Стивен Бут: Dead in the Dark

‘How long did the affair last?’

‘I can’t tell you. I don’t think Annette ever got the full truth out of Reece. But he told her it was over and the woman was being moved to another department.’

‘So that was it?’

‘It took them a long time to get over it and go back to normal. In fact, I’m not certain they ever did get back to normal. It’s not something you forget very easily, that kind of betrayal.’

‘But this was some time ago,’ said Hitchens.

‘Yes, it must be a couple of years now.’

Hitchens narrowed his eyes, and she knew nothing was going to escape him. ‘But more recently, perhaps...?’ he said.

Frances sighed again. ‘I think Reece has been doing the same thing again.’

‘He was having another affair?’

‘It seems like it. I gained the impression from a few things Annette said, small incidents she mentioned. She didn’t say straight out. I think she was ashamed.’

‘Ashamed? I don’t understand.’

‘It’s a bit hard to explain, but Annette made that decision two years ago to forgive him, and stick by her marriage. If she had to admit the same thing was happening again, it would mean she’d made a mistake. That she’d failed. I think she saw it as her fault. That was why she didn’t come straight out with it, I’m sure. She would normally have confided in me, but in recent weeks I could tell there was something she was holding back.’

‘It’s hardly evidence, I’m afraid,’ said Hitchens. ‘But if you could give me more details of what your sister said to you, we can follow it up and see if there’s any substance to your suspicions.’

‘I understand.’

‘I’ll get Detective Constable Murfin to come and take a full statement from you.’

‘Very well.’

While she waited, Frances went into the kitchen. Her instinct was to make a cup of tea. Some of these police officers would probably like one. It wasn’t her house, but she felt it was her role. Something she could do, at least. Something other than answering questions.

To her surprise, she found Reece collapsed on a chair at the kitchen table. He looked exhausted. His face was pale and his hair was untidy, as if he’d been running his hands through it. She had never seen him look so dishevelled. Surely just answering questions wouldn’t have drained him like that? He was probably too tense. He must be hiding something. She was sure of that now. Trying to conceal a secret under questioning was very hard work.

Reece didn’t look up as she came into the room. He was staring at his hands where they lay on the table. Frances imagined he was picturing what his hands might have done. She could feel the guilt oozing from his pores. What should she do? What could she say to him?

Frances cleared her throat.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ she said.

She couldn’t even bring herself to say his name. A conviction was growing inside her and she couldn’t fight it. She didn’t want to fight it. She had no doubt in her own mind now that he had done something to Annette.

‘What?’ He looked up, as if dazed. ‘Oh, yes. All right.’

Frances boiled the kettle and took some mugs out of the cupboard.

‘I thought I’d make one for the detectives. There’s one coming to take my statement. Or do you think they’d prefer coffee?’

Reece seemed to jerk back to alertness. ‘Your statement? Your statement?’

‘Yes. I don’t know how much I can tell them that will be of any help.’

‘No, nor me,’ said Reece.

He was staring at her now. Frances began to feel a little afraid. She could see two police officers in the garden. They were standing near the flower bed where Reece had dug out some hydrangeas. He’d said they were getting too big, killing off everything else around them. Annette had liked them, but she’d been unable to convince him to keep them. He’d dug them up by the roots, cut them up and burned the branches by the shed at the bottom. You could still see the black embers of the fire where he’d poked at it with a stick to make it flare up, as if he was tending a barbecue.

Now the detective inspector was speaking to the two policemen. Hitchens, that was his name. Frances saw him nod seriously, then he turned to look back at the house. She made a show of turning on the tap and wiping a cloth round the sink. She knew it was futile. He wasn’t stupid. He would know perfectly well that she was watching.

‘Are you making that tea, or what?’ said Reece crossly from behind her.

‘It’s coming.’

Frances clanked the mugs, popped in teabags, poured boiling water. Through the steam, she glimpsed Detective Inspector Hitchens walking down the garden to the burned patch. She saw him pick up a stick — probably the very same stick that Reece had used — and he poked carefully at the ashes before dropping the stick and pulling a phone out of his pocket.

She walked quickly to the fridge and took out a carton of milk before coming back to the window. It was too interesting to miss, like watching a TV detective drama but in real life, right there in her sister’s garden.

Now it was her turn to feel guilty. This wasn’t entertainment. This was about her sister’s life.

‘Mrs Swann?’

Frances turned and saw a new visitor standing in the doorway of the kitchen. A middle-aged man shaped like an egg, wearing a scruffy suit and tie pulled loose at the neck. Surely this one couldn’t be...?

‘Detective Constable Murfin,’ he said. ‘I’m here to take your statement.’

‘Yes, I’m ready for you.’

The newcomer glanced at the milk carton she was holding and the steaming mugs.

‘You wouldn’t happen to have a piece of cake to go with that?’ he said.

Just over two weeks later Frances Swann stood and watched as her brother-in-law was handcuffed by police officers and led away to a car. She didn’t know what she felt as she saw him being driven away. Her emotions were conflicted. It was hard to accept that she had played a part in bringing Reece to this disaster, yet it was the only thing she could have done for Annette. Her sister still hadn’t been found, and everybody was certain now that she was dead. Reece Bower would have to explain that.

Frances hadn’t been able to figure out how he’d done it. Oh, it was easy to kill someone. Far too easy, in fact. But disposing of a dead body was much more difficult. The policeman, Detective Inspector Paul Hitchens, had told her that. You had to work very hard, or be particularly clever, to make sure the body of your victim was never found.

Frances turned away as the police cars left. That was what puzzled her most. In her experience, Reece Bower wasn’t a man who would work very hard at anything, not if it involved physical effort. And he certainly wasn’t particularly clever.

So how had he done it? Was it possible that someone had helped him?

‘Zalewski. Krystian Zalewski.’

Detective Sergeant Diane Fry looked at the passport in her hand. ‘You said that well, Jamie.’

‘I’ve been practising.’

DC Jamie Callaghan pulled out his notebook. ‘Mr Zalewski is a Polish national, as we know. He’s been living in this country for more than two years, the last eight months of that here in Shirebrook. He rents this flat from the owner of the shop downstairs.’

‘Our Mr Pollitt.’

‘Right.’

‘Any family that we know of?’

‘Zalewski is apparently unmarried and he lived here alone,’ said Callaghan, with a glance around the tiny flat. ‘Well, you wouldn’t want to bring children up here, would you? There’s hardly room for two people.’

‘True.’

The body had been removed by the funeral directors’ van to the mortuary, and the room looked almost undisturbed, except for the bloodstains on the carpet and on the side of the armchair.