The Widow (36 page)

He was helped from the box by an usher, and then Jean was called.

Her performance was polished – too polished. To Kate's ear, every word sounded as if it had been practised in front of the mirror. The shopping trip was walked through, step by step: around the aisles, out of the automatic doors and into the High Street. The discussion about cereal and Glen Taylor's stumble into the path of the bus. All told in a low, serious voice.

Kate wrote it all down and glanced up to capture the expressions and any emotions.

‘Mrs Taylor, can you tell us why your husband stumbled? The police examined the pavement and could find nothing to make him lose his footing,' the coroner asked kindly.

‘I don't know, Sir. He fell under the bus right there, in front of me. I didn't even have time to call out. He was gone,' she answered.

She's got this off pat now, Kate thought. She's using identical phrases.

‘Was he holding your hand or your arm? I know I do with my partner when we're out together,' the coroner persisted.

‘No. Well, perhaps. I can't remember,' she said, less sure of herself now.

‘Was your husband distracted that day? Was he himself?'

‘Distracted? What do you mean?'

‘Not concentrating on what he was doing, Mrs Taylor.'

‘He'd a lot on his mind,' Jean Taylor said and looked at the press benches. ‘But I'm sure you know that.'

‘Quite,' the coroner said, pleased with himself for winkling out some new information. ‘So, what was his mood that morning?'

‘His mood?'

This was not going the way Jean had planned, Kate thought. Repeating questions back to the questioner was a sure sign of stress. You did it to buy time. The reporter leaned forward to make sure she didn't miss a word.

‘Yes, his mood, Mrs Taylor?'

Jean Taylor closed her eyes and seemed to sway in the witness box. Tom Payne and the coroner's officer leapt up to catch her and lower her into a chair as the court hummed with concern.

‘It's a line, I suppose,' the reporter behind Kate muttered to a colleague. “Widow of Bella suspect collapses.” Better than nothing.'

‘It's not over yet,' she hissed over her shoulder.

Jean gripped a glass of water and stared at the coroner.

‘Better now, Mrs Taylor?' he asked.

‘Yes, thank you. Sorry about that. I didn't eat anything this morning and …'

‘That's perfectly all right. No need to explain. Now shall we get back to my question?'

Jean took a deep breath. ‘He hadn't been sleeping properly, not for ages, and he'd been getting bad headaches.'

‘And had he been treated for his insomnia and headaches?'

She shook her head. ‘He said he wasn't well but he wouldn't go to the doctor's. He didn't want to talk about it, I think.'

‘I see. Why not, Mrs Taylor?'

She looked at her lap for a moment, then raised her head. ‘Because he said he kept dreaming about Bella Elliott.'

Hugh Holden held her gaze and the room stilled as he nodded to her to continue.

‘She was there when he closed his eyes, he said. It was making him ill. And he wanted to be with me all the time. Following me around the house. I didn't know what to do. He wasn't well.'

The coroner noted it all down carefully as the reporters scribbled furiously to his left.

‘Given his state of mind, Mrs Taylor, is there a possibility that your husband stepped in front of the bus on purpose?' the coroner asked.

Tom Payne rose to challenge the question, but Jean waved him away.

‘I don't know, Sir. He never said anything about taking his own life. But he wasn't well.'

The coroner thanked her for her evidence, gave her his condolences and recorded a verdict of Accidental Death.

‘I'll be on the news tonight,' he told the court usher gleefully as the press filed out.

G
LEN
T
AYLOR'S DREAMS
of Bella led the news bulletins on the radio all afternoon and came a respectable third on the evening television news. In the dog days of summer – the media's ‘silly season' when politicians are on holiday, schools close and the country gently grinds to a halt – anything with a hint of a news angle plays well.

Sparkes had heard it all from Salmond straight after the inquest but he read it in the papers anyway, scanning every word. ‘Jean's beginning to unravel, Bob,' Salmond had said, puffing slightly as she marched back to her car. ‘I tried to talk to her afterwards. All the reporters were there – your Kate Waters was there – but Jean wouldn't say another word. She's still holding it together, but only just.'

