The Widow (35 page)

The editor knew a good headline when he wrote one and believed it was always worth using a good one more than once. Every week sometimes, when it particularly took his fancy, to be promptly discarded when even he realized it was becoming the source of derision in journalist drinking holes. The question in the headline – ‘Is This the Most Evil Man in Britain?' – was a classic. It hedged bets. Just asking, not saying.

‘I've got some good quotes from the widow,' Kate said, starting up her computer.

‘Killer quotes,' Terry added, upping the ante. ‘Everyone was scrambling to catch up last night and we've had the magazines and foreign press on already for the pictures. Talk of the street.'

‘You're showing your age, Terry,' Simon said. ‘There's no street any more. Didn't you know, it's a global village?'

The news editor grinned at his boss's rebuke, determined to see it as a bit of banter. Nothing was going to spoil today – he'd brought in the story of the year and was going to go in and get the pay rise he richly deserved and then take his wife – or maybe his mistress – for dinner at the Ritz.

Kate was already looking at her emails, leaving the men to their dick-swinging.

‘What's she like, Kate? Jean Taylor?'

Kate looked at her editor and saw the genuine curiosity behind the bluster. He had one of the most powerful jobs in the newspaper industry, but what he really wanted was to be a reporter again, elbow-deep in the story, asking the questions, standing on the doorstep, and sending his golden words to the desk, not just hearing about it later.

‘She's smarter than she makes out. Puts on the little housewifely act – you know, standing by her man – but there's all sorts going on in her head. It's difficult for her because I think she believed he was innocent at one stage, but something changed. Something changed in their relationship.'

Kate knew she should've got more; she should've got the whole thing. She blamed Mick for interrupting, but she'd seen the shutters come down in Jean's eyes. Control of the interview had switched back and forth between the two women, but there was no question who'd been in charge at the end. Kate wasn't about to admit that to this audience.

The other reporters were listening now, wheeling their chairs back to catch the conversation.

‘Did he do it, Kate? And did she know?' the Crime man asked. ‘That's what everyone wants to know.'

‘Yes and yes,' she said. ‘Question is,
when
did she know? At the time, or later? I think the trouble is that she's been stuck between what she knows and what she wants to believe.'

Everyone looked at her for more and, as if on cue, Kate's phone began ringing and Bob Sparkes' name flashed up. ‘Sorry, got to take this, Simon. It's the copper in charge of the case. Might be a Day Three.'

‘Keep me posted, Kate,' he said as he marched off to his office, and she moved through the swing doors to the lifts to get a bit of privacy.

‘Hello, Bob. Thought I'd hear from you this morning.'

Sparkes was already standing outside the newspaper office, sheltering from summer rain in the grand portico of the building. ‘Come and have a coffee with me, Kate. We need to talk.'

The Italian café round the corner in a grubby side street was crowded and the windows were running with steam from the coffee machine. They sat down at a table away from the counter and looked at each other for a minute.

‘Congratulations, Kate. You got her to say more than I ever managed to.'

The reporter held his gaze. His generosity disarmed her, made her want to tell him the truth. He was good, she had to admit.

‘I should've got more, Bob. There was more to get, but she stopped when she chose. Incredible self-control. Frightening, really. One minute she was holding my hand and literally crying on my shoulder about the monster she married, and the next, she was back in the driving seat. Clammed up and wouldn't budge.' She stirred her coffee. ‘She knows what happened, doesn't she?'

Sparkes nodded. ‘I think she does. But she can't let it out and I don't know why. After all, he's dead. What has she got to lose?'

Kate shook her head in sympathy. ‘Something, obviously.'

‘I've often wondered if she was involved in the crime,' Sparkes said, mainly to himself. ‘Maybe the planning? Maybe it was about getting a child for them both and something went wrong? Perhaps she put him up to it?'

Kate's eyes were glittering with the possibilities. ‘Bloody hell, Bob. How're you going to get her to confess?'

How indeed? he thought.

‘What is her weak point?' Kate asked, playing with her spoon.

