A Room Swept White (28 page)

‘If either Mr Nattrass or Miss Benson contacts you . . .’

‘Are you going to look for Fliss?’ Tamsin asked. ‘If I don’t hear back from her soon, I’m really going to panic. Twickenham – that’s where you want to start looking.’

‘Why there?’

‘I think that’s where Ray Hines’ parents live. And I’m pretty sure Fliss will have gone back there today.’

Sellers wrote ‘Ray Hines – parents – Twickenham’ in his notebook.

‘She’s next, isn’t she?’ said Tamsin.

‘Sorry?’

‘First Sarah Jaggard’s nearly knifed, then Helen Yardley’s shot. Ray Hines is number three, isn’t she? She’s bound to be next.’

This is the happiest I’ve ever been, thought Sergeant Charlie Zailer. She’d been in a state of deep joy all morning, but she’d been alone at home, and bliss – as she’d only recently discovered, never having experienced it or anything like it before – pulsed even more strongly through the veins, glowed all the more brightly under the skin, when you were around other people. Which was why she had wanted to throw her arms round Sam Kombothekra’s neck and cover him with kisses – platonic ones – when he’d arrived to escort her to Proust’s office, and why now, walking beside Sam along the corridor to the CID room, listening to his apologies and proclamations of innocence, she felt her happiness was reaching a peak. Here she was with her good friend, on this brilliant day, talking, breathing air. She didn’t care about being taken away from her work, or the manner in which this had been effected. All that mattered to her was the scrap of paper in her pocket.

She hadn’t been planning to tell anyone but her sister – it was private, after all – but she was still waiting for Liv to ring her back, and now here she was, strolling along with Sam . . . Well,
she
was strolling. He was marching, glancing back over his shoulder at her every few seconds, scared the Snowman would glaciate him if he took too long to round Charlie up. Who cared? And who cared what Proust wanted? Let him wait, let everything wait apart from the need to reveal that was surging inside her. She’d have preferred to tell Sam’s wife, Kate – Kate would have been ideal, better than Liv, even – but Kate wasn’t here.

‘Simon wrote me a love letter this morning.’

Sam stopped, turned round. ‘What?’ He’d been too far ahead. It was hard to hear anyone clearly in
the corridors in the oldest part of the police station; there was the constant sound of rushing water to contend with, something to do with the pipes. According to Simon, it had sounded exactly the same when he was a kid; the nick had been the local swimming baths in those days. Parts of the building still smelled of chlorine.

‘Simon wrote me a love letter,’ Charlie said again, grinning. ‘I woke up and found it lying next to me in bed.’

Sam frowned. ‘Is everything okay? You and Simon haven’t . . . broken up? He hasn’t . . .?’

Charlie giggled. ‘Explain to me how you got that from what I just said. Everything is
fine
, Sam. Everything is perfect. He sent me a
love
letter. A proper one.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Sam looked perplexed.

‘I’m not going to tell you what he wrote.’

‘No, of course not.’ If ever a man was happy to be let off the hook . . . ‘Shall we?’ Sam inclined his head in the direction of the Snowman’s office. ‘Whatever it is, let’s get it over with.’

‘What are you so nervous about? I’m used to this, Sam. Ever since I left CID, Proust’s been in the habit of rubbing lamps and hoping I’ll appear.’

‘Why didn’t he ring you? Why send me to fetch you?’

‘I don’t know. Does it matter?’ Now that Charlie had told Sam about it, Simon’s note felt more real. Perhaps she didn’t need to tell Liv. Liv would demand to know exactly what it said. She’d pick holes in it, one big hole in particular: the word ‘love’ wasn’t mentioned.

I do. I know I never say it, but I do
.

Charlie appreciated the subtlety. She more than appreciated it; she adored it. Simon’s note was perfect; those were the best
eleven words he could have chosen. Only the crassest of drips would use the word ‘love’ in a love letter. I’m doing it again, she thought – arguing with Liv in my head.