The collapse in court must have been a sign that with Glen gone, the secret was becoming too much for her, Sparkes felt. ‘She's letting it seep out in a controlled fashion, like when they used to bleed a patient in medieval times. Getting rid of the bad thing a bit at a time,' he'd suggested to Salmond. He looked over at her; she was now sitting at his computer looking at the news reports. ‘We're going to wait her out. Literally.'

They were in position at 5 a.m. the next morning, parked out of sight, half a mile from Jean Taylor's house, waiting for the surveillance team's call. ‘I know this is a long shot, but we've got to try it. She will do something,' Sparkes had told Salmond.

‘Feel it in your waters, Sir?' she said.

‘Not sure where my waters are, but yes. I do.'

Twelve hours later, the air in the car was thick with their breath and fast food.

At 10 p.m., they had exhausted their life stories, criminals they'd lifted, holiday disasters, TV programmes from their childhoods, favourite meals, best action films and who was sleeping with whom in the office. Sparkes felt he could go on
Mastermind
and answer questions on Zara Salmond without passing, and both were quietly relieved when the surveillance team finally rang to say all the lights in the house had been turned off.

Sparkes called it a day. They would stay in the cheap hotel down the hill to grab some sleep before resuming their vigil. Another team would keep watch overnight.

His phone went at 4 a.m. ‘Lights are on, Sir.'

He pulled on his clothes and rang Salmond at the same time, dropping his phone down a trouser leg.

‘Sir, is that you?'

‘Yes, yes. She's up. Downstairs in five.'

Zara Salmond looked less than perfect for the first time; bed-hair and bare-faced, she was waiting for him at the front door. ‘And to think I told my mum I wanted to be an air hostess,' she said.

‘Come on, then. Seats for take-off,' he replied with the ghost of a smile.

Jean came out of the front door quickly, triggering her own security light, and stood in the spotlight, looking up and down the street for signs of life. She pressed the key fob to open the car and the electronic beep echoed off the facades of the houses opposite as she pulled the door open and slid in behind the wheel. She was wearing her funeral dress again.

Two streets away, Zara Salmond started their car and waited for instructions from the team. Sparkes was deep in thought beside her, maps on his lap. ‘She's just turned on to the A2 headed in the direction of the M25, Sir,' the officer in the unmarked van barked down the phone. And they pulled away to start their pursuit.

‘Bet she's going down to Hampshire,' Salmond said as she sped down the dual carriageway.

‘Let's not try to second-guess her,' Sparkes said. He could not bear to hope too much as he followed their route on the map with his finger.

The rising sun was beginning to lighten the sky but the GPS had still not switched from night colours when they took the turning for the M3 and Southampton. The convoy was evenly spaced over three miles of the motorway, with Sparkes and Salmond holding back to avoid being recognized. ‘She's signalling to pull into the services, Sir,' the men in the van informed them. ‘Where are your officers, now? We'll need to change over or she's going to spot us.'

‘On it. We've got another vehicle waiting at the next junction. Stick with her until she leaves the services and we'll take her from there,' Sparkes replied.

The van crawled into the parking area and slid into a bay two cars back from the target. One of the police team got out, scratching his head and stretching, and headed after Jean Taylor. She went into the Ladies' and the officer stood in a queue for a burger. He pretended to compare the qualities of the meals advertised in nuclear-fall-out colours above the counter while he waited for her to emerge. She didn't take long, shaking the last drops of water from her hands as she walked. The officer munched into his double cheeseburger as she went into the shop and carefully picked through the plastic buckets of flowers, selecting a bouquet of pink rosebuds and white lilies wrapped in pink tissue paper and cellophane. She held them up to her face to catch the perfume from the powdery stamens as she walked over to the sweet counter and picked up a brightly coloured packet. Skittles, the officer noted from the other side of the deserted shop. Then she queued to pay.

‘She's got flowers and sweets, Sir. She's on her way to the car. We'll follow her out on to the motorway and hand over,' he reported back.

