Fiona Barton - The Widow

“He’s a straight up-and-down copper,” her colleague had said. “One of the last.”

Kate knew she risked burning Sparkes as a contact by carrying on with Dawn behind the detective’s back, but having the inside edge on the story was worth it. This could be her story of a lifetime.

She rehearsed her arguments as she drove in to work: “It’s a free country, and Dawn can talk to whoever she wants, Bob”; “I can’t stop her phoning me”; “I’m not phoning her”; “I don’t ask her any questions about the investigation. She just tells me stuff.”

She knew it wouldn’t wash with Sparkes. He’d got her in there in the first place

“Oh, well, all’s fair . . .” she told herself irritably, making a silent promise to tell Bob anything that might help the police. She crossed her fingers at the same time.

It didn’t take long for the phone call from Sparkes to come.

• • •

Her phone rang and she picked it up and headed for the privacy of the corridor.

“Hello, Bob. How are you?”

The detective was stressed and told her so. Dawn’s latest bathroom conversation with her favorite reporter had been overheard by the liaison officer and Sparkes was disappointed in Kate. Somehow, that was worse than if he’d been furious.

“Hold on, Bob. Dawn Elliott is a grown woman—she can talk to whoever she wants. She rang me.”

“I bet. Kate, this was not the deal. I got you in there for the first interview, and you’ve been sneaking around behind my back. It could affect the investigation—you do understand that?”

“Look, Bob. She rings me for a chat that isn’t about the investigation. She needs some time, even a couple of minutes, to escape.”

“And you need stories. Don’t play the social worker with me, Kate. I know you better than that.”

She felt ashamed. He did know her better than that.

“I’m sorry you’re upset, Bob. Why don’t I come down and meet you for a drink and we can talk things through?”

“Too busy at the moment, but maybe next week. And, Kate . . .”

“Yes, yes. No doubt you’ve told her not to call me, but I’m not ignoring her if she does.”

“I see. You’ll have to do what you have to do, Kate. I hope Dawn will see sense, then. Someone has to act like a responsible adult.”

“Bob, I’m doing my job and you’re doing yours. I’m not hurting the investigation. I’m keeping it alive in the paper.”

“I hope you are right, Kate. Got to go . . .”

Kate leaned on the wall, having a completely different argument with Bob Sparkes in her head. In this version, she ended up on the higher moral ground and Bob was groveling to her.

Bob would come around when he calmed down, she told herself, and she texted Dawn to apologize for any trouble caused.

She got a message back immediately that ended with, Speak later . They were still on. She grinned at the screen and decided to celebrate with a double espresso and a muffin.

“To life’s little triumphs,” she said as she raised the cardboard cup in the cafeteria. She’d drive down to Southampton tomorrow and meet Dawn for a sandwich in the shopping center.

NINE

The Widow

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 9, 2010

Kate gets in Mick’s van a couple of miles farther on, in a supermarket car park. She laughs and says “the pack” had rushed up the path to see if I was in the house when she drove off alone.

“Idiots,” she says. “Fancy falling for that.” She has twisted around in the front seat so I can see her face. “Are you all right, Jean?” she says.

Her voice has changed back to caring and gentle. I’m not fooled. She doesn’t care about me. She just wants the story. I nod and keep quiet.

As we drive, she and Mick chat about the office. Seems her boss is a bit of a bully who shouts and swears at people.

“He uses the C word so often, they call the morning news conference the Vagina Monologue,” she tells me, and they both start laughing. I don’t know what a Vagina Monologue is, but I don’t let on.

It’s like she and Mick live in another world. Kate is telling him about how the news editor—the Terry she was talking to on the phone—is very happy. Happy that she has got the widow, I suppose.

“He’ll be in and out of the editor’s office all day, poor sod. Still, it’ll stop him bitching at the other reporters. He’s a funny bloke—get him in the pub and he’s the life and soul. But in the office, he sits at his desk twelve hours a day, staring at his computer screen. He only looks up to give someone a bollocking. He’s like one of the living dead.”

Mick laughs.

I lie down on the sleeping bag. It’s a bit grubby but it doesn’t smell too bad, so I doze, and their voices fade into a background hum. When I wake up, we’ve arrived.

The hotel is big and expensive. The sort of place that has those enormous flowers that practically fill the lobby and real apples on the reception desk. I never know if those flowers are real, but the apples are. You can eat them if you want, the apples.

Kate’s in charge. “Hi. You have three rooms for us, under the name ‘Murray,’” she informs the receptionist, who smiles and looks at her screen. “We only booked a couple of hours ago,” Kate says impatiently.

“Here you are,” the receptionist says finally. Mick must be the Murray. He gives his credit card to the lady, and she looks at me.

I suddenly realize what I must look like. A sight. My hair’s all over the place after having the jacket over my head and sleeping in the van, and I was hardly dressed to go to the shops, let alone a posh hotel. I stand there, in my old trousers and T-shirt, looking at my feet in my cheap flip-flops, while all the form filling goes on. They put me down as Elizabeth Turner, and I look at Kate.

She just smiles and whispers, “This way, no one will find you. They’ll be looking for us.” I wonder who Elizabeth Turner really is and what she’s doing this afternoon. I bet she’s going through the racks at T.J.Maxx, not hiding from the press.

“Any bags?” the woman asks, and Kate says they’re in the car and we’ll get them out later. In the lift, I look at her and raise my eyebrows. She smiles back. We don’t speak because there’s a porter with us. Daft really, because there’s nothing to carry, but he wants to show us our rooms. And get a tip, I suppose. Room 142 is mine, next door to Kate in 144. The porter makes a big show of opening the door and ushering me in. I stand and look. It’s lovely. Huge and bright with a chandelier for a light. There’s a sofa and a coffee table and lamps and more apples. They must have some sort of deal with Sainsbury’s to have so much fruit around.

“Is this all right?” Kate asks.

“Oh yes,” I say, and sit down on the sofa to look at it all again.

Our honeymoon hotel wasn’t as posh as this. It was a family-run place in Spain. Still, that was lovely, too. We had such a laugh. When we got there, I still had bits of confetti in my hair, and the staff made a big fuss over us. There was a bottle of champagne waiting—Spanish stuff, which was a bit sickly—and the waitresses kept coming up and kissing us.

We spent our days lying by the pool, looking at each other. Loving each other. Such a long time ago.

Kate says there’s a pool here. And a spa. I haven’t got a swimsuit—or anything, really—but she asks my size and sets off to get me “some things.”

“The paper will pay,” she says.

She books me a massage for while she’s out.

“To relax you,” she says. “It’ll be lovely. They use essential oils—jasmine, lavender, that sort of thing—and you can go to sleep on the table. You need a bit of pampering, Jean.”

I’m not sure, but I go along with it. I haven’t asked how long they’re keeping me here. The subject hasn’t come up, and they seem to be treating it like a weekend break.