Liv would ask if Simon had signed the letter, or put kisses at the bottom. No, and no. She’d ask about the paper. Charlie would have to tell her it was a corner of a page torn off the pad of lined yellow A4 she kept by the phone. She didn’t care. Simon was a man – he was hardly going to use scented pink paper with a border of flowers. Liv would say,
Would it have killed him to use a whole sheet instead of tearing off a corner
? She’d say,
Big deal. You’ve been engaged for a year and a half and you still haven’t had sex, nor is he any closer to explaining why he won’t, but, hey, what does any of that matter now that he’s written some words on a scrap of paper
?

Perhaps, after tonight, there would be no need for Simon to explain why he wouldn’t. He’d left a message on Charlie’s voicemail half an hour ago telling her he’d see her later, to try to get back as early as she could. He had to have written that note for a reason – he’d never done anything like it before. Maybe he’d decided it was time.

Charlie had torn a scrap from the pad herself before leaving for work. She’d written, ‘About the honeymoon: whatever you want is fine, even if it’s a fortnight at the Beaumont Guest House.’ That should make Simon laugh. The Beaumont was a bed and breakfast across the road from his parents’ house. You could see it from their lounge window.

‘He wants you at a disadvantage,’ Sam was saying. ‘That’s why he’s sent me to collect you. You’re supposed to wonder if you’re in trouble.’

‘Sam, relax. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘I’m only saying what Simon would say if he were here.’

Charlie laughed. ‘Did you just snap at me? You did. You actually snapped. Are you okay?’

Sam’s nickname, originally invented by Chris Gibbs, was Stepford, on account of his impeccable courteousness. He’d once admitted to Charlie that the part of his job he hated most was making arrests. She’d asked him why and he’d said, ‘Putting handcuffs on someone seems so . . . rude.’

He stopped walking and leaned against the wall, his body sagging as he sighed heavily. ‘Do you ever feel as if you’re turning into Simon? Too long spent in close proximity . . .’

‘I still have no desire to read
Moby-Dick
, let alone reread it twice a year, so I’d have to say no.’

‘I interviewed the Brownlees the other day, the couple who adopted Helen Yardley’s daughter. Both are alibied up to the eyebrows – I wasn’t planning to spend any more time on them.’

‘But?’ Charlie prompted.

‘When I told Grace Brownlee I was a detective, the first words out of her mouth were, “We did nothing wrong.” ’

‘Exactly what I’ve just said.’

‘No. That’s the point. You said, “I’ve
done
nothing wrong.” She said, “We
did
nothing wrong.” They’re basically the same, I know, but I also knew what Simon would have been thinking if he’d been there.’

So did Charlie. ‘ “We’ve done nothing wrong” means “I can think of nothing we’ve done that was wrong”. “We
did
nothing wrong” means “That specific thing we did was entirely justified”.’

‘Exactly,’ said Sam. ‘I’m glad it’s not just me.’

‘Even the strongest mind can’t withstand the Simon Waterhouse brainwash effect,’ Charlie told him.

‘I wanted to know what Grace Brownlee felt so defensive about, so I turned up unannounced at her house last night. Didn’t take long to trick her into telling me by implying I already knew.’

‘And?’

‘How much do you know about adoption procedures?’

‘You need to ask?’ Charlie raised an eyebrow.

‘Normally, if there’s any chance a child in care might go back to its biological parents, that’s the favoured option. While the case is being decided, the kid might go to foster parents. If the final family court decision goes against the birth mother, that’s when Social Services start looking for an adoptive family. But some local authorities – and Culver Valley’s one of them – have something called concurrent plan adoption that they use in a few select cases. It’s massively controversial, which is why a lot of councils won’t touch it with a bargepole. Some people say it violates the birth parents’ human rights.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Charlie. ‘Paige Yardley was one of those special cases.’

Sam nodded. ‘You take a couple that you think would be ideal to parent a particular child, get them approved as
foster
parents, which is quicker and easier than getting them approved to adopt, and you place the child in their care as soon as possible. In theory, there was a chance Paige would go back to her birth family, but in reality everyone knew that wouldn’t happen. Once it was official, once Helen and Paul Yardley had been told their daughter was no longer theirs –
then
the Brownlees were approved as adopters, and adopted the child who already lived with them, with whom they’d formed a stronger bond than you’d normally expect in a
fostering situation, because, unofficially and off the record, the social workers had given them to understand that they were getting Paige for keeps.’

