Sophie Hannah - Hurting Distance

‘. . . and how Juliet Haworth and Jenkins relate to one another.’

‘You’ve had my answer, Sergeant.’

‘If it makes any difference, Simon agrees with me. He thinks we should say yes to both, with the proper level of supervision.’

‘It makes a difference,’ said Proust. ‘It strengthens my opposition to everything you propose. Waterhouse!’ Not that useless reprobate, the tone implied. Simon had closed more cases than any of the other detectives under Proust’s supervision, including Charlie.

‘On another matter . . .’

‘Sir?’

‘What’s wrong with Gibbs?’

‘I don’t know.’ Or care.

‘Well, find out, and whatever’s wrong, right it. I’m fed up of finding him skulking outside my office like the spectre at the feast. Has Sellers told you his idea?’

‘Gibbs’?’

‘Obviously not. Sellers’ idea is to buy Gibbs a sundial as a wedding present.’

Charlie couldn’t help smiling. ‘No, no one’s mentioned it to me.’

‘Sellers thinks a dial with a date line, the date of Gibbs’ matrimonials, but I’m not sure. It’s too messy. You can’t have a date line that represents only one day of the year, Sergeant. I’ve been reading up on it. Any such line would have to represent two days, because each date has a twin, you see. There’s another day, somewhere in the year, when the declination of the sun is the same as it is on the date of Gibbs’ wedding. So the little gismo—the nodus, it’s called—its shadow would fall on the date line on this other day as well.’ Proust shook his head. ‘I don’t like it. It’s too messy, too random.’

Charlie wasn’t sure what he was talking about.

‘But Sellers’ idea gave me one of my own. What about a sundial for our humble nick, on the back wall outside, where the old clock used to be? Nothing’s replaced the clock—there’s just a big, empty space. How much do you reckon a sundial would cost?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’ Charlie imagined Proust putting his proposal to Superintendent Barrow and nearly laughed out loud. ‘I’ll ask Naomi Jenkins if you like.’

The inspector tutted. ‘Obviously we can’t commission one from her. And I’d have to get approval from the higher-ups. But it shouldn’t be too expensive, should it? What do you think, maybe five hundred quid for a nice big one?’

‘I really have no idea, sir.’

Proust picked up a big black book that was on his desk and began to leaf through it. ‘Waterhouse very kindly bought me this. There’s a section here on wall-mounted sundials . . . where is it? There are also dials that can be fixed directly to a wall, without even a mount, you know.’

‘Sir, do you want me to look into it? Prices, waiting time, all that? You’re so busy.’ She knew it was what he wanted her to say.

‘Excellent, Sergeant. That’s very thoughtful of you.’ Proust beamed, and Charlie found, to her embarrassment, that she felt heartened by the unexpected gust of praise. Was it human nature always to crave the approval of the most disapproving people one knew? She turned to leave.

‘Sergeant?’

‘Mm?’

‘You do see my point, don’t you? We can’t possibly let Juliet Haworth and Naomi Jenkins have a private interview without a police presence. And we equally can’t afford to leave Jenkins and Haworth unattended in his hospital room. The risks are too great.’

‘If you say so, sir,’ said Charlie tentatively.

‘You tell Naomi Jenkins and Juliet Haworth that we’re the ones who impose conditions around here. We run the show, not them! If these two . . . encounters are to take place, then there must be detectives present at all times. Not just detectives—I want you there, Sergeant. I don’t care about your workload, or your stress levels. ’ He winced at the words. ‘This isn’t something to be delegated.’

Charlie faked a glum look, but inside she was rejoicing. ‘If you insist, sir,’ she said.

15

Friday, April 7

‘WHAT DO YOU know about my husband?’ Juliet asks me.

‘That he loves me,’ I tell her.

She laughs. ‘That’s about you, not him. What do you know about Robert? His family background, for example.’

DC Waterhouse picks up his pen. He and Sergeant Zailer exchange a look that I can’t interpret.

‘He doesn’t see any of his family.’

‘True.’ Juliet makes a tick mark in the air with her index finger. With her other hand, she rubs her eyebrow, as if trying to smooth down the thin arc of hair, over and over again. A machine is recording our conversation. At the same time, my memory is recording all Juliet’s mannerisms and expressions. This is your wife, the woman who often, I imagine, has spoken to you about everyday things—servicing the car, defrosting the fridge—while brushing her teeth, with a mouth full of toothpaste. That’s how close she’s been.

The more carefully I watch her, the longer I spend sitting here in this small grey room with her, the more ordinary she will seem. It’s like when you can’t bear to look at a picture of some gruesome deformity because you’re too squeamish. When you eventually force yourself to stare at it and familiarise yourself with all its details, it soon becomes something mundane, nothing to be scared of at all.

It helps to remember that Juliet no longer shares something with you that I don’t. People say marriage is no more than a piece of paper, and usually that’s untrue, but not in this case. You and Juliet are as apart now as it’s possible for a man and wife to be, separated not only by geography, by your respective incarcerations, but also by the fact that she did her best to kill you. If you wake up—no, when you wake up—there will be no question of your forgiving her.

‘I know Robert’s got three sisters, that one of them’s called Lottie. Lottie Nicholls.’ I had to drag this information out of you, and felt so guilty afterwards that I didn’t ask for any more names.

Another shrill laugh from Juliet, for Waterhouse and Zailer to play back later. But they won’t remember her cold, empty eyes in the way that I will. ‘Why doesn’t Robert ever speak to these sisters?’ she asks me.

I remember your exact words, only have to paraphrase slightly. ‘They think he’s not good enough for them, and by thinking that, they proved they weren’t good enough for him.’

‘I was the cause of the big family feud,’ Juliet says proudly. ‘I bet Robert didn’t tell you that. His nearest and dearest were horrified when they heard he’d got together with me. Which was bang out of order, considering I’d never done them any harm. The words “pot” and “kettle” spring to mind.’

I haven’t a clue what she means.

‘Has my husband ever said anything to you about any or all of his three sisters being—er, how shall I put this?— dead ?’ She leans forward, her pale blue eyes gleaming.

‘What do you mean?’

Zailer and Waterhouse look as surprised and repulsed as I feel, but they say nothing. Your sisters, dead? Any or all of them. It’s not possible. Juliet could easily be lying. She must be. Unless there was some sort of tragedy . . .

I’ve thought before that tragedy seems to be your element. You are passionate and sorrowful, like a condemned man, due to face the gallows any day, snatching a rare, precious moment with the woman he loves. When we first got together, once we’d established that the feeling was mutual, that neither one of us was more or less ardent than the other, I blurted out, like an idiot, ‘This is so amazing. I can’t believe there isn’t a catch.’

You looked at me as if I were crazy. ‘Oh, there’s a catch, all right,’ you said.