The Wrong Mother

8

8/8/07

Simon was halfway up a narrow winding staircase, wondering how it could have been designed for use by human beings, when he found himself face to face with Professor Keith Harbard.

‘Simon Waterhouse!’ Harbard beamed. ‘Don’t tell me you’re Jon’s dinner date. He kept that quiet.’ In the dim, stone-walled stairwell, the professor’s breath filled the air with the thick, tight smell of red wine.

There wasn’t a lot Simon could say. The munchkin staircase led nowhere apart from to Professor Jonathan Hey’s rooms.

Harbard’s mouth made a chomping motion as he considered the implications. ‘You’re consulting Jonathan?’

‘There’s a couple of things I want to ask him.’ ‘I’, not ‘we’; Simon avoided a direct lie. He couldn’t ask Harbard not to mention his presence here to Kombothekra or Proust. Shit. At least he hadn’t phoned in sick. Charlie’s response to his marriage proposal had cut through his illusions about what he could get away with. If she’d said yes, he would be feeling as invincible today as he had yesterday. As it was, he’d woken up this morning in a chastened frame of mind, determined to take no chances. He’d phoned Professor Hey and asked if he could come to Cambridge later than planned, after the end of his shift. Hey had said, ‘Call me Jonathan,’ then added, after a small cough, ‘Sorry. You don’t have to. You might rather call me Professor Hey. I mean, you can call me Jonathan if you want to.’ This was too confusing for Simon, who had resolved on the spot to avoid saying the man’s name at all.

Hey had invited Simon to stay for dinner at Whewell College after their meeting. For some reason, Simon had felt unable to decline. He was dreading it; his mother had done him no favours, he knew, by insisting for years that mealtimes should be private, family only. That Hey knew nothing of Simon’s hang-up would make it easier, he hoped.

‘Funny little college, this.’ Harbard put out his hands to touch the stone walls on either side of him. He looked as if he was getting into position to kick Simon down the steps. ‘It’s like the land that time forgot compared to UCL. Still, Jon seems to like it. It wouldn’t suit me. I’m a London boy through and through. And the sort of work Jon and I do… well, I wouldn’t want to be tucked away in an enclave of privilege. That’s the trouble with Cambridge -’

‘I’d better get on,’ Simon interrupted him. ‘I don’t want to be late.’

Harbard made a show of looking at his watch. ‘Sure thing,’ he said. ‘Well, I guess I’ll see you around.’ Simon didn’t like the professor’s transatlantic accent any more than he liked his way of ordering a drink: ‘Can I get a glass of Australian red? And, actually, can I also get a glass of sparkling mineral water? With ice?’ If Simon had been the barmaid at the Brown Cow, he’d have taken Harbard at his word and pointed him in the direction of the freezer.

When he could no longer hear the professor’s heavy footsteps, Simon stopped and pulled out his mobile. He’d been meaning to phone Mark Bretherick, before Charlie’s unexpected fury had made him regret everything, even the things he hadn’t done. Sod it; he’d do it. He was going to get it in the neck anyway, now that Harbard had seen him, so he might as well do what he believed to be the right thing.

Bretherick answered after the second ring, said, ‘Hello?’ as if he’d been holding his breath for hours.

‘It’s DC Waterhouse.’

‘Have you found her?’

Simon felt something uncomfortable lodge in his chest, something that was the wrong shape for the space it was trying to occupy. To say no would be misleading; Bretherick would assume the police were actively looking for the woman he insisted had stolen photographs of Geraldine and Lucy from Corn Mill House. Simon wasn’t convinced she existed, and was beginning to wonder about the missing brown suit. ‘Your wife’s diary,’ he said. ‘You asked about showing it to your mother-in-law. What did you decide?’

‘I keep changing my mind.’

‘Let her read it,’ said Simon. ‘As soon as possible.’

Bretherick cleared his throat. ‘It’ll kill her.’

‘It hasn’t killed you.’

A flat laugh. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Show Geraldine’s mother the diary.’ Simon was shocked to hear himself. An elderly woman would be devastated, and possibly nothing would come of it.

He and Bretherick exchanged curt goodbyes, and he climbed the remaining stairs to Jonathan Hey’s rooms. The white outer door, with Hey’s name painted on it in black, was open, as was the wooden inner door. Music drifted out to the stone staircase. Country and western: a woman’s voice with a Southern twang. The song was about someone waiting for her man who was a riverboat gambler, who promised to return and then didn’t. Simon gritted his teeth. Did all sociology professors feel the need to pretend to be American? Hey’s accent, on the telephone, had been well-to-do home-counties English; how could someone from Hampshire or Surrey listen to songs about the Bayou and the Mighty Mississippi without feeling like a twat?

Simon knocked on the door. ‘Come in,’ Hey called out. Mercifully, he switched off the forlorn American woman. Simon walked into a large, high-ceilinged room with white walls and a threadbare beige carpet, much of which was covered by a red and black patterned rug. The pattern reminded Simon of faces, specifically, the faces of the constantly moving target creatures in ‘Space Invaders’, the first and only computer game he’d ever played. On one side of the room there was a wine-coloured three-piece suite, and on the other a white table with a wooden top surrounded by six white chairs with flat wooden seats.

There was no sign of Hey, though his voice was representing him in his absence. ‘Be with you in a sec!’ he shouted. ‘Have a seat!’ Simon couldn’t tell if Hey was in the kitchen or upstairs. Through one half-open door he could see an old-fashioned cooker with a stained top; it reminded him of the one in the student house he’d shared with four people he’d despised, all those years ago. Another door at the other end of the same wall opened on to the stairs.

Simon didn’t sit. While he waited, he looked at Jonathan Hey’s many glass-fronted bookcases. He read a few of the titles: Folk Devils and Moral Panics. A Theory of Human Need. On Women. How to Observe Morals and Manners. He saw names he’d never heard of, and felt disgusted by his own ignorance. Sexist that he was, he’d assumed sociologists were mainly male, but apparently not: some were called Harriet, Hannah, Rosa.