‘Glen,' he answered. ‘But he's not here any more.'

‘It's kids, Bob. That's her weak point. She's obsessed with them. Everything came back to kids when we were talking. She wanted to know everything about my boys.'

‘I know. You should see her scrapbooks full of babies.'

‘Scrapbooks?'

‘That's off the record, Kate.'

She tucked it away for later and automatically put her head on one side. Submission. You can trust me.

He wasn't fooled. ‘I mean it. It could be part of a future investigation.'

‘OK, OK,' she conceded irritably. ‘What do you think she'll do now?'

‘If she knew anything, she might go back to the child,' Sparkes said.

‘Back to Bella,' Kate echoed. ‘Wherever she is.'

Jean had nothing else to think about now. She'd make a move, he was sure.

‘Will you call me if you hear anything?' he asked Kate.

‘I might,' she teased automatically. He flushed and, despite herself, she was pleased to see him respond to her flirty tone. Sparkes felt out of his depth suddenly.

‘Kate, we're not playing games here,' he said, trying to get back on a professional footing. ‘Let's stay in touch.'

They parted in the street and he tried to shake her hand, but she leant forward to kiss him on the cheek.

W
HEN THE CREW
has gone, I sit quietly and wait for the late evening news. Mr Telly has said it'll be the top item and it is. ‘Widow in Bella Case Speaks Out for First Time' flashes up on the screen and music rolls over it and into my front room. And there I am, on the telly. It doesn't last very long really, but I say I knew nothing about Bella's disappearance but suspected that Glen was involved. I said very clearly that I didn't know for certain, that he had not confessed to me, that journalists had twisted what I said.

I answered their questions calmly, sitting on my sofa. I admitted I was offered payment but had turned it down when I found out what the paper was printing. There was a curt statement from the
Post
and a shot of Kate and Mick leaving my house. And that was it.

I wait for the phone to ring. First is Glen's mum, Mary. ‘How could you say those things, Jeanie?' she says.

‘You know as well as I do, Mary,' I say. ‘Please don't pretend you didn't suspect him of it, because I know you did.'

She goes quiet and says she will talk to me tomorrow.

Then Kate calls. She's businesslike, saying that the paper is including my statement from the TV interview in their article so I can ‘give my side of the story'.

I laugh at the cheek of her. ‘You were supposed to be writing my side of the story,' I say. ‘Do you always lie to your victims?'

She ignores the question and says I can ring her any time on her mobile and I hang up without saying goodbye.

The paper comes through the letterbox the next morning. I don't have deliveries. I wonder if Kate posted it. Or a neighbour. The headline screams ‘WIDOW CONFESSES BELLA KILLER'S GUILT' and I'm shaking too much to open the paper. My picture is on the front, gazing into the distance like Mick told me to. I put it down on the kitchen table and wait.

The phone rings all morning. The papers, the telly, the radio, the family. My mum calls, sobbing about the shame I have brought on them, and my dad is shouting in the background about how he warned me not to marry Glen. He didn't, but I suppose he wishes he had done now.

I try and comfort Mum, telling her I have been misquoted and the paper has twisted everything, but it's no good and in the end she rings off.

I feel exhausted so I take the phone off the hook and lie down on my bed. I think about Bella and Glen. And those last few days before he died.

He'd started asking me what I was going to do. ‘Are you going to leave me, Jeanie?' he'd say. I'd say ‘I'm going to make a cup of tea' and leave him standing there. Too much to think about. Betrayal. Decisions. Plans.

And I didn't speak to him again except when it was essential. ‘It's your mum on the phone'. Just the bare minimum.

He was like a ghost, haunting me everywhere in the house. I'd catch him looking at me from behind the paper. I had him now. He didn't know what his Jeanie would do and it scared him to death.

Glen didn't let me out on my own that week. Everywhere I went, he came too. Perhaps he thought I would go straight to Bob Sparkes. That's because he didn't understand a thing about me. I wasn't going to tell anyone anything. Not to protect him – don't make me laugh.

