The Widow

Chapter 15

Saturday, 7 April 2007

The Detective

THE FIRST INTERVIEW with Glen Taylor had to wait until everyone arrived back in Southampton and took place in an airless cupboard of a room with a door painted hospital green.

Sparkes looked through the glass panel in the door. He could see Taylor, sitting up like an expectant schoolboy, his hands on his knees and his feet tapping some mystery tune.

The detective pushed open the door and walked to his mark on this tiny stage. It was all about body language, he’d read in one of the psychology books on his bedside table. Dominating by making yourself bigger than the interviewee – standing over them, filling their frame of reference. Sparkes stood for slightly longer than necessary, shuffling the papers in his hand, but finally lowered himself into a chair. Taylor wasn’t waiting for the detective to make himself comfortable.

‘I keep telling you, this is all a mistake. There must be thousands of blue vans out there,’ he complained, banging down his hands on the coffee-stained table. ‘What about Mike Doonan? He’s a strange bloke. Lives on his own, did you know that?’

Sparkes took a deep, slow breath. He was in no hurry. ‘Now then, Mr Taylor. Let’s concentrate on you and look at your journey again on October the second. We need to be sure of the timings.’

Taylor rolled his eyes. ‘There’s nothing more to tell. Drove there, dropped the package, drove home. End of story.’

‘Right. You say you left the depot at twelve twenty, but it isn’t recorded in the worksheets. Why didn’t you record the journey?’

Taylor shrugged. ‘I did the job for Doonan.’

‘I thought you didn’t get on with him.’

‘I owed him a favour. The drivers did it all the time.’

‘So where did you have lunch that day?’ Sparkes asked.

‘Lunch?’ Taylor asked and let out a bark of a laugh.

‘Yes, did you stop somewhere for lunch?’

‘I probably had a bar of chocolate, a Mars bar or something. I don’t eat much at lunchtime – I hate supermarket sandwiches. Prefer to wait till I get home.’

‘And where did you buy the Mars bar?’

‘I don’t know. Probably bought it at a garage.’

‘On the way there or back?’

‘Not sure.’

‘Did you buy fuel?’

‘I can’t remember. This is months ago.’

‘What about your mileage? Is it recorded at the beginning and end of your working day?’ Sparkes asked, knowing full well the answer.

Taylor blinked. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘So if I did the journey you’ve described, my mileage should be the same as yours?’ Sparkes reasoned.

Another blink. ‘Yes, but… well, there was a bit of traffic before Winchester and I tried to find a way round it. I got a bit lost until I got back on the ring road, and had to double back on myself before I found the drop-off point,’ he said.

‘I see,’ Sparkes said, and exaggerated the time it took him to note the response on his pad. ‘Did you get a bit lost on the way back?’

‘No, of course not. It was just the traffic jam.’

‘You took a long time to get home though, didn’t you?’

Taylor shrugged. ‘Not really.’

‘Why did no one see you return the van if you were back so quickly?’

‘I went home first. I told you. I’d finished the job and popped in,’ Taylor said.

‘Why? Your worksheets show that you usually go straight to the depot,’ Sparkes pressed.

‘I wanted to see Jean.’

‘Your wife, yes. Bit of a romantic, are you? Like to surprise your wife?’

‘No, I just wanted to tell her I’d sort out supper.’

Supper. The Taylors ate supper, not dinner or tea. The bank had given Glen Taylor aspirations to a lifestyle, then, Sparkes mused.

‘And you couldn’t have phoned her?’

‘My mobile had run out of juice and I was passing the house anyway. And I fancied a cup of tea.’

Three excuses. He’s spent too long putting together this story, Sparkes thought. He’d check the mobile straight after the interview.

‘I thought drivers had to stay in touch with the depot. I’ve got an in-car charger.’

‘So have I, but I’d left it in my car when I picked up the van.’

‘What time did your phone battery die?’

‘I didn’t notice it was dead until I got off the M25 and tried to ring Jean. Could’ve been five minutes or a couple of hours.’