One whole shelf was dedicated to Hey’s own publications. Simon skimmed the titles, which were variations on a theme; again and again, the words ‘crime’ and ‘deviancy’ cropped up. He looked to see if Hey had written any books specifically on the subject of what Harbard called family annihilation. He couldn’t see any; perhaps the article he’d co-written with Harbard was the extent of his work on the topic.

There was a framed poster on one wall advertising the film Apocalypse Now. Next to it was another poster, a cartoon of a black woman wearing a headscarf and holding a baby, with the caption: ‘The hand that rocks the cradle should also rock the boat’. The slogan irritated Simon, for reasons he couldn’t be bothered to think about. There was nothing else on the walls apart from Hey’s framed degree and PhD certificates and a truly repulsive painting that looked like an original, of an ugly adult’s face wearing grotesque clown make-up beneath a white, lacy baby’s bonnet.

‘The picture.’ Hey appeared in the room. He had a pleasant, plump face, and was about twenty years younger than Harbard. Simon noticed his clothes: a shirt and formal jacket with faded jeans and blue and grey trainers-an odd combination. ‘It was supposed to be an investment, but the artist sank without trace. Who was it who wrote that poem about money talking? “I heard it once-it said goodbye.” Do you know it?’

‘No,’ said Simon.

‘Sorry, I’m wittering.’ Hey extended his hand. ‘Nice to meet you. Thanks for coming all this way.’

Simon told him it was no problem.

‘I’ve been considering contacting you. I probably wouldn’t have plucked up the courage, though, which would have been lazy and wrong of me.’

Simon prepared himself to receive unwanted information about Whewell College ’s intruder alarm system or choral scholars’ cars being vandalised. A lot of civilians seemed to think that all police officers ought to make themselves available to deal with all crimes, irrespective of geography. Simon tried not to look bored in advance.

‘I’m worried about this book Keith’s writing,’ said Hey, lowering himself into an armchair. Simon instantly changed his mind about the man. ‘Keith Harbard. I know he’s been working with you. He was here just before you, actually. I tried, yet again, to talk him out of it…’

‘He’s writing a book?’ This was the first Simon had heard of it. ‘About family annihilation killings?’

‘He’s planning to use the Brethericks as his main case study.’

‘Mark Bretherick will do everything in his power to stop that from happening,’ said Simon, hoping it was true.

Hey nodded. ‘That’s the trouble, for people like Keith and me. We’re researching familicide, and we publish our research. But the women whose husbands have killed their children before committing suicide don’t want some academics coming along and writing about it. They see us as careerists, profiting from their misery.’

‘I don’t blame them,’ said Simon.

Hey sat forward. ‘I don’t either,’ he said, ‘but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop working on the topic. Familicide’s a terrible crime, one of the worst human beings have managed to come up with. It’s important that people think about it.’

‘Especially if those people get promoted as a result?’

‘I was a professor long before I first took an interest in family killings. There’s no more promotion for me. I work on familicide because I want to understand it, because I would like it never to happen again. All my writing on the subject is in pursuit of that sole aim.’

Simon couldn’t help but be impressed by Hey’s seriousness. ‘All right. So you’re not in it for careerist reasons. Same true of Harbard?’

Hey’s face changed. He looked as if a part of his body had started to hurt. ‘Keith’s been a mentor to me my whole career. He was the external examiner for my PhD, my referee for this job. He took me under his wing from the start. I know he can be a bit full of himself-’

‘You’re defending him,’ Simon pointed out. ‘I didn’t attack him.’

Hey sighed. ‘No, but I’m about to. Much as I hate doing it.’ He hesitated. Simon tried not to look too attentive, a tactic that either worked well or not at all. ‘I’m worried he’s out of control. ’

‘Out of control?’ It wasn’t what Simon had been expecting. He saw Harbard as a man who managed his own career with a cool, clear head, more effectively than any PR could.

‘Can I get you a drink, before I launch in?’ said Hey. ‘Sorry, should have offered ages ago.’

Simon shook his head.

‘I’d really hate for Keith to find out I’d… voiced any reservations. Can you make sure it doesn’t get back to him?’

‘I can try.’

‘He’s a lovely guy. I wouldn’t say he’s a close friend, but-’

‘Why not?’ Simon interrupted.

‘Sorry?’

‘You say you’ve known him your whole career, he’s been your mentor-I assumed you were good friends.’

‘It’s always been more of a professional relationship. We don’t socialise. Although… well, sometimes Keith talks to me about his personal life.’ Hey looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Quite often, I suppose.’

‘But he never asks you about yours?’

Hey’s guilty smile told Simon he’d guessed correctly. ‘He knows the title of every book and article I’ve ever written, but he occasionally forgets my name-calls me Joshua. I doubt he has a clue that I’m married and soon to be a father of two.’

‘Twins?’ Simon felt obliged to ask, aware once again of the deadened space inside him where his feelings ought to be. Would he ever have a child? It was looking increasingly unlikely.

‘No, no.’ Hey laughed. ‘Thank goodness. No, one already hatched, the second a work in progress.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Don’t.’ Hey raised his hand to stop Simon. ‘Sorry. I’m a bit superstitious. Accepting congratulations before I know everything’s going to be okay, you know? There’s still a long way to go. Do you believe in the idea of tempting fate?’

Simon did. He believed someone had tempted fate-on his behalf and beyond all endurance-before he was born. That would explain his life so far.

‘I feel as if I’m to blame,’ said Hey. ‘I was the one who got Keith interested in familicide in the first place. Did he tell you that?’

‘No.’ Simon resisted the ignoble urge to tell Hey that Harbard had not once mentioned his name.

‘I used to work more on the relationship between the criminal and society, on the social rehabilitation of criminals, attitudes to reoffending, that sort of thing. There was this one guy, Billy Cass, who I used to visit in prison a lot. You get quite close to these people, through the work. Well, you must find the same thing in your job.’

Simon said nothing. He’d never been close to a scrote in his life apart from physically, geographically. That was bad enough.