‘Isn’t that also a violation of the prospective adoptive parents’ human rights?’ said Charlie. ‘There must be cases where the family court surprises everyone by deciding in favour of the birth mother. Presumably the social workers then have to say to the foster parents, “Oops, sorry, you can’t adopt this child after all.” ’

‘Grace Brownlee said they were told repeatedly that there were no guarantees, so in theory they knew things might not go their way – they wouldn’t have been able to say they were misled, if it came down to it – but heavy hints were dropped that it
would
go their way, and that Paige would soon be their legal daughter. She was a high-profile baby, the only surviving child of a woman suspected of murder. Social Services were determined to do their very best for her, and they thought the Brownlees would be ideal. Both lawyers – middle class, high-earning, nice big house . . .’

‘Nose-rings? Serpent tattoos?’ said Charlie. Seeing Sam’s puzzled expression, she said, ‘I’m kidding. People are so predictable, aren’t they? Wouldn’t it be fantastic, just once, to meet a respectable solicitor with a serpent tattoo?’ She let out a yelp of a laugh. ‘Ignore me, I’m in love.’

‘The Brownlees were hand-picked,’ said Sam. ‘They were in the process of jumping through all the hoops would-be adopters have to jump through. One day they were invited to a meeting and told a baby girl was available for them – there were still formalities to be gone through, but that was all they were. But the good news, they were told, was that they didn’t have to wait for the legal stuff to be signed off – all they had
to do was apply to be foster parents and they could have their future daughter living with them within weeks. Sebastian Brownlee was keen but Grace had her doubts. She’s less smug than her husband and more cautious. She hated the nudge-nudge-wink-wink element.’

‘So that’s what she meant by “We did nothing wrong”?’

Sam nodded. ‘Even once it was all done and dusted, court-approved and official, she was paranoid that one day Paige – Hannah, as she is now – might be taken away from them because of the underhand dealings at the beginning. Nothing her husband said to her could convince her it wasn’t dodgy.’

‘Was that likely? Paige being taken away, I mean.’

‘Impossible. Concurrent plan adoption’s not illegal. As you say, technically the verdict can still go in favour of the birth parents, and if it does, the prospective adopters have to lump it, which they know from the start.’

‘In some ways, it’s quite sensible,’ said Charlie. ‘I mean, from the kid’s point of view, it has to be better to be placed with the adoptive parents as soon as possible.’

‘It’s barbaric,’ said Sam vehemently. ‘All the time the birth mother thinks she’s in with a shot. Helen Yardley must have thought she and Paul stood a good chance of keeping Paige – they knew their sons had died naturally and they believed they’d be treated fairly. Some hope! All along, Social Services and Grace and Sebastian Brownlee – two strangers – knew that Paige was well on her way to her new family. Grace has felt guilty about that ever since, and I don’t blame her. It’s no way to treat people. It’s not right, Charlie.’

‘Maybe not, but lots of things aren’t right, and a good proportion of those lots of things are stacked up in our in-trays. Why’s this got to you?’

‘I’d like to pretend my reasons for feeling like crap are noble and altruistic, but they’re not,’ said Sam. He closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything to Simon. What was I thinking of?’

‘You’ve lost me,’ said Charlie.

‘There was one thing I didn’t understand: how could the social workers be so sure Paige Yardley wouldn’t be returned to Helen and Paul? I mean, it was hardly your average care case. I can imagine a local authority knowing all about some unsavoury families’ long histories of abusing and neglecting their children, saying they’ll never do it again, then getting wrecked and doing more and worse. Those children being taken away from their mothers might seem like a done deal, but Helen Yardley was different. If she wasn’t guilty of murder, then she was completely innocent. If her two sons were victims of cot death – which hadn’t yet been decided in court, so no one could claim to know – well, then Helen had done nothing wrong, had she? So why risk concurrent plan adoption? That was what I wondered.’