The Carrier (37 page)

‘Are those the only two options, then? You doing badly or me doing better? How about you doing better? Or Sergeant Zailer, since I notice she’s involved herself: CID’s very own Woman in Black, whose spirit we can’t seem to lay to rest.’ A strange noise emerged from the darkness: a sigh-groan hybrid. ‘Switch on the light, Sergeant. Or shall we have a séance? If there’s a chance your initiative might try to make contact . . .’

‘My initiative’s been at it all day and can’t think of anything else.’ That sounded too final. ‘I’m sure I’ll feel differently in the morning,’ Sam qualified, turning on the light. The Snowman was pinch-rubbing his chin between his thumb and forefinger as if he’d invented a new obscene gesture.

‘We shouldn’t neglect the possibility that Tim Breary killed his wife, sir. He says he did, and Charlie could be right: it might be a double bluff. Breary knows suspicion’s going to fall on him, so he pre-empts, confesses, gets his disciples on board. Between them, they make the whole thing feel so shaky that we assume there can’t be any truth in their lies.’

‘Disciples?’

‘I’m fairly sure Breary’s the mastermind of whatever’s going on,’ Sam said. ‘For what it’s worth, I still think he’s our man. He had no money of his own, no income. Francine’s death meant he could cash in her life insurance policy. No one else had a motive as far as I can see.’

‘The Joses?’ Proust suggested. ‘Francine was a drain on their resources. Do you enjoy having friends to stay for the weekend, Sergeant?’

‘I do, yes.’

‘No, you don’t. Think how pleased you are when they leave. Now imagine they’ve brought their vegetative former partners with them and intend to stay not for a weekend but for the rest of their lives.’

Sam would have bet his own life insurance policy that neither Dan nor Kerry Jose had smothered Francine Breary with a pillow. ‘If Tim Breary didn’t kill his wife, my second choice would be Jason Cookson,’ he told the Snowman. ‘He’s got a history of violence. I had Sellers do a bit of digging around.’

‘And?’

‘Two dropped GBH charges – one from 1998, the other in 2008. Second victim lost an eye. Sellers is chasing the details of the first, but the second charge fell apart because the vic changed his tune at the last minute, pronounced himself unable to ID Cookson as the man who went for him with a knife in a care-home car park.’

‘So Cookson got to him somehow,’ said Proust.

‘Cookson wasn’t around today. He’s working on a friend’s house renovation, apparently. They all alibied him for last night, but I’m sure they’re lying. I think he did it.’ Sam held up his hands, seeing the disbelief on the Snowman’s face. ‘I know Gaby Struthers says the man that attacked her wasn’t Jason Cookson. I think she could be lying too. For the same reason: fear. Cookson took a man’s eye out, sir. Dan, Kerry and Lauren, they’re all frightened—’

‘Not necessarily of Cookson,’ said Proust. ‘Perhaps they’re scared because they know they’re lying to the police in a murder inquiry and will soon have to face the consequences. And if Gaby’s so scared of Cookson after he attacked her, why report the attack at all?’

‘I don’t know.’ Sam had wondered that himself. Jason Cookson seemed by far the most obvious contender; if not him, then who? Dan Jose? No, no way. ‘Let’s say Gaby’s right and Cookson sent an associate of his to scare the living daylights out of her, because he doesn’t want her getting any more information out of Lauren. Let’s say we even find this thug – where does that get us? We still won’t know what it is that the Dower House lot are hiding.’ Sam sighed. ‘I think we’ve got a problem we can’t easily solve, sir.’

‘Could that be because we’re a major crimes investigation unit, not the Brownies?’ Proust snapped. ‘You’re right: this isn’t going to be fixed by DC Gibbs leaping over a toadstool, chanting, “We are the gnomes, we help in the homes”. Not that Gibbs
does
help in any homes, his own least of all.’ The Snowman chuckled. ‘Ah, look, the thunderer returns,’ he said as Sellers walked in. ‘The weighty wanderer.’

‘First GBH charge went the same way as the second, Sarge,’ Sellers addressed Sam and ignored Proust. He was out of breath. He needed to lose a few pounds, that was for sure. ‘Victim and two witnesses went from being a hundred per cent certain Jason Cookson was the assailant to having seen nothing at all. The first GBH wasn’t just a drunken brawl, either. It was a bloke who made the mistake of chatting to Cookson’s then girlfriend, Becky Grafham, in a Chinese takeaway. Ended up in hospital with multiple broken bones. When I heard that, I thought it might be worth asking about motive for the second.’

‘And?’ said Proust.

‘Same. Cookson was married to Lauren by then. The man he stabbed in the eye was the son of one of the . . . inmates at the care home where Lauren worked, if that’s what you call them. Poor bloke made the mistake of exchanging a bit of harmless friendly banter with Lauren when he came in to visit his mother. One day Jason was there picking Lauren up from work and overheard it.’