‘Prisons, I should say. Billy was in and out, in and out. He’s out at the moment but he’ll be in again soon. That’s life as far as he’s concerned. He doesn’t even mind it.’

Simon nodded. He was familiar with the type. Billy, he thought. William. But the surname was Cass, not Markes.

‘One of the prisons he was in, there was a man they all victimised-beat him, tortured him. The guards as well. The man was in for killing his three daughters. His wife had left him, left all of them, and he wanted revenge. He killed his own children, then tried to kill himself and failed. Imagine that.’ Hey paused, watching Simon to check he hadn’t underestimated the seriousness of the father’s actions. ‘You can’t imagine it,’ he said. ‘This man wasn’t like Billy, he didn’t like being in prison, didn’t like being anywhere. He’d wanted to die, really wanted to, but he’d botched it. Over and over he tried to kill himself in prison-knives, ligatures, the works. He even tried bashing his head repeatedly against the wall of his cell. The guards would happily have let him get on with it, except there was a new initiative. They’d been told their suicide figures were too high. It became a way of torturing him: saving his life.’ Hey frowned, stared down at his feet. ‘I’d never heard anything so horrific. That was when I knew I had to do something about it.’

Simon frowned. ‘You don’t honestly think you and Harbard writing your books and articles is going to stop things like this from happening? Or make it easier for those who are left behind? ’

‘I can’t bring people back from the dead, obviously,’ said Hey. ‘But I can try to understand, and understanding always helps, doesn’t it?’

Simon was doubtful. Would he feel better if he understood why Charlie, in response to his suggestion that they get married, had burst into tears, screamed obscenities at him and thrown him out of her house? Eternal confusion might be preferable; some things were too hard to face up to.

‘Anyway, whether you approve or not,’ said Hey, with a small, apologetic shrug. ‘Keith and I decided to devote ourselves, research-wise, to familicide. That was four years ago. At this moment in time, we’re two of a handful of experts on the subject in the UK. From what I know about Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick’s deaths, they don’t fit in with any family annihilation model that we’ve come across in our research. Not at all.’

‘What?’ Simon’s hand was in his jacket pocket, fumbling for his notebook and pen. ‘You’re saying you don’t think Geraldine Bretherick was responsible for the two deaths?’

‘No,’ said Hey unequivocally.

‘Harbard disagrees,’ Simon pointed out.

‘I know.’ For a second, Hey looked stricken. ‘I can’t talk sense into him, however hard I try. He’s going to write a misleading, entirely wrong-headed book, and it’s all my fault.’

‘How?’

Hey rubbed his face with his hands, as if he was washing. ‘Familicide’s not like murder, that’s the first thing you need to understand. People commit murder for a variety of reasons-it’s a crime with an extensive motive pool. Whereas you’d be surprised to discover how few prototypes there are for family-annihilation killings. Few enough for me to run through them all before dinner.’ Hey glanced at his watch. ‘First off, there are the men who kill their entire families-wives, children, themselves-because they’re facing financial ruin. They can’t cope with the shame, the sense of failure, the disappointment and disgrace they imagine their families will feel. So they choose death as the better option. These are men who have always been perceived as-and indeed, have been-loving, caring fathers and husbands. They can’t go on-the inevitable alterations to their self-image would be too painful-and they can’t envisage a life for the family with them gone. They view the murders as their final act of care and protection, if you like.’

‘They’re usually middle-class?’

‘Right. Middle, upper-middle. Good guess.’

‘It wasn’t. I read it in your article, yours and Harbard’s.’

‘Oh, right.’ Hey looked surprised but pleased. ‘Okay, second model: the men like Billy’s prison colleague, who kill their children to take revenge on former partners who’ve left them, wives who are planning to leave them or have been unfaithful. These instances of familicide usually come from the opposite end of the social spectrum-men with low incomes, manual jobs if they’ve got jobs at all.’

‘You make it sound as if there are plenty of cases to choose from. It must be an incredibly rare crime.’

‘One familicide in the UK every six weeks. Not as rare as you might think.’ Hey paced the floor, from one end of his Space Invader rug to the other. ‘The second prototype-the vindictive, vengeful family annihilator-sometimes he kills the woman too. The kids and the wife or partner. It varies. Depends on whether he thinks killing her would be a better revenge than leaving her alive once her children are dead. If there’s another man involved, he might not want his rival to get his hands on the woman that he regards as his property, just as he doesn’t want his children to end up calling another man “Dad”. Sometimes he wants to end his wife or girlfriend’s bloodline: he doesn’t want anything of her to live on, which is why he has to kill the children too, his own children.’

‘You keep saying “he”. Are family… annihilators always men?’ Simon asked.

‘Almost always.’ Hey perched on the arm of his sofa. ‘When women do it-traditionally-it’s for different reasons. Women don’t kill their children to avoid facing bankruptcy; as far as we know, that’s never happened, not once. And the revenge-motivated familicide is male, not female. Simple reason: even in our supposedly equal modern society, children are still seen as belonging more to the woman than the man. He kills them as a way of destroying something that’s hers. Very few women would see their children as belonging more to their husbands than to themselves, so they wouldn’t be destroying his treasured possessions-only their own. See what I mean?’

‘So when women do it, what’s their motive?’ asked Simon. ‘Depression?’

Hey nodded. ‘Keith’s told me about the diary Geraldine Bretherick left, and, granted, it sounds as if she was seriously dissatisfied. I’m not sure if she was depressed. But she wasn’t delusional, and most mothers who kill their children are. They tend to have a history of depression dating back to childhood, linked, often, to disastrous family backgrounds and a total lack of support networks.’

‘What kind of delusions?’ asked Simon. He was wondering about William Markes, a man no one had been able to find.

‘All kinds. Some believe that they and their children are suffering from terminal illnesses,’ said Hey. ‘Murder and suicide are their escape routes, to avoid prolonged suffering. They’re not ill at all, of course, but they’re absolutely convinced they are. Or else the women are suicidal, and feel so protective of their children, so attached to them, that they can’t kill themselves and leave the children alive: that feels too much like abandonment.’

