worth getting anything bigger,' he says. ‘We're not going to do much driving, are we?'

Funny, but being on our own in France is different from being on our own at home. Without a routine, we don't know what to say to each other. So we say nothing. The silence should have been a rest from the constant noise and banging on our door at home, but it isn't. It's worse, somehow. I take to going for long walks in the lanes and woods around the cottage while Glen sits on a sun lounger and reads detective novels. I could've screamed when I saw what he'd packed. As if we haven't had enough of police investigations.

I decide to leave him with his perfect murders and sit on the other side of the patio with some magazines. I find myself looking at Glen, watching him and thinking about him. If he looks up and catches me, I pretend I'm looking at something behind him. I am, I suppose.

I don't really know what I'mlooking for. Some sign of something – his innocence, the toll taken by the ordeal, the real man, perhaps. I can't really say.

The only time we leave the place is to drive to the nearest supermarket to get food and loo rolls. I can't be bothered to shop for real meals. Finding the stuff to go into a spag bol is beyond me so we eat bread and ham and cheese at lunchtime and a cold roast chicken and coleslaw or more ham in the evenings. We're not really hungry anyway. It It's just something to push round our plates.

We've been here four days when I think I see someone walking along the lane at the bottom of the property. First person I've seen near the property. A car is an event.

I don't think much of it, but the next morning there is a man walking up the drive.

‘Glen,' I shout to him in the house. ‘There's a bloke coming up.'

‘Get in here, Jean,' he hisses and I hurry past him as he closes the door and begins drawing the curtains. We wait for the knock.

The
Herald
has found us. Found us and photographed us: ‘The kidnapper and his wife sunning themselves outside their exclusive hideaway in the Dordogne' while Dawn Elliott ‘desperately continues her search for her child'. Tom reads us the headlines the next day over the phone. ‘We're only here because we're being hounded, Tom,' I say. ‘And Glen has been cleared by the courts.'

‘I know, Jean, but the papers have convened their own court. It won't be long before they'll be on to the next thing – they're like children, easily distracted.'

He says the
Herald
must have traced Glen's credit card to find us.

‘Are they allowed to do that?' I ask.

‘No. But that doesn't stop them.'

I put down the phone and begin packing. The villains again.

When we get home, they are waiting and Glen rings Tom to talk about how to stop them saying these things.

‘It's libel, Jeanie. Tom says we have to sue them – or threaten to sue them – or they'll keep going, digging into our lives and putting us on the front page.'

I want it to stop so I agree. Glen knows best.

It takes a while for the solicitors to write their letter. They have to say why the stories are all wrong and that takes a bit of time. Glen and I go up to Holborn again, taking the same train I used to take when he was on trial. ‘Groundhog day,' he says to me. He tries to keep my spirits up and I love him for it.

The barrister isn't a Charles Sanderson, he's a real smooth character. I bet his wig isn't falling apart. He looks rich, as if he drives a sports car and has a country house, and his office is all shiny metal and glass. Libel is obviously the money-making end of the business. Wonder if Mr Sanderson knows.