That Saturday, he was on my heels as we came out of Sainsbury's and I saw him look at a little girl in a trolley. It was just a glance, but I saw something in his eyes. Something dead. And I pushed him away from the child. Such a little push, and he tripped on the kerb and stumbled into the road. The bus appeared at the same moment. It was all so quick and I remember looking at him lying there in a small pool of blood and thinking, ‘Oh well. That's the end of his nonsense.'

Does it make me a murderer now? I look at myself in the mirror, try to see if it shows in my eyes, but I don't think so. Glen got off lightly really. He could have gone on suffering for years, wondering when he'd be exposed. People like Glen can't help themselves, I've heard, so really, I helped him out.

I'm going to sell the house as soon as I can. I've got to get through the inquest first, but Tom Payne says it'll be open and shut. I just have to tell the coroner about Glen stumbling over his feet and it'll all be over. I can make my own fresh start.

I rang an estate agent yesterday to find out what the house will fetch. I gave my name but she didn't seem to notice – she will eventually, but I told her I wanted a quick sale and she's coming tomorrow morning. I wonder if Glen's connection will push the price up or down. Some ghoul might pay a bit extra. You never know.

I'm still deciding where to go, but I'm definitely moving out of London. I'm going to go online to find places, maybe abroad or maybe down towards Hampshire. To be near my baby girl.

T
HE CORONER WAS
well known to the press. A small, neat solicitor who favoured highly coloured silk bow ties and kept a meticulously trimmed silver moustache. Hugh Holden liked to think of himself as a Character, an occasional thorn in the side of the authorities, unafraid to reach controversial verdicts.

Normally, Kate enjoyed his inquests and his quirky line in questioning and verbal flourishes, but she wasn't in the mood today. She feared this was likely to be Jean Taylor's last public appearance. There'd be no need for her to show her face again and she could disappear behind her front door for ever.

Outside the court, Mick was milling around with the other photographers waiting for the arrival shots. ‘Hi, Kate,' he called over the heads. ‘See you after.'

She filed in with the rest of the reporters and the curious, managing to get one of the last press seats at the front, facing the witness box. Her thoughts were all on Jean and she watched the door for her entrance. She missed Zara Salmond slipping into the back of the court with some of the Met officers who'd be called to give evidence. Sparkes had sent her in his place. ‘You go, Salmond. I need your eyes and analysis on her performance. I can't see anything straight at the moment.'

She'd only just arrived in time when the grind of the door hinges announced the arrival of the widow. Jean Taylor looked dignified and in control, in the same dress she'd worn for Glen's funeral.

She walked slowly through the court with her lawyer to her seat in the front row. That weasel, Tom Payne, Kate thought, nodding affably to him and mouthing, ‘Good morning, Tom.' He raised his hand in greeting and Jean looked to see who he was waving to. Their eyes met and Kate thought for a moment that she was going to acknowledge her. She tried a small smile but Jean turned away, uninterested.

The other witnesses took their time to settle, shaking hands and hugging each other in the aisles, but finally everyone took their places and stood to attention as the coroner entered.

The coroner's officer stepped up to tell the court that the deceased's father had identified the body as that of Glen George Taylor, and then the pathologist gave his evidence of the post-mortem examination. Kate kept her eyes on Jean, registering her reaction to the details of the dissection of her husband. He'd had a good last breakfast, anyway, Kate thought as the pathologist ran through the contents of his stomach in a desultory fashion. No sign of disease. Contusions and lacerations to arms and thighs consistent with the fall and collision with the vehicle. The fatal injury was to the head. Skull fracture caused by impact with bus and road surface, traumatic brain injury. Death pretty much instantaneous.

Jean pulled her handbag on to her knee and undid a small packet of tissues ostentatiously, unfolding one to wipe an eye. She's not crying, Kate thought. She's faking.

The bus driver was next. His tears were real as he told of the flash of a man falling in front of his cab window. ‘I never saw him so there was nothing I could do. It all happened so quickly. I braked, but it was too late.'