‘Do you have children?’ Sparkes asked.

Taylor clearly hadn’t expected the question and pressed his lips together while he gathered his thoughts.

‘No, why?’ he muttered. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Do you like children, Mr Taylor?’ Sparkes pressed on.

‘Course I do. Who doesn’t like children?’ His arms were crossed now.

‘You see, Mr Taylor, there are some people who like children in a different way. Do you know what I mean?’

Taylor tightened his grip on his upper arms and closed his eyes, just for a second, but it was enough to encourage Sparkes.

‘They like children in a sexual way.’

‘They are animals, aren’t they?’ Taylor spat.

‘So you don’t like children in that way?’

‘Don’t be disgusting. Of course I don’t. What kind of a man do you think I am?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out, Mr Taylor,’ Sparkes said, leaning forward to crowd his quarry. ‘When did you start driving for a living? Strange change of career – you had a good job, didn’t you, at the bank?’

Taylor did his pantomime frown. ‘I fancied a change. I didn’t get on with the boss and thought I would look at starting my own delivery business. I needed to get experience of every aspect so I began driving-’

‘What about the business with the computers at the bank?’ Sparkes interrupted him. ‘We’ve spoken to your former manager.’

Taylor reddened.

‘Weren’t you sacked because of inappropriate use of the computers?’

‘It was a stitch-up,’ Taylor said quickly. ‘The boss wanted me out. I think he felt threatened by a younger, better-educated man. Anyone could’ve used that computer. The security was laughable. Leaving was my decision.’

His arms were so tightly crossed over his chest it was constricting his breathing.

‘Right. I see,’ Sparkes countered, leaning back in his chair to give Taylor the space he needed to embellish his lie. ‘And the “inappropriate use” of the computer you were accused of?’ His voice was casual.

‘Porn. Someone was looking at porn on an office computer in work time. Bloody idiot.’ Taylor was on a roll of self-righteousness. ‘I would never do something as stupid as that.’

‘So where do you look at porn?’ Sparkes asked.

The question stopped Taylor dead.

‘I want to see a lawyer,’ he said, his feet now dancing beneath the table.

‘And you shall, Mr Taylor. By the way, we’re looking at the computer you use at home. What do you think we’ll find on it? Is there anything you want to tell us about now?’

But Taylor had closed down. He sat silently, staring at his hands and shaking his head at the offer of a drink.

Tom Payne was the duty solicitor that weekend. A middle-aged man in a dusty-looking dark suit, he strode into the room an hour later, a pad of yellow paper under one arm and his briefcase flapping open.

‘I would like some time to consult with Mr Taylor,’ he told Sparkes and the room was cleared.

As Sparkes left, he looked at Tom Payne, the two men sizing each other up before Payne offered his hand to his new client.

‘Now, let’s see what I can do to help you, Mr Taylor,’ he said, clicking his pen.

Thirty minutes later, the detectives were back in the room and rootling through the details of Taylor’s narrative, snouts to the scent of fakery.

‘Let’s go back to your dismissal from the bank, Mr Taylor. We will be talking to the bank again, so why don’t you tell us all about it?’ Sparkes said.

The suspect repeated his excuses, with his lawyer impassive at his side. Apparently, everyone was at fault apart from him. And then there was his alibi. The detectives stormed it from all sides, but it proved unbreachable. They had knocked on the neighbours’ doors, but no one had seen him arrive home the day Bella went missing. Apart from his wife.

Two frustrating hours later, Glen Taylor was being swabbed and scraped before being taken to a cell, while the police checked his story. For a moment, when he realized he was not going home, he looked young and lost as the custody sergeant asked him to empty his pockets and take off his belt.

‘Will you phone my wife, Jean, please,’ he asked his lawyer, his voice cracking.

In the bleached emptiness of the police cell, he sank on to a discoloured plastic bench along one wall and closed his eyes.

The custody sergeant squinted through the eyehole in the door. ‘Looks calm enough,’ he told his colleague, ‘but let’s keep a close eye on him. Quiet types make me nervous.’