The Widow

Chapter 49

Saturday, 12 June 2010

The Detective

AFTER THE FUNERAL, Bob Sparkes had read the coverage and looked at the photographs of Jean at the crematorium and a close-up of the word ‘Glen’, spelled out in flowers. ‘How will we find you now, Bella?’ the papers had said, taunting him.

He tried to concentrate on the job but found himself staring into space, lost and unable to move forward. He decided to take some leave and get his head together. ‘Let’s pack up the car and drive to Devon. Find a place to stay when we get there,’ he said to Eileen on the Saturday morning.

She went to talk to their neighbour about feeding the cat and he sat at the table with the post.

Eileen crashed in through the back door, her hands full of runner beans. ‘I picked them quickly otherwise they’ll be over by the time we get back. Shame to waste them.’

Eileen was clearly determined that life would go on in their house, even if it was stuck on pause in her husband’s head. He’d always been a thinker – it was what she’d loved about him. Deep, her friends had said. She liked that. His deepness. But now it was just blackness.

‘Come on, Bob, finish slicing these beans while I pack a bag. How long are we going for?’

‘A week? What do you think? I just need a bit of clean air and some long walks.’

‘Sounds lovely.’

Sparkes did his chore mechanically, sliding a nail along each pod and pushing the peas into a colander as he struggled with his feelings. He’d let it get personal, he knew. No other case had touched him like this, had reduced him to tears, had threatened his career. Maybe he ought to go back to the barmy counsellor? He laughed, just a short bark of a laugh, but Eileen heard it and rushed downstairs to see what had happened.

The journey was painless: a warm summer’s day before the school holidays with little traffic on the motorway, which Sparkes took to put distance between him and the case as quickly as possible. Eileen sat close to him, occasionally patting his knee or squeezing his hand. They both felt young and slightly giddy at their spontaneity.

Eileen chatted to him about the children, filling him in on his family, as if he were emerging from a coma. ‘Sam says she and Pete will get married next summer. She wants to do it on a beach.’

‘A beach? Suppose it won’t be Margate. Well, whatever she wants. She seems happy with Pete, doesn’t she?’

‘Very happy, Bob. It’s James I’m worried about. He’s working too hard.’

‘Wonder where he gets that from,’ he said, and glanced at his wife to see her reaction. They smiled at each other and Sparkes’ stomach began to unclench for the first time in weeks. Months, really.

It was wonderful to be talking about his own life instead of other people’s.

They decided to stop at Exmouth for crab sandwiches. They had brought the kids here for a summer holiday when they were little and it held happy memories. It was all still there when they pulled up – the blue pompoms of the hydrangeas, the flags fluttering around the Jubilee clock tower, the screeching seagulls, the pastel shades of the beach huts. It was as if they had stepped back into the 1990s, and they walked along the promenade to stretch their legs and look at the sea.

‘Come on, love. Let’s get going. I’ve phoned the pub to book a room for tonight,’ he said, then pulled her to him and kissed her.

In another hour or so they’d be at Dartmouth, and then on to Slapton Sands for a fish supper.

They drove with the windows down and the wind blowing their hair into mad shapes. ‘Blowing the badness out,’ Eileen said, as he knew she would. It was what she always said. It made him think of Glen Taylor, but he didn’t say anything.

At the pub, they sprawled on the benches outside, soaking up the last warmth of the sun and planning their morning swim. ‘Let’s get up early and go,’ he suggested.

‘Let’s not. Let’s give ourselves a lie-in and then meander down. We’ve got all week, Bob,’ Eileen said, and laughed at the thought of a whole week to themselves.

They went up to their room late and, from habit, Sparkes clicked on the television to catch the late news while Eileen had a quick shower. The video clip of Jean Taylor sitting in her living room, being interviewed, made his stomach contract into its familiar knot and he was back in role.

‘Eileen, love, I’ve got to go back,’ he called through to her. ‘It’s Jean Taylor. She says Glen took Bella.’

Eileen came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, with another pulled round her wet hair in a turban. ‘What? What did you say?’ Then she saw the faces on the television and sank down on the bed. ‘Christ, Bob. Is there no end to this?’

‘No, Eileen. I’m so sorry, but there isn’t until I know what happened to that little girl. Jean knows and I’ve got to ask her again. Can you be ready to leave in fifteen minutes?’

She nodded, loosening the towel on her head and rubbing her hair dry.

The journey back was quiet. Eileen slept as Sparkes drove on deserted roads, flicking on the radio every hour, on the hour to see if there were any updates.

He had to shake his wife awake when they reached home and they fell into bed with barely a word exchanged.