Fiona Barton - The Widow

I try to comfort Mum, telling her I have been misquoted and the paper has twisted everything, but it’s no good, and in the end, she hangs up.

I feel exhausted by it, so I take the phone off the hook and lie down on my bed. I think about Bella and Glen.

And those last few days before he died.

He’d started asking me what I was going to do. “Are you going to leave me, Jeanie?” he’d said. I said I was going to make a cup of tea and left him standing there. Too much to think about. Betrayal. Decisions. Plans.

And I don’t speak to him again except when it is essential. “It’s your mum on the phone.” Just the bare minimum.

He’s like a ghost, haunting me everywhere in the house. I catch him looking at me from behind the paper. I have him now. He doesn’t know what his Jeanie will do, and it scares him to death.

Glen doesn’t let me out on my own that week. Everywhere I go, he comes, too. Perhaps he thinks I will go straight to Bob Sparkes. That’s because he doesn’t understand a thing about me. I’m not going to tell anyone anything. Not to protect him—don’t make me laugh.

That Saturday, he was on my heels as we came out of Sainsbury’s, and I saw him look at a little girl sitting in a supermarket cart. It was just a glance, but I saw something in his eyes. Something dead. And I pushed him away from the child. Such a little push, and he tripped on the curb and into the road. The bus appeared at the same moment. It was all so quick, and I remember looking at him lying there in a small pool of blood and thinking, “Oh well. That’s the end of his nonsense.”

Does it make me a murderer now? I look at myself in the mirror, try to see if it shows in my eyes, but I don’t think so. Glen got off lightly really. He could have gone on suffering for years, wondering when he’d be exposed. People like Glen can’t help themselves, I’ve heard, so really, I helped him out.

I’m going to sell the house as soon as I can. I’ve got to get through the inquest first, but Tom Payne says it’ll be very straightforward. I just have to tell the coroner about Glen stumbling over his feet and it’ll all be over. I can make my own fresh start.

I rang an estate agent yesterday to find out what the house will fetch. I gave my name, but she didn’t seem to notice—she will eventually, but I told her I wanted a quick sale and she’s coming tomorrow morning. I wonder if Glen’s connection will put the price up or down. Some ghoul might pay a bit extra. You never know.

I’m still deciding where to go, but I’m definitely moving out of London. I’m going to go online to find places, maybe abroad or maybe down toward Hampshire. To be near my baby girl.

FIFTY-TWO

The Reporter

THURSDAY, JULY 1, 2010

The coroner was well-known to the press. A small, neat lawyer who favored highly colored silk bow ties and kept a meticulously trimmed silver mustache. Hugh Holden liked to think of himself as A Character, an occasional thorn in the side of the authorities, unafraid to reach controversial verdicts.

Normally Kate enjoyed his inquests and his quirky line in questioning and verbal flourishes, but she wasn’t in the mood today. She feared this was likely to be Jean Taylor’s last public appearance. There’d be no need for her to show her face again, and she could disappear behind her front door forever.

Outside the court, Mick was milling with the other photographers, waiting for the arrival shots. “Hi, Kate,” he called over the heads. “See you after.”

She filed in with the rest of the reporters and the curious, managing to get one of the last press seats at the front, facing the witness box. Her thoughts were all on Jean, and she watched the door for her entrance. She missed Zara Salmond slipping into the back of the court with some of the Met officers who’d be called to give evidence. Sparkes had sent her in his place. “You go, Salmond. I need your eyes and analysis on her performance. I can’t see anything straight at the moment.”

She’d arrived only just in time, when the grind of the door hinges announced the widow. Jean Taylor looked dignified and in control, in the same dress she’d worn for Glen’s funeral.

She walked slowly through the court with her lawyer to her seat in the front row. That weasel Tom Payne, Kate thought, nodding affably to him and mouthing, Good morning, Tom . He raised his hand in greeting, and Jean looked to see who he was waving to. Their eyes met, and Kate thought for a moment that she was going to acknowledge her. She tried a small smile, but Jean turned away, uninterested.

The other witnesses took their time to settle, shaking hands and hugging one another in the aisles, but finally everyone took their places and stood to attention as the coroner entered.

The coroner’s officer stepped up to tell the court that the deceased’s father had identified the body as that of Glen George Taylor, and then the pathologist gave his evidence of the postmortem examination. Kate kept her eyes on the widow, registering her reactions to the details of the dissection of her husband. He’d had a good last breakfast, anyway , Kate thought as the pathologist ran through the contents of the stomach in desultory fashion. No sign of disease. Contusions and lacerations to arms and thighs consistent with the fall and collision with the vehicle. The fatal injury was to the head. Skull fracture caused by impact with bus and road surface, traumatic brain injury. Death pretty much instantaneous.

Jean pulled her handbag onto her knee and undid a small packet of tissues ostentatiously, unfolding one to wipe an eye. She’s not crying , Kate thought. She’s faking.

The bus driver was next. His tears were real as he told of the flash of a man falling in front of his cab window. “I never saw him, so there was nothing I could do. It all happened so quickly. I braked, but it was too late.”

He was helped from the box by an usher, and then Jean was called.

Her performance was polished, too polished. To Kate’s ear, every word sounded like it had been practiced in front of the mirror. The shopping trip was walked through, step by step, around the aisles, out of the automatic doors and into the High Street. The discussion about cereal and Glen Taylor’s stumble into the path of the bus. All told in a low, serious voice.

Kate wrote it all down and glanced up to capture the expressions and any emotions.

“Mrs. Taylor, can you tell us why your husband stumbled? The police examined the pavement and could find nothing to make him lose his footing,” the coroner said kindly.

“I don’t know, sir. He fell under the bus right there in front of me. I didn’t even have time to call out. He was gone,” the widow answered.

She can do this without thinking now , Kate thought. She’s using identical phrases.

“Was he holding your hand or your arm? I know I do with my partner when we’re out together,” the coroner persisted.

“No, well, perhaps. I can’t remember,” she said, less sure of herself now.

“Was your husband distracted that day? Was he himself?”

“Distracted? What do you mean?”

“Not concentrating on what he was doing, Mrs. Taylor.”

“He’d a lot on his mind,” Jean Taylor said, and looked at the press benches. “But I’m sure you know that.”

“Quite,” the coroner said, pleased with himself for prying out some new information.

“So, what was his mood that morning?”

“His mood?”

This was not going the way Jean had planned, Kate thought. Repeating questions back to the questioner was a sure sign of stress. You did it to buy time.

The reporter leaned forward to make sure she didn’t miss a word.