Fiona Barton: The Widow

“I’ve got some good quotes from the widow,” Kate said, starting up her computer.

“Killer quotes,” Terry added, upping the ante. “Everyone was scrambling to catch up last night, and we’ve had the magazines and foreign press on already for the pictures. Talk of the street.”

“You’re showing your age, Terry,” Simon said. “There’s no street anymore. Didn’t you know, it’s a global village?”

The news editor grinned at his boss’s rebuke, determined to see it as a bit of banter. Nothing was going to spoil today—he’d brought in the story of the year and was going to go in and get the pay raise he richly deserved and then take his wife—or maybe his mistress—for dinner at the Ritz.

Kate was already looking at her e-mails, leaving the men to their dick swinging.

“What’s she like, Kate? Jean Taylor?”

Kate looked at her editor and saw the genuine curiosity behind the bluster. He had one of the most powerful jobs in the newspaper industry, but what he really wanted was to be a reporter again, elbow deep in the story, asking the questions, standing on a doorstep, and sending his golden words to the desk, not just hearing about it later.

“She’s smarter than she makes out. Puts on the little housewifely act—you know, standing by her man—but there’s all sorts going on in her head. Difficult for her because I think she believed he was innocent at one stage, but something changed. Something changed in their relationship.”

Kate knew she should’ve got more; she should’ve got the whole thing. She blamed Mick for interrupting, but she’d seen the shutters come down in Jean’s eyes. Control of the interview had switched back and forth between the two women, but there was no question who’d been in charge at the end. Kate wasn’t about to admit that to this audience.

The other reporters were listening now, wheeling their chairs back to catch the conversation.

“Did he do it, Kate? And did she know?” the crime man asked. “That’s what everyone wants to know.”

“Yes and yes,” she said. “Question is, when did she know? At the time or later? I think the trouble is that she’s been stuck between what she knows and what she wants to believe.”

Everyone looked at her for more and, as if on cue, Kate’s phone began ringing and Bob Sparkes’s name flashed up. “Sorry. Got to take this, Simon. It’s the copper in charge of the case. Might be a day three.”

“Keep me posted, Kate,” he said as he marched off to his office, and she moved through the swinging doors to the lifts to get a bit of privacy.

“Hello, Bob. Thought I’d hear from you this morning.”

Sparkes was already standing outside the newspaper office, sheltering from summer rain in the grand portico of the building. “Come and have a coffee with me, Kate. We need to talk.”

The Italian café around the corner in a grubby side street was crowded, and the windows were running with steam from the coffee machine. They sat down at a table away from the counter and looked at each other for a minute.

“Congratulations, Kate. You got her to say more than I ever managed.”

The reporter held his gaze. His generosity disarmed her, made her want to tell him the truth. He was good, she had to admit.

“I should’ve got more, Bob. There was more to get, but she stopped when she chose. Incredible self-control. Frightening, really. One minute she was holding my hand and literally crying on my shoulder about the monster she married, and the next, she was back in the driver’s seat. Clammed up and wouldn’t budge.”

She stirred her coffee. “She knows what happened, doesn’t she?”

Sparkes nodded. “I think she does. But she can’t let it out, and I don’t know why. After all, he’s dead. What has she got to lose?”

Kate shook her head in sympathy. “Something, obviously.”

“I’ve often wondered if she was involved in the crime,” Sparkes said, mainly to himself. “Maybe the planning? Maybe it was about getting a child for them both and something went wrong? Perhaps she put him up to it?”

Kate’s eyes were glittering with the possibilities. “Bloody hell, Bob. How’re you going to get her to confess?”

How indeed , he thought.

“What is her weak point?” Kate asked, playing with her spoon.

“Glen,” he answered. “But he’s not here anymore.”

“It’s kids, Bob. That’s her weak point. She’s obsessed with them. Everything came back to kids when we were talking. She wanted to know everything about my boys.”

“I know. You should see her scrapbooks full of babies.”

“Scrapbooks?”

“That’s off the record, Kate.”

She tucked it away for later and automatically put her head on one side. Submission. You can trust me.

He wasn’t fooled. “I mean it. It could be part of a future investigation.”

“Okay, okay,” she conceded irritably. “What do you think she’ll do now?”

“If she knew anything, she might go back to the child,” Sparkes said.

“Back to Bella,” Kate echoed. “Wherever she is.”

Jean had nothing else to think about now. She’d make a move, he was sure.

“Will you call me if you hear anything?” he asked Kate.

“I might,” she teased automatically. He flushed and, despite herself, she was pleased to see him respond to her flirty tone. Sparkes felt out of his depth suddenly.

“Kate, we’re not playing games here,” he said, trying to get back on a professional footing. “Let’s stay in touch.”

They parted in the street, and he tried to shake her hand, but she leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek.

FIFTY-ONE

The Widow

FRIDAY, JUNE 11, 2010

When the crew has gone, I sit quietly and wait for the late evening news. Mr. Telly has said it’ll be the top item, and it is. “Widow in Bella Case Speaks Out for First Time” flashes up on the screen, and music rolls over it and into my front room. And there I am, on the telly. It doesn’t last very long really, but I say I knew nothing about Bella’s disappearance but suspected that Glen was involved. I said very clearly that I didn’t know for certain, that he had not confessed to me, that journalists had twisted what I said.

I answered their questions calmly, sitting on my sofa. I admitted I was offered payment but had turned it down when I found out what the paper was printing. There was a curt statement from the Daily Post and a shot of Kate and Mick leaving my house. And that was it.

I wait for the phone to ring. First was Glen’s mum, Mary. “How could you say those things, Jeanie?” she says.

“You know as well as I do, Mary,” I say. “Please don’t pretend you didn’t suspect him of it, because I know you did.” She goes quiet and says she will talk to me tomorrow.

Then Kate calls. She’s businesslike, saying that the paper is including my statement from the TV interview in their article so I can “give my side of the story.”

I laugh at the cheek of her. “You were supposed to be writing my side of the story,” I say. “Do you always lie to your victims?” She ignores the question and says I can ring her anytime on her mobile, and I hang up without saying good-bye.

The paper comes through the letter box the next morning. I don’t have deliveries. I wonder if Kate posted it. Or a neighbor. The headline screams “Widow Confesses Bella Killer’s Guilt,” and I’m shaking too much to open the paper. My picture is on the front, gazing into the distance like Mick told me to. I put it down on the kitchen table and wait.

The phone rings all morning. The papers, the telly, the radio, the family. My mum calls, sobbing about the shame I have brought on them, and my dad is shouting in the background about how he warned me not to marry Glen. He didn’t, but I suppose he wishes he had done now.