Simon wrote all this down.

‘I haven’t seen Geraldine Bretherick’s diary, but Keith’s described it to me and shown me passages from it. It’s full of complaints about her daughter, right?’

‘Pretty much,’ said Simon.

‘The women who kill their children and then commit suicide, they don’t express negative feelings about their children beforehand. Love is their motivation, albeit a twisted love. Not resentment. At least, that’s true of every case I’ve ever heard of.’

‘So…’ Simon tapped his pen against his leg, thinking. ‘Harbard should know all this. Yet he’s convinced Geraldine Bretherick-’

‘He’s convinced because he wants to be.’ Hey’s pained expression had returned. ‘It’s my fault.’

‘How so?’

‘There was a case a while ago, in Kenilworth, Warwickshire-a man whose business empire was falling apart. He owed millions. Meanwhile his wife and four teenage kids had no idea there was a problem, and were busy splashing out on credit cards, booking holidays, buying cars, taking their wealth and privilege for granted. The wife didn’t work, she didn’t think she had to. She thought she had a rich husband.’

‘He killed them all?’ Simon guessed.

‘Stabbed them in their beds while they were sleeping, then hanged himself. His sense of identity collapsed when he was forced to confront his inability to provide for his family. Keith and I were talking about it one night, I’d had a bit to drink… I said it was more and more common for the woman to be the main breadwinner. Not only the breadwinner, but the one who administrates the family finances. I wondered aloud-and, believe me, I wish I hadn’t-if one day we would start to hear about cases of women who killed their husbands and children for the same reason.’

‘Do you think that’s likely?’ asked Simon.

‘No!’ Hey looked cornered, bewildered. ‘I don’t. If it was going to happen, it would be happening already. That’s my hunch. I was just… idly speculating. But Keith’s eyes lit up. He said he was sure I was right-it would start to happen. He seemed… I almost had the impression he wanted it to happen. No, that’s a terrible thing to say, of course he didn’t. But I could tell he’d latched on to the idea. Women have always borne the burden of domestic responsibility pretty much single-handedly, he said. Which is true, even in our so-called enlightened society. Women take responsibility for the home and the kids, and often view their husband as an extra child, someone else to be looked after. Men used to be the ones who brought in the money, but even that’s changing. Women are keen to work outside the home now, which means men get to have it even easier. More and more of us marry women who earn more than we do-’ Hey stopped suddenly. ‘Are you married?’ he asked.

‘No.’ The word rang in Simon’s ears.

‘Girlfriend?’

‘Yes.’ Another ‘no’ would have been too difficult.

‘Does she earn more or less than you?’

‘More,’ said Simon. ‘She’s a sergeant.’

‘My wife used to earn more than I did. Embarrassingly more-my salary was pocket money.’ Hey smiled. ‘I didn’t care, from a macho point of view. Do you?’

‘No.’ Simon did. Only a little, but he did.

‘It often changes once you’ve had children. Now I’m the sole breadwinner.’ Hey sounded as if he felt guilty. ‘Anyway, naturally women are more nurturing and more protective than men. They shoulder burdens rather than delegate them to their husbands or partners. Often they assume a man wouldn’t be able to cope in the way that they can. Plus, they want to make everyone happy, even if it’s at their own expense-you know, the martyr mentality. The “have-the-men-had-enough?” mentality.’

Simon had no idea what Hey was talking about.

‘Whereas men-again, huge generalisation-men tend only to care about making themselves happy. We’re undeniably more selfish.’

‘Apart from the men who are so distressed about not being able to provide for their families that they kill them,’ Simon reminded him.

‘Ah, but it’s their own egos they really care about. Not their wives and children. Obviously, because they murder them. And that’s why, ultimately, I don’t think women will start to commit familicide in the same numbers as men. Women care more about their families than about preserving their own vanity.’

‘You have a low opinion of men,’ said Simon, both admiring and resenting Hey’s honesty.

‘Some of us are all right. You see, this is my point.’ Hey smiled sheepishly. ‘I think aloud, and it causes trouble. All I said to Keith was that I wondered if, eventually, we’d start to come across cases of women whose business empires collapsed and who, rather than admit that they’d failed to look after their families properly…’ He chewed the inside of his lip. ‘Two weeks later, Keith had dashed off an article predicting more familicides committed by women for financial reasons.’

‘And then Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick were found dead.’ Simon stood up, couldn’t keep his body still when his mind was all over the place. ‘You’re saying Harbard’s using our case. He wants Geraldine Bretherick to have proved him right.’

Hey nodded. Patches of red had appeared on his cheeks. ‘I don’t think she has,’ he said. ‘Geraldine Bretherick was a full-time mother and home-maker. She had no financial responsibilities, and she had the security of knowing that her husband was rich and likely to become richer. So that’s prototype one down the pan. And the vengeful, vindictive model: Keith says there’s no evidence Mark Bretherick was planning to leave her, or had another woman?’

‘None,’ said Simon.

Hey held up his hands. ‘I just don’t see it. I keep telling Keith that none of the predictions he made in his article are borne out by this case, not a single one, but he keeps insisting he was right: he predicted more women would kill their children and now Geraldine Bretherick has. That’s what he says; he seems determined to ignore the specifics. It’s as if all the detail we’ve gone into, all those years of both our lives, have just been wiped out!’

Simon looked up from his notes.

‘Sorry,’ Hey muttered. ‘Look, it’s not my career I’m thinking about. I feel responsible. I’m one of the few people in the country who know as much about this topic as Keith does. Now that I’ve told you my opinion… well, at least the police know there’s another point of view.’

‘You’ve been very helpful,’ said Simon.

Hey looked at his watch. ‘We’d better start heading down to dinner.’

Simon had no appetite. ‘I might give it a miss, if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a tiring day and tomorrow’s going to be another one. I ought to start driving back.’

‘Oh.’ Hey sounded disappointed. ‘Well, if you’re sure. We don’t have to talk about this sort of thing. I mean, I don’t want you to think my conversation’s limited to-’

‘It’s not that,’ said Simon. ‘Really, I should get back to Spilling.’