Sparkes and Salmond looked at each other. ‘She's going to a grave,' Sparkes said, his mouth dry. ‘Get our boys ready.'

Five minutes later, two other vehicles were on her tail, overtaking each other, taking turns to be three cars back. Jean maintained a steady 65 mph. A careful driver. She's probably not used to driving on motorways on her own, Sparkes thought. I wonder if this is the first time she's made this journey.

He and Salmond had not spoken since they pulled out of the services; they were concentrating on the chatter on the police channels. But at Winchester, when they heard that Jean Taylor's car had exited the motorway and was heading east, he told her to put her foot down.

They were picking up a bit more traffic, but Jean's car was now only a mile ahead of them, with another police vehicle sandwiched between them.

‘She's stopping,' the officer messaged. ‘Trees on right, track, no gate. I'll have to go on or she'll spot me. Will double-back straightaway. She's all yours.'

‘Steady, Salmond,' Sparkes said. ‘Nice and steady.'

They almost missed her car, tucked down the muddy track, but Sparkes spotted the glint of metal in the trees at the last minute. ‘She's here,' he said and Salmond slowed and swung their car round. ‘Park across the road. We'll need access for the other vehicles,' he said.

As they got out, a light rain started to patter down on the trees and they pulled their coats from the boot. ‘She's probably heard the car,' Sparkes whispered. ‘I don't know how far back these trees go. I'll go ahead and you wait for the team. I'll call you when I need you.'

Salmond nodded, looking suddenly tearful.

Sparkes crossed the road quickly, turning and waving before disappearing into the trees.

There was not enough daylight yet to penetrate the wood and he felt his way carefully. He couldn't hear anything apart from his breathing and the crows cawing above him, disturbed by his presence.

He suddenly saw a movement ahead. A flash of something white in the gloom. He stopped and waited a moment until he was ready. He needed to steady himself and was glad Salmond wasn't there to see him trembling like a diver on a high board. He took three deep breaths and then moved forward cautiously. He was worried he might stumble over her. He didn't want to frighten her.

Then he saw her, on the ground under a tree. She was sitting on a coat, her legs tucked sideways, for all the world as if she was at a picnic. Beside her, the flowers lay in their tissue paper.

‘Is that you, Bob?'

He froze at the sound of her voice.

‘Yes, Jean.'

‘I thought I heard a car. I knew it would be you.'

‘Why are you here, Jean?'

‘Jeanie. I prefer you to call me Jeanie,' she said, still not looking at him.

‘Why are you here, Jeanie?'

‘I've come to see our baby girl.'

Sparkes crouched down beside her, then took off his coat and sat on it so he could be close to her. ‘Who is your baby girl, Jeanie?'

‘Bella, of course. She's here. Glen put her here.'

I
COULDN'T STOP
myself. I had to go to her. The interview and the inquest started something in me, started me thinking all the time, and even the pills couldn't do anything about it. I thought that with Glen gone there would be some peace, but there wasn't. I was still thinking all the time. I couldn't eat or sleep. I knew I had to go to her. Nothing else mattered.

It wasn't the first visit. Glen had taken me to Bella's grave on the Monday before he died. After he sat on my bed and told me he couldn't sleep any more. He started talking about the day Bella went missing, curled up on his side of the bed, with his back to me so I couldn't see his face. I didn't move once while he told me. I was scared I'd break the spell and he'd stop. So I listened without speaking.

He said he'd picked Bella up because she wanted him to. He hadn't dreamed it. He knew that he'd left Bella on her own on the edge of a small wood on his way home to me and he knew he'd done something terrible. She'd fallen asleep in the back of the van. He had a sleeping bag in the van. He just lifted her out, still asleep, from the back of the van and put her under a tree to be found. He'd left some sweets for her to eat. Skittles. He'd meant to ring the police but he was in a panic.

Then he got up and went out of the room before I could speak. I lay still as if I could stop time there, but my mind was racing away from me. All I could think was, Why did he have a sleeping bag in his van? Where did he get it from? I couldn't let myself think about what had happened in the van. What my husband had done.