Fiona Barton - The Widow

“I would like to talk to you about the case of a missing child I’m investigating. It’s about the disappearance of Bella Elliott,” he said, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. The color drained from Glen Taylor’s face, and he stepped back as if recoiling from a punch.

Taylor’s wife came out of the kitchen and was wiping her hands on a tea towel when the words “Bella Elliott” were spoken. A nice, decent-looking woman, Sparkes thought. She gasped and her hands flew up to her face. Strange how people react. That gesture, to cover your face, must be hardwired into people. Is it shame? Or an unwillingness to look at something? he wondered, waiting to be shown through to the sitting room.

Odd really, he thought. He hasn’t looked at his wife once the whole time. It’s as if she isn’t there. Poor woman. She looks like she’s going to collapse.

Taylor quickly pulled himself together and answered the officers’ questions.

“We understand you were making a delivery in the area where Bella was taken, Mr. Taylor.”

“Well, I think so.”

“Your friend Mr. Doonan said you did.”

“Doonan?” Glen Taylor’s mouth tightened. “Not a friend of mine, but hang on a minute. Yes, I think I was.”

“Try to be sure, Mr. Taylor. It was the day Bella Elliott was abducted,” Sparkes insisted.

“Right, yes. Of course. I think I had one drop early afternoon and then came home. About four, as I remember.”

“Home at four, Mr. Taylor? You made very good time. Are you sure it was four?”

Taylor nodded, forehead creased as if miming thinking hard. “Yes, definitely four. Jean will bear me out.”

Jean Taylor said nothing. It was as if she hadn’t heard, and Sparkes had to repeat the question before she made eye contact with him and nodded.

“Yes,” she said as if on autopilot.

Sparkes turned back to Taylor. “The thing is, Mr. Taylor, your van matches the description of a vehicle that was noticed by a neighbor just before Bella vanished. You probably read about it—it was in all the papers—and we’re checking all blue vans.”

“I thought you were looking for a man with a ponytail. I’ve got short hair, and anyway, I wasn’t in Southampton. I was in Winchester,” Taylor said.

“Yes, but are you sure you didn’t take a little drive after the delivery?”

Taylor laughed off the suggestion. “I don’t do any more driving than I have to—not my idea of relaxation. Look, this is all a terrible mistake.”

Sparkes nodded to himself thoughtfully. “I’m sure you understand how serious this matter is, Mr. Taylor, and I’m sure you won’t mind if we have a look around.”

An immediate search of the house began with the officers moving quickly through the rooms, calling Bella’s name and looking in cupboards, under beds, behind sofas. There was nothing.

But there was something about the way Taylor had told his story, something rehearsed about it. Sparkes decided to take him in for further questioning, to go over the details once more. He owed it to Bella.

Jean Taylor was left weeping on the stairs while the other officers finished their work.

FOURTEEN

The Widow

THURSDAY, JUNE 10, 2010

They let me rest for a bit, and then we have dinner by the big windows in Kate’s room, overlooking the gardens. The waiter wheels in a table with a white tablecloth and a vase of flowers in the middle. The plates have those fancy silver domes on them. Kate and Mick had ordered starters, mains, and desserts, and they’re stacked on a shelf under the table.

“Let’s push the boat out,” Kate says.

“Yeah,” Mick says. “We deserve it.”

Kate tells him to shut up, but I can see they’re really pleased with themselves. They’ve won the big prize—an interview with the widow.

I have chicken and play with it for a bit. Not hungry for it or their celebrations. They pile into the wine and order a second bottle, but I make sure I don’t drink more than a glass. Must stay in control.

When I feel tired, I pretend to cry and say I need some time alone. Kate and Mick exchange a look. Obviously, this isn’t going to plan. But I stand and say, “Good night. See you in the morning.”

They scrape their chairs back and stumble to their feet. Kate walks me to my door and makes sure I’m safely inside.

“Don’t answer the phone,” she tells me. “If I need to talk to you, I’ll knock on the door.”

I nod.

It’s boiling hot in my room, so I lie on the enormous bed, with my windows open to let out the heat of the radiators.

Today is playing over and over in my head on a loop, and I feel dizzy and out of control, like I’m a bit drunk.

I sit up, to stop the room spinning, and see myself reflected in the window.

It looks like someone else. Some other woman who’s let herself be taken away by strangers. Strangers who, until today, were probably banging on my door and writing lies about me. I rub my face and so does the woman in the window. Because it is me.

I stare back at myself.

I can’t believe I’m here.

I can’t believe I let myself agree to come. After everything the press has done to us. After all the warnings Glen gave.

I want to tell him that I don’t actually remember agreeing, but he’d say I must have done or I wouldn’t have got in the van with them.

Well, he’s not here anymore to say anything. I’m on my own now.

Then I hear Kate and Mick talking on the balcony next door.

“Poor thing,” Kate says. “She must be exhausted, and he died less than a month ago. We’ll do it in the morning.”

Whatever “it” is. The interview, I suppose.

I feel dizzy again. Sick inside because I know what is coming next. There’ll be no more massages and treats tomorrow. No more chat about what color the kitchen cupboards are. She will want to know about Glen. And Bella.

I go into the bathroom and throw up the chicken I’ve just eaten. I sit on the floor and think about the first interview I gave—the one to the police, while Glen was in custody. It was Easter when they came. We’d planned to walk up to Greenwich Park the next day to see the Easter egg hunt. We went every year—that and Bonfire Night were my favorite times of the year. Funny the things you remember. I loved it. All those excited little faces looking for eggs or under their woolly hats, writing their names with sparklers. I’d stand close to them, pretend they were mine for a moment.

Instead, that Easter Sunday, I sat on my sofa while two police officers went through my things and Bob Sparkes questioned me.

He wanted to know if Glen and I had a normal sex life. He called it something else, but that’s what he meant.

I didn’t know what to say. It was so horrible being asked that by a stranger. He was looking at me and thinking about my sex life and I couldn’t stop him.

“Of course,” I said.

They wouldn’t answer my questions, just kept asking theirs. Questions about the day Bella disappeared. Why was I at home at four, instead of at work? What time did Glen come in the door? How did I know it was four o’clock? What else happened that day? Checking everything and going over the same things again and again. They wanted me to make a mistake, but I didn’t. I stuck to the story. I didn’t want to make any trouble for Glen.

And I knew he’d never do anything like that. My Glen.

“Do you ever use the computer we took away from your husband’s study, Mrs. Taylor?” Inspector Sparkes suddenly asks.

They’d taken it the day before, after they’d searched upstairs.

“No,” I say. It comes out as a squeak. My throat betraying me and my fear.

They’d taken me up there yesterday, and one of them sat down at the keyboard to try to start it. The screen lit up, but then nothing happened and they asked me for the password. I told them I didn’t even know there was a password. We tried my name and birthdays and Arsenal, Glen’s team, but in the end they unplugged it and took it away to crack it open.