Hey showed him to the door. ‘If Geraldine didn’t do it…’ he said. ‘Sorry, I’m thinking aloud again.’

Simon paused at the top of the stone staircase. ‘We’re short on suspects. That’s why, from our end, everyone’s lapping up Harbard and his theories.’

‘The husband?’ asked Hey.

‘Alibi,’ Simon told him. ‘And no motive. They were happy. Bretherick had no one waiting in the wings.’

‘I have to say this.’ Hey frowned. ‘It would worry me if I let you leave without having said it. When men do murder their wives… well, in the majority of cases the wives don’t work or have any status outside the home. It’s much rarer for a husband or partner to kill a woman he regards as his equal. Valued by people other than himself.’

Simon mulled this over as he walked back to his car. It was enough to make pregnant professional women give birth at board meetings, he thought. Geraldine Bretherick had been valued by her friends, but had they loved her? Needed her? Cordy O’Hara’s life would go on without her. There was her mother, of course, but Simon had a feeling Hey would say that didn’t count in this context.

Apart from Mark, perhaps even more than Mark, Lucy Bretherick must surely have been the person who most valued and needed Geraldine. Lucy, who was also dead.

When Charlie opened the door to her sister, the first thing she noticed was what looked like a large book in Olivia’s hands, roughly the size and shape of the Spilling and Rawndesley telephone directory. Olivia held it up; it was a Laura Ashley catalogue, Spring/Summer 2007. ‘Before you complain, their prices are very reasonable. You’d be surprised. I know what a skinflint you are, and you know I don’t settle for second-best. Laura Ashley is perfect-affordable designer.’

Charlie waited for Liv to notice her red nose and puffy eyes, but Liv pushed past her into the hall. She stopped when she drew level with the radiator, eyeing the stained plaster all around her. ‘I know the look I’d go for,’ she said. ‘I’ve given it a lot of thought, and picked out a few goodies, nice fabrics and stuff. Obviously it’s your choice…’

‘Liv. I don’t give a shit about fabrics.’

‘… but I’m almost going to insist on Allegra Gold wallpaper for the hall, with a basketweave nutmeg carpet. And for the lounge, a Burlington distressed leather three-piece suite. Laura Ashley’s not all country-spinster chintz and flowers, you know. They’ve got some strong, solid stuff too. They do everything-literally everything-and the beauty of getting it all from one place is that they come and-’

Charlie pushed her sister aside and ran up the stairs. She slammed her bedroom door and leaned against it. Spinster. That was her, would always be her. She heard Liv huffing and puffing her way up the stairs; more exercise than she’d done in years, probably. Charlie walked over to the bare, curtainless window. She took hold of one end of the curtain rail and ripped it off the wall. There. Now Liv wouldn’t be able to hang any Laura Ashley curtains from it.

‘Char?’ A small knock at the door. Olivia pretending not to want to intrude. ‘Look, if you don’t want me to interfere, why not take charge of the decorating yourself? You can’t live with bare floorboards for ever.’

‘It’s fashionable,’ Charlie told her. ‘Carpet’s out. Wooden floors are in.’

Olivia flung open the bedroom door. Her face matched her pink scoop-necked sweater. ‘Properly sanded and polished ones, yes. Not ones that look like this. You haven’t even got a bed!’

‘I’ve got a mattress. King size.’

‘You’re living like… like someone who’s plotting a terrorist atrocity in a squat! Do you remember the shoe bomber, that ugly git with long hair and a turnip nose who tried to blow up a plane? I bet his bedroom was nicer than yours!’

‘Liv, I’m upset. That’s why I asked you to come round. Not so that we could talk about floorboards. Or terrorists.’

‘I know you’re upset. You’ve been upset for over a year. I’m used to it.’ Liv sighed. ‘Look, I know why you gutted the house, and I understand that you can’t be bothered to sort it out. I’m happy to project-manage it all for you. I honestly think you’d feel better if you-’

‘No, I wouldn’t!’ Charlie yelled. ‘I wouldn’t feel better if I had an Allegra Burlington to sit on, whatever the fuck that is! And this has got nothing to do with what happened last year-nothing! You think that’s why I’m in a state?’

Olivia’s eyes darted left and right, as if she’d been asked a trick question. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘No! It’s Simon. I love him, and he asked me to marry him, and I swore at him and threw him out.’

‘Oh, right.’ Olivia sounded deflated.

‘Yeah, that’s right. Boring, isn’t it? Simon Waterhouse again.’

‘But I thought… from what you said on the phone, you dealt with it. He proposed, you said no-’

‘Of course I said no! This is Simon we’re talking about! If I’d said yes, his feelings by now would be slightly more lukewarm than when he proposed. By the time we announced our engagement, he’d have gone off me a bit more. By our wedding day he’d be indifferent, and by the time we arrived at the honeymoon suite-hah!-I’d be all his nightmares and worst fears rolled into one.’

Olivia’s eyes narrowed. ‘I seem to be missing some vital components of this situation,’ she said. ‘Simon’s never even taken you out for dinner. You’ve never so much as kissed!’

Charlie mumbled something non-committal. She had kissed Simon-at Sellers’ fortieth birthday party, shortly before Simon had decided he wasn’t interested after all and rejected her in the most humiliating and public way possible-but she’d never told Olivia. She couldn’t, even now. She could hardly bear to think about that party.

‘He’s got a tragedy fetish,’ she said. ‘He feels sorry for me because of last year.’

‘And because you’ve got a bedroom like the shoe bomber,’ Olivia reminded her.

‘It’s not inconceivable that he loves me, is it? For all the wrong reasons.’ Charlie’s voice cracked. ‘And if he does, and I say yes, then he’ll stop. Not straight away, but he will.’ She groaned.

‘Char, you’re… Please tell me you’re not considering saying yes.’

‘Of course not! What do you think I am, a headcase?’

‘Good.’ Olivia was satisfied. ‘Then there’s no problem.’

