Fiona Barton - The Widow

“They can’t see each other?” Matthews asked.

“No. You could be anyone. That’s the attraction for predators. They can assume a new identity, or gender or age group. Wolf in sheep’s clothing,” Fry told them.

Once contact was established with a likely individual—a young teen, perhaps—the predator might persuade her to give her e-mail address so grooming could go on in private.

“Once they have one-to-one contact, anything is possible. For consenting adults, that isn’t a problem, but some youngsters have been tricked or manipulated into posing for explicit photographs, using a webcam. The predator can then blackmail them into other acts. Young lives ruined,” Fry added.

Lesson over, Sparkes had a go in an over-eighteens chat room. Matthews had suggested “Superstud” as his nickname and snorted when his boss opted instead for Mr. Darcy—Eileen’s favorite. But Darcy was greeted by a flurry of flirty messages from would-be Elizabeth Bennets that quickly escalated into direct sexual propositions.

“Bloody hell,” he said as the explicit messages scrolled up the screen. “A bit in-your-face for Jane Austen, isn’t it?”

Dr. Jones laughed from behind him. He signed himself out and turned to face the expert.

“But how do we find Glen Taylor?” he asked. “There must be hundreds of these chat rooms.”

Fry had his plan ready.

“Yes, but we’ve got his computer, and so we can find out where he’s been. Taylor’s clever, and when Operation Gold started to bite, he deleted files and data, but it’s all still there on the hard drive, invisible to him but very visible to the blokes in the forensics lab. They have dug out all sorts of information, and we know where he hangs out.”

It sounded too good to be true, but Sparkes found himself nodding, seduced by the mental picture of Taylor’s face when he arrested him. He could almost smell the foxlike stench of Taylor’s guilt. He tried to focus on the practicalities.

“We being who exactly?” he asked.

“Fleur and I would work out a character, a backstory, and a script with some trigger words to use,” DC Fry said, pink with excitement at the prospect of real detective work.

Dr. Jones murmured her assent. “It could be very valuable for my research.”

It felt signed and sealed, but Matthews piped up with the question no one had asked: “Is it legal?”

The others in the room looked at him. “Will it stand up as evidence in court, sir? It could be seen as entrapment,” Matthews pressed.

Sparkes wondered if Matthews was reacting to the new boy’s clever dickery. He didn’t know the answer, but Fry gave him a possible way out.

“We don’t have a case to destroy, from what I’ve seen, sir. Why don’t we see how far we get first? Then we can revisit this question,” he said.

Matthews looked unhappy, but Sparkes nodded his agreement.

TWENTY-TWO

The Widow

TUESDAY, JUNE 12, 2007

Funny things, birthdays. Everyone seems to love them, but I dread them—the buildup, the pressure to be happy, to have a good time, the disappointment when I don’t. I’m thirty-seven today, and Glen is downstairs doing a tray of breakfast. It’s still early and I’m not hungry yet, so the food will be like sawdust in my mouth, but I’ll have to tell him I love it. Love him. I do. I do. He’s my world, but every birthday I wonder if maybe this year there’ll be a miracle and we’ll have a baby.

I try not to think about it, but birthdays are difficult. It’s that moment when you realize another year’s gone past, isn’t it? I know there’s everything else going on, but I can’t help it.

We could adopt from abroad. I’ve seen all these articles about babies from China, but I can’t say anything to Glen without upsetting him.

Here he comes. I can hear the cups and plates rattling on the tray. He’s all smiles, and there’s a red rose in a vase beside the boiled egg. He sings “Happy Birthday” as he comes around to my side of the bed, putting on a funny voice to make me laugh. “Happy birthday, dear Jeanie, happy birthday to you,” he croons, and kisses me on the forehead, nose, and mouth.

It makes me cry, and he shifts the tray off my lap and sits so he can put both arms around me.

“Sorry, love. Don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I say, trying to smile. He shushes me and goes to get his card and present from the wardrobe.

It’s a nightie. White broderie anglaise with pink bows. Like a little girl’s. “It’s lovely,” I say, and give him a kiss. “Thank you, darling.”

“Try it on,” he says.

“Later. Need the loo.” I don’t want to put it on. I go to the bathroom and take a Jeanie pill. I hate birthdays.

Just before Bella’s birthday, in April, the first since she went missing, I went to Smith’s to buy a card for her. I spent ages looking at the pictures and messages, and I picked one with Teletubbies and a badge—“I am 3”—because I read in the papers that she liked them best.

I didn’t know what to write, so I went and sat on a bench in the park to think about her. I don’t feel sad because I know she’s alive. Her mother and I believe she’s alive. So does Glen. We think a couple whose child died took her and went abroad. I wonder if the police have thought of that. I expect Glen’s told them his theory.

So I write “Dearest Bella. Happy birthday. I hope you are home soon” and some kisses. I address it to her, Miss Bella Elliott. I don’t know the number of her house, but I expect the postman will know. The mother says she gets dozens of letters every day. She said on Woman’s Hour that some of them are nasty letters from “mad” people, telling her she deserved to lose Bella. One of those must be mine.

I wrote at the beginning, when I was so angry with her for leaving Bella on her own when I couldn’t even have a baby. I wanted her to know how wrong she’d been. I didn’t sign that one either.

I put a stamp on the birthday card, all bumpy with the badge inside, and walked home the postbox way.

On the day, April 28, Dawn was on breakfast television with a little cake with three candles. She was wearing the birthday badge I sent with her “Find Bella” badge. She thanked everyone for the lovely cards and presents and said she wasn’t unwrapping them until Bella comes home. The woman doing the interview got all choked up.

I unwrapped the present I bought for her—a baby doll with golden hair and a white-and-pink dress—and put her on my bed.

I could do it because Glen wasn’t here. He’d gone out for a drive. He wouldn’t be back for ages, and until then I could spend time with Bella.

I have photos of her from the papers and nice color ones from magazines. I decided not to put her in the scrapbooks because she’s real and special and I hope to meet her one day. When she comes home.

I plan it. How we’ll meet in a park and she’ll know it’s me and come running over, laughing and nearly tripping over, she’s running so fast. Her little arms will wrap around my legs and I’ll bend down and pick her up and swing her around.

It’s my favorite daydream, but it’s beginning to take over my day. Sometimes I find myself sitting at the kitchen table and the clock shows I’ve been there for more than an hour and I don’t remember the time passing. Sometimes I find I’m crying, but I don’t know why, exactly. I went to the doctor to talk to him. I didn’t mention Bella, but he knew all about Glen’s “circumstances,” as he put it, and I came away with a new prescription.

“You need some peace of mind, Mrs. Taylor,” he said, tearing it off his pad. “Have you thought about taking a break from what’s happening?” He meant well, but there is no break to be taken. I can’t stop the thoughts by catching a plane somewhere. I don’t control them—or anything, anymore. I’m a passenger, not the driver, I wanted to tell him. Anyway, the pills should let me carry on being Jeanie when I need to be.