Tilly Bagshawe - Sidney Sheldon’s The Silent Widow

‘What’s to notify?’ Nathan Grolsch shrugged. ‘There was no body, no proof. Look, my son was an addict, OK? A useless, lying, no-good scumbag who threw his life away for drugs. That is the beginning and the end of the story. Brandon was dead to me long before that letter.’

Wow, Goodman thought. What a prince of a guy. With a dad like that, no wonder the kid went off the rails.

‘Does Mrs Grolsch still have the letter?’

‘Nope. I burned it.’ The old man’s pale, rheumy eyes glistened with spite. ‘That meddlesome bitch Valentina Baden should never have shown it to Fran in the first place. She must have known it would screw her up. Better for everyone to get rid of the thing. Close the door on the whole sorry chapter.’

Goodman’s mind raced. ‘Valentina Baden? You mean Willie Baden’s wife?’

‘Right,’ Grolsch grunted. ‘She runs some charity for missing kids. I guess at one point Fran decided Brandon was “missing” and Valentina must’ve gotten involved. In any case, she passed on the letter. So you can go ahead and “eliminate” Brandon from your inquiries.’

‘I’m afraid it’s not quite that easy, Mr Grolsch,’ Goodman said, pleased to have provoked a look of deep irritation on the old man’s face. ‘We have DNA evidence directly linking Brandon to the murder victim. And as you say, you have no proof your son is dead. No body. And, now that you’ve burned the letter, no hard evidence either. Other than your word .’

Goodman’s tone made it plain how little store he set by Nathan Grolsch’s word.

‘What’s the dead girl’s name?’ Nathan Grolsch sighed deeply.

‘Lisa Flannagan.’

‘Never heard of her.’ Grolsch shrugged.

‘She was Willie Baden’s mistress,’ Goodman shot back. ‘Among other things. Small world, isn’t it?’

A momentary flash of surprise registered on Nathan Grolsch’s face, but he swiftly recovered. ‘Not that small. From what I’ve heard, Baden’s slept with half the pretty girls in LA. Probably why his wife needs charity work to distract her. Look I’m sorry, Detective, but I really can’t help you. My son is dead, whether you choose to believe it or not.’

‘Be that as it may, I’m going to need to know when, exactly, you last saw him,’ Goodman insisted. ‘Who his friends were. His dealers. Where he hung out.’

‘I don’t know any of that,’ Nathan Grolsch snapped. ‘I dare say his mother remembers some of the low-life scum he hung around with,’ he offered grudgingly. ‘You could ask her, although as you can see, Detective, Frances is not exactly at her best by this stage in the day. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get changed. My racquetball coach should be here any minute.’

And with that, Nathan Grolsch left the room, without so much as a handshake.

Goodman wisely took a couple of moments to regain his composure before walking back into the hallway and accosting the housekeeper.

‘Take me to Brandon’s room.’

He could see the housekeeper’s panic, her eyes darting around the foyer in search of Mr Grolsch, afraid to comply without his approval. Goodman flashed his badge and repeated the instruction, his tone making it plain this was not a request. Reluctantly she escorted him upstairs and nodded towards the relevant door, then scuttled away as fast as she could.

The room Goodman walked into was a large, brightly decorated boy’s bedroom. He felt a pang of real sadness. There was so much warmth here, so much innocence and hope, traces of the happy child Brandon Grolsch must once have been, before drugs robbed him of his future. The desk chair shaped like a football. The Lamborghini posters on the walls. The trophies, for swimming and karate, wedged between books about NFL heroes and space exploration. The giant ‘B’ cushion, propped up against the Pottery Barn teen bed.

Where did it all go wrong?

A noise behind him made Goodman turn. Brandon’s mother, her eyes still puffy from crying, hovered anxiously in the doorway.

‘Did Brandon have a computer? Or a phone?’ Goodman asked.

She nodded. ‘Both. Once. But he sold ’em, long before he left. You know how it is, when kids have problems.’

Goodman nodded. He knew how it was.

Frances Grolsch gazed vacantly around her son’s room.

‘Maybe he got another phone … I guess he must have.’

‘Mrs Grolsch, your husband believes that Brandon is dead. He said you received a letter—’

‘We don’t know!’ Frances insisted, twisting her fingers round and round in her lap, like someone trying to wring the last drops of water from a dishcloth. ‘That letter wasn’t signed, or anything. Maybe it was a mistake.’

‘But there was a letter?’

She nodded miserably.

‘That Mrs Baden passed on to you?’

Another nod. Then, more lucid than before: ‘He could be dead, Detective. I know that. I’m not stupid. He used to call me two, three, four times a week, no matter what state he was in. Then last summer the calls stopped, just like that.’ Her eyes welled up with tears. ‘Until it’s beyond doubt, until I know for one hundred per cent sure, I can’t give up hope entirely. You understand, don’t you?’

‘I do,’ Goodman assured her. ‘Which is why it’s so important we find out what happened to Brandon, Mrs Grolsch. We need to know, for our investigation. And you need to know too, one way or the other. Right?’

She nodded vigorously.

‘Were there any other adults he might have turned to, after he left home? When he stopped calling you. A teacher at school? A counselor? A doctor, even?’

Frances Grolsch sighed heavily. ‘Brandon didn’t like teachers. He had a lot of therapists, but I don’t know if he’d’ve reached out to any of them.’

A thought suddenly occurred to Goodman.

‘Did he ever see a therapist named Dr Nicola Roberts?’

Frances furrowed her brow and thought for a moment. Then, closing her eyes, as if the effort was too much for her, she shook her head. ‘Uh-uh. Don’t think so. I don’t remember that name.’ Looking up at Goodman, she suddenly asked, ‘What is your investigation anyway? Is Brandon in trouble, Detective?’

Goodman stared back at this broken, lonely woman, with her bullying husband, rattling around this opulent prison of a house. I suspect Brandon’s been in trouble for a very, very long time, he thought.

‘We don’t know anything for sure yet, ma’am,’ he said aloud, pulling out his card and pressing it into her clammy hand. ‘But if you remember anything – anything at all that you think might help – please call me.’

‘Mmm hmmm,’ said Frances Grolsch, looking dazed.

Goodman headed out to his car. It had been quite the elucidating visit. Clearly he and Johnson needed to speak to Mr and Mrs Willie Baden, and the sooner the better. But driving away, it was the toxic atmosphere in the Grolsch household that haunted him more than anything, sending shivers running down his spine.

Poor Brandon.

Families like that were how monsters were made.

No amount of money could compensate for a life that loveless and bleak.

Passing the neighboring home with the birthday balloons outside, he found himself saying a silent prayer for nine-year-old Ryan.

Good luck, buddy. I think you might need it.

‘Treyvon? Trey! ’

Marsha Raymond’s voice echoed down the hall of the flimsy single-story house on Denker Avenue. Marsha had moved in here two years ago with her son, Trey, and her mother Coretta, after their last place got torched. The Hoovers, one of the worst gangs in Westmont, threw a petrol bomb through Marsha Raymond’s bedroom window one night. No reason for it. No feud or bad blood. It just happened.