‘Oh, forget it. You might as well go.’

‘But I’ve brought some fabric swatches…’

‘I’ve got an idea: why don’t you stick your swatches up your arse and fuck off back to London?’ Charlie stared at her sister, determined not to blink in case she lost the fight while her eyes were closed.

Olivia stared back. ‘I’m not going anywhere until you’ve at least looked at the Villandry Duck Egg,’ she said, her voice cool and dignified. ‘It’s woven velvet. Look at it, touch it. I’ll leave it by the front door on my way out.’

What was Charlie supposed to say to that?

The phone rang, sparing her the effort of making a decision. ‘Hello?’ she said in a falsely cheerful voice.

‘Charlie? It’s Stacey Sellers, Colin Sellers’ wife.’

‘Oh.’ Fuck, fuck, fuck. This could only mean one thing: Stacey had found out about Suki, Sellers’ illicit shag, and wanted Charlie to confirm what she already knew. Charlie had dreaded this moment for years. ‘I can’t talk now, Stacey. I’m in the middle of something.’

‘I was wondering if I could come round some time. Soon. I need to show you something.’

‘Now’s a really bad time, and I’m not sure when’ll be better,’ said Charlie. Rude, perhaps, but lying? No. ‘Sorry.’ She put the phone down and forgot about Stacey Sellers instantly. ‘That was Laura Ashley,’ she told Olivia. ‘She wanted to pop round with some more swatches. She says you picked all the wrong ones.’

‘Just wait till you’ve touched the Villandry Duck Egg. It’s from heaven.’

‘I was joking,’ Charlie explained. ‘Sorry if I jumped down your throat.’

‘It’s okay,’ said Olivia, suspicious of her sister’s attempt to appear reasonable when all the evidence suggested otherwise. ‘Look, I understand, honestly I do. You’d like to be able to say yes to Simon, wouldn’t you?’

‘In an ideal world.’ Charlie sighed. ‘If just about every circumstance were different.’

The doorbell rang. Charlie closed her eyes. ‘Stacey,’ she said.

‘Who?’

‘How can she have got here so quickly?’ She ran downstairs and threw open the door, preparing to repel all requests for information or advice. But it wasn’t Stacey; it was Robbie Meakin. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be on paternity leave?’

‘Had to cut it short,’ said Meakin. ‘It was doing my head in. Not being able to get away from the baby, not sleeping properly…’

‘That’ll teach you.’ Charlie smiled. It was reassuring to know that other people’s lives were as difficult as hers. ‘You can’t come and live here, I’m afraid.’

Meakin laughed. ‘I’m really sorry to bother you this late,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d want to see this straight away. Someone hand-delivered it to the nick early this evening.’ He passed Charlie a folded sheet of paper. It was small, covered in writing, and looked as if it had been torn out of a notebook.

‘How is the baby, anyway?’ she asked as she opened it up.

‘Fine. Hungry all the time, crying all the time. Wife’s nipples are like two giant scabs, caked in dried blood. Is that normal?’

‘I wouldn’t know. Sorry.’

‘It’s normal,’ Olivia shouted from the top of the stairs. ‘Tell her to give it time, it’ll get better.’

‘My sister,’ Charlie mouthed at Meakin. ‘She knows nothing.’

He grinned. ‘Right, well, I’ll be off. I thought I should get that to you as soon as possible. I heard you picked up the last one.’

‘Last one?’

‘Letter. About Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick. Didn’t you?’

Charlie nodded. ‘I’m not CID any more, Robbie.’

‘I know, but… You know you’re the only one who sent a card and present for the baby? Waterhouse didn’t. Sellers and Gibbs didn’t.’

‘They’re men, Robbie. Do you send cards?’

He flushed. ‘I will from now on, Sarge.’

Charlie sighed and began to read. More interesting than she’d expected. A little hysterical, but interesting.

Suddenly she was impatient for Meakin to leave. She wanted to read the rest of the letter. She examined it with Simon’s eyes, unable to respond independently of what she knew his response would be.

‘I bought and sent that present,’ said Olivia crossly, once Meakin had gone. ‘And did I get a word of thanks?’

‘Liv, bring me the phone.’ Charlie held her hand out, still staring at the letter. She ignored the hearty sighs that arrived with the telephone, and rang the CID room. Proust answered after the first ring. ‘Sir, it’s me, Charlie. I’ve got another letter here about the Brethericks. It’s anonymous again, but much more detailed than the first one. You need to see it.’

‘What are you waiting for, Sergeant? Bring it in. And, Sergeant? ’

‘Sir?’

‘Cancel whatever plans you’ve made for tonight.’

‘I was planning to get a good night’s sleep. My shift only finished at seven.’

‘Cancel it. I need you here, helping me. Am I sleeping?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Exactly,’ said Proust. He sounded pleased to have won the argument so decisively.

To whoever is investigating the deaths of Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick:

I wrote before, saying Mark Bretherick might not be who he says he is. I have just found a dead ginger cat by the wheel of my car with parcel tape over its mouth. Whoever left it also slashed the tyres. I believe I’m in danger-being warned off. Two days ago someone pushed me in front of a bus in the centre of Rawndesley, and yesterday a car followed me-a red Alfa Romeo, with a registration that began with a Y.

Last year, in a hotel, I met a man who told me he was Mark Bretherick. His real name might be William Markes. He might be the driver of the car that followed me.

I found pictures of a girl in a St Swithun’s uniform and a woman hidden behind photos of Geraldine and Lucy in two wooden frames at Corn Mill House. They were in a bin-bag. Mark Bretherick was going to throw them away. All four pictures were taken at the owl sanctuary at Silsford Castle. Jenny Naismith, the head’s secretary at St Swithun’s, has these two photographs. There was a girl in Lucy Bretherick’s class last year called Amy Oliver-the pictures might be of her and her mother.

Speak to the woman who used to be Amy’s nanny: her number is 07968 563881. You need to make sure Amy and her mother are still alive. And her father. Talk to anyone you can about the relationship between the Bretherick and Oliver families. Cordy O’Hara, the mother of Oonagh, who was best friends with Amy and Lucy, might know something. Talk to Sian Toms, a teaching assistant at St Swithun’s. Look for more bodies in and around Corn Mill House-in the garden. When I went to Corn Mill House, Mark Bretherick was in the garden with a trowel in his hand. Why would he be gardening when his wife and daughter had just died? Search his business premises-anywhere he has access to. Ask him why he hid photographs of Mrs Oliver and Amy behind ones of his wife and daughter.

Jean Ormondroyd, Geraldine Bretherick’s mother, was a small woman with a long neck and tiny shoulders. Her iron-grey hair was bobbed, and hung like curtains around her face, curling up at the edges. From her seat by the wall, Charlie could see only hair and from time to time the tip of a nose. Jean was looking at Proust and Sam Kombothekra, speaking only to them. No one had told her who Charlie was and she hadn’t asked.

‘I’d like you to tell the inspector what you told me, Jean,’ said Sam. ‘Don’t worry about repeating yourself. That’s what I want you to do.’

‘Where’s Mark?’

‘He’s with DC Sellers and DC Gibbs. He won’t leave without you.’

Charlie hadn’t needed to ask Sam how seriously the new information was being taken; Proust never sat in on interviews except in emergencies. If someone who wasn’t Geraldine Bretherick had committed two murders at Corn Mill House on the first or second of August, they’d had six or seven days to cover their tracks, six or seven days of the police believing that the only murderer had made things easy for them by killing herself. Emergencies didn’t come much more dire than that.

Jean addressed Proust. ‘Mark showed me Geri’s diary. I’ve been asking to see it since I first heard about it, and he finally showed it to me, thank goodness. That diary wasn’t written by my daughter.’

‘Tell Inspector Proust why you’re so sure,’ said Sam. Was he wondering why Charlie was there, why Proust had been so adamant about needing her? It can’t be easy for Sam, she thought. He’s trying to do my job, and I turn up to watch him do it.

‘Lucy’s night light,’ said Jean. ‘What the diary says-it’s wrong. Lucy had a night light, yes, but it was a plug-in one, Winnie the Pooh. It went in the plug socket in her bedroom, next to her bed. It’s about the size of a normal plug, but round instead of square.’

‘The diary doesn’t specify the sort of night light, does it?’ Proust asked Sam.

‘Let me finish,’ said Geraldine’s mother. Both men turned to face her. ‘It says in the diary that Lucy wanted her door open because she was scared of monsters, the same reason she wanted it to be a bit light. It says that from that night, the first time she talked about being scared of monsters…’ Jean stopped, took a few breaths. ‘Every night after that, it says, Lucy slept with her door open and her night light on, but why would she have needed the door open? The night light was in her room.’

‘We assumed the night light was outside Lucy’s room, and the door was left ajar to let the light in,’ said Sam.

‘But didn’t you see Lucy’s Winnie the Pooh light? Didn’t you find it?’ Jean’s voice was full of contempt.

‘We did. Jean, there was no way we could have known Lucy had the light in her room and not, say, on the landing.’

‘But didn’t you plug it in? Didn’t you see how dim it was? Just a faint gold glow. Night lights like that are designed to go in children’s rooms. That’s the whole point of them. You should have known.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Sam. ‘I didn’t.’

‘Someone should have known! How many detectives saw that light? Don’t you have children? Don’t they have night lights?’

How many detectives does it take to change a light bulb? Charlie mused.

Proust was looking at Sam, waiting for him to answer.

‘My sons sleep with their bedroom doors open, and we leave the bathroom light on.’

‘Mark didn’t know either,’ said Jean. It sounded like a concession. ‘He’d heard Geri mention a night light, but he won’t have known what sort, or where it was. Geri was always the one who put Lucy to bed and got up for her in the night.’

‘Was Mark a good father, would you say?’ asked Proust.

‘Of course he was! He has to work all the time, that’s what I meant. Like a lot of fathers. But it was Lucy’s future he was working for. He adores that child.’ Jean’s head dipped. ‘I still can’t believe she’s gone. My sweet Lucy.’

‘I’m so sorry, Jean. And I’m sorry to have to put you through a second interview.’

‘Don’t be,’ she said. ‘You need to talk to someone who knows even more about Geri and Lucy than Mark does. And that’s me. I can’t believe you didn’t show me the diary straight away. That’s the first thing I’d have done, in your position. I could have helped you a lot sooner.’

‘The decision wasn’t-’

‘I wasn’t a part-time grandmother.’ Jean Ormondroyd cut Sam off angrily. ‘I spoke to Geri and Lucy on the phone every day. I knew every single detail of Lucy’s life: what she ate for every meal, what she wore, who she played with. Geri told me everything. The night light was in Lucy’s room, and the door had to be closed-Lucy insisted. That way the monsters couldn’t get into her room from the dark bits of the house.’ Jean looked at Charlie, dissatisfied with the reaction she was getting from Proust and Sam: solemn silence. Charlie smiled sympathetically.

‘When Geri and Lucy came to stay the night at my house, which they often did if Mark was away on business, the Winnie the Pooh night light came too. And Lucy’s door had to be shut; if we took too long to shut it, five seconds instead of two, she’d get panicky. We’d finish her bedtime story, kiss her goodnight and have to run to the door to close it before any monsters crept in.’

Proust leaned forward, rubbing the knuckle joints of his left hand with the fingers of his right. ‘Are you telling me that Mark never put his daughter to bed? Not once? At weekends, on holiday? He didn’t know she had a light in her room and that the door had to be closed?’

‘He might have had a vague idea, but Geri was always the one who put Lucy to bed. If Mark was around, he’d do the bedtime story session downstairs. He’d always read her as many stories as she wanted. But bathtime and bedtime was Geri’s responsibility. They had their routines, like most families.’

‘Nevertheless,’ said Proust. He pulled a small grey mobile phone out of his shirt pocket, glanced at it, then dropped it back in. ‘I find it odd that he and Geraldine didn’t discuss Lucy’s fear of monsters and her need to have her door either open or shut.’

‘They did,’ said Jean. ‘Mark told me on the way here: he knew there was a problem about monsters, and he knew Lucy had been fussy about the light and the door, but he didn’t remember the specific details. He’s a very busy man, and… well, men don’t remember those domestic details in the way women do.’

Charlie was beginning to admire Jean Ormondroyd, who was clearly determined not to cry. She wanted them to focus on the information she was here to give them, not on her feelings.

‘It’s not just the night light that’s wrong,’ she said. ‘There are other things. Lucy had a DVD of Annie the musical, yes, but I didn’t buy it for her. Geri did. And the conversations the diary describes between Geri and me-they never happened. I didn’t buy her a mug with any book title on it-it didn’t happen!’

Mug with a book title? Charlie would have to look at the diary; she hadn’t a clue what Jean was talking about. I don’t work here, she reminded herself. I don’t have to understand.

‘Jean, who do you think wrote the diary, if not Geri?’ Sam asked.

‘The man who killed her, obviously. I can’t believe you need me to tell you. Haven’t you worked it out yet? He made her write it, before he murdered her. And the suicide note. He made her write a diary that would make the police believe she was capable of doing such a terrible thing-which of course she wasn’t! That’s why Geri wrote things that weren’t right, things he wouldn’t know weren’t right, as a way of signalling she wasn’t doing it by choice, so that Mark and I would know.’

Charlie thought this sounded far-fetched. If Geraldine had wanted to signal to her husband and mother that she wasn’t writing the diary of her own volition, would she really do it by changing the location of a night light? Or writing that Jean had bought Lucy the Annie DVD when she hadn’t? Mark hadn’t even known what sort of night light Lucy had. Had he known where the Annie DVD had come from? Doubtful. Geraldine could have planted an incorrect detail about his work if she’d wanted to be sure of alerting him to something being amiss.

‘Jean, I need to ask you something else,’ said Sam. ‘Have you heard the name Amy Oliver before?’

‘Yes. She was Lucy’s friend at school, one of her two best friends. Of course I’ve heard of Amy.’

‘How recently was Lucy in touch with her?’

‘Not since Amy left St Swithun’s, which was some time last year. Spring or summer. Amy moved away.’

‘Do you know where she went?’

Jean shook her head. ‘I was relieved, to be perfectly honest. So was Geri. She thought Amy was… well, a bit unstable. Volatile. She often upset Lucy. They fought a lot, and Amy always ended up screaming and crying.’

‘What did they fight about?’ Sam asked.

Jean sighed. ‘Lucy’s… Lucy was a real stickler for detail. She knew the difference between what was true and what wasn’t.’

‘Are you saying Amy used to tell lies?’ asked Proust.

‘All the time, according to Geri. And Lucy, who, bless her heart, couldn’t stand to let things pass if they simply weren’t right, she’d try to correct Amy. That’s when the screaming would start. Amy lived in a fantasy world, by the sound of it, and she was over-sensitive. Not at all robust.’ Jean made a dismissive noise. ‘You know what little girls are like-it’s the law of the jungle, isn’t it? No good being a timid little mouse.’

‘How did Oonagh O’Hara fit in?’ Sam asked. Proust snorted quietly. Charlie knew there were many things in which the inspector had no interest whatsoever. Evidently the complex relationships that existed between primary school girls was one of them.

‘That was another thing about Amy.’ Jean pursed her lips. ‘She wanted Oonagh to be her best friend, not Lucy’s. She’d deliberately try to exclude Lucy, tell Oonagh secrets and make her promise not to tell.’

‘What sort of secrets?’ said Sam.

‘Silly things, not even secrets. She wanted to make Lucy feel left out, that’s all. She’d whisper to Oonagh, “My favourite colour’s pink-don’t tell Lucy.” She used to say she was a princess, apparently. She was a princess and her mother was a queen. Geri said…’ Jean’s words tailed off.

‘Go on,’ Sam encouraged her.

‘Geri said it was as if Amy wanted to… to punish Lucy for seeing through her, for insisting on pointing out the truth whenever she made up her silly stories.’

‘Was Geraldine happy in her marriage?’ asked Proust impatiently, as if to demonstrate the difference between a proper question and a pointless one. ‘Did Mark treat her well? Did they love each other?’

‘Why don’t you ask Mark?’ said Jean. ‘It’s unforgivable, if you’re trying to make out he’s guilty in some way. He’s a wonderful person, and he worshipped Geri. He never raised his voice with her, not once in all the years they were together, and you’re trying to find fault with him because you need to blame somebody and you can’t think of anyone else.’

‘Let’s move on to the gloves,’ said Sam. ‘Jean, tell Inspector Proust-’

‘You tell him. You’ve obviously told him already. Why do I have to say it again?’

‘I’ll hear it from you,’ Proust barked, and the small woman shrank back in her chair. As someone who believed in the law of the jungle, thought Charlie, Jean Ormondroyd could hardly object.

‘Geri had a pair of yellow rubber gloves in the drawer beneath the sink, for washing up the things that wouldn’t go in the dishwasher. I used to say to her, why buy things that won’t go in the dishwasher when it’s just as easy to…’ She stopped. ‘The gloves aren’t there any more. I was wanting to wash a few glasses, help Mark out, and the gloves had gone. Mark didn’t even know they were there, so he hasn’t touched them. They were always there.’

‘Might Geri have thrown them away?’ Sam asked.

‘No. They were new ones. She’d keep a pair for ages before she’d replace them. The man who killed her wore them so as not to leave fingerprints.’ She shuffled her chair forward across the floor. ‘I’m not being fanciful, before you say I am. What other explanation could there be for any of this apart from what I’m saying? Well?’

Sam looked at Proust. Neither of them replied. Jean Ormondroyd’s eyes came to rest on Charlie, her expression fierce and demanding. Had it occurred to her, Charlie wondered, that getting an answer-even the right one-might be worse than not knowing?