‘That’s a mistake you often make, isn’t it, Sellers?’ said Proust. ‘Exchanging harmless banter with other men’s womenfolk, as a prelude to other exchanges. I suppose you’d weigh less if you lost an eye, on the plus side.’

‘Sir, I’ve tried to contact this Becky Grafham—’

‘Why?’ Proust barked.

‘Maybe I’m being daft, but I couldn’t square the GBH temper stories about Cookson with what happened to Gaby Struthers yesterday. I know Charlie said she hadn’t got anything like the full story out of Struthers, but she’s seen her, spoken to her. There’s no broken bones, no missing eyes or other body parts, no serious physical injuries. I suppose I just wondered if Jason Cookson’s in the habit of attacking both men and women, or arranging for them to be attacked and if so, does he adapt the method depending on the sex of the victim?’

‘And?’ said Proust impatiently.

‘I spoke to Becky Grafham’s mum, who said it was Cookson who dumped Becky for another girl, which I don’t suppose means anything necessarily, but she also mentioned that she’d told Becky at the start that Cookson would dump her. It was only a matter of time, she said, and she was right. Before he met and married Lauren, Jason Cookson had a reputation for not sticking around. He might stay a week, a year, two years, but he’d be off to pastures new in due course. He left every girlfriend he ever had.’

‘Someone who stays in a relationship for two years can hardly be described as flighty,’ said Proust. ‘That’s a significant time investment, two years.’

‘Right.’ Sellers looked pleased. ‘That’s what I thought too. So I wondered: how come a guy who has a series of normal, varied-length relationships ends up with a rep as a leaver?’

Proust held up his hands in an exaggerated gesture of bored and irritated confusion. His body language had always been fuller and more complex than that of anyone else Sam had ever known.

‘What if it was because no one ever left him – ever?’ Sellers persisted. ‘What if not a single girlfriend left, because they felt as if they couldn’t? Either they’d been told they weren’t allowed, or they were too scared.’

Proust drummed the flats of his hands on his desk. ‘I don’t see where that gets us, even if it’s true,’ he said eventually.

‘We’ll only see where it gets us if we pursue it,’ said Sam. ‘Track down Cookson’s exes,’ he told Sellers. ‘Let’s see how many of them are still too scared of him to talk openly, even at a distance of several years.’

Simon pulled up outside the house and switched off the engine. He made no move to get out of the car. He was always slower to emerge than Charlie, as if driving had sent him into a trance from which he couldn’t easily extricate himself. Sometimes she lost patience and went inside alone. Tonight she didn’t move. ‘Are you going to tell me?’ she asked.

‘No Harold Shipman, no Fred and Rosemary West. No Saddam Hussein or Osama Bin Laden.’

‘True,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s a big plus that none of those guys will be there.’

‘What?’

‘At Liv and Dom’s wedding.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant.’ Simon slid his seat further back to give himself more legroom.

‘We’ll have a better time without them than we would with. If only because they’re nearly all dead.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

Charlie cheered silently and tried not to laugh. Why hadn’t she thought to use this tactic before? She blamed excessive sobriety; tonight she’d had three large glasses of wine and felt inspired. Normally she was ineffectually straightforward when she didn’t have a clue what Simon was mumbling about: telling him she didn’t understand, asking him every five seconds to explain, until eventually he did – when it suited him and not one second sooner. This new technique was more fun: for every baffling statement he made, she would fire one back at him. Why should she be the only one unable to follow the thread of the conversation?

‘Think about Tim Breary’s room,’ said Simon. ‘The books by his bed.’

‘The ones about murderers?’

‘I need strong black tea,’ Simon said suddenly.

‘Traditionally, that would involve going into the house.’

‘I can think better out here.’

‘You’re insane. Oh . . . bloody hell! Fine.’ Charlie got out of the car and slammed the door. ‘I can practically
feel
a massive rod growing very near my own back,’ she muttered, pulling her keys out of her bag. The phone was ringing as she let herself in. She ignored it and headed for the kitchen, thinking it could only be Liv. It rang five more times while she made Simon’s tea. Each time sounded more urgent somehow, though the ringing sound was exactly the same.

Charlie’s curiosity got the better of her. ‘What?’

‘Charlie? It’s Lizzie Proust.’

‘Oh. Hi, Lizzie. Everything okay?’
Or has my husband trashed your entire family dynamic?

‘Yes, fine. I’m sorry to phone so late.’

‘It’s okay. It’s not late.’

‘Oh, good.’ Lizzie sounded surprised. ‘Charlie, this is a bit awkward. I assume you know about Amanda – Regan, as she is now. You know Simon had a word with Giles and . . . explained the situation to him?’

‘I tried to stop him.’

‘But you didn’t succeed?’

‘Well, obviously not.’ If she’d succeeded, Lizzie wouldn’t be ringing her at nine forty-five on a Saturday night. Nor would she know that her daughter had changed her name to Regan.

‘It’s just that . . . well, Ama— Regan and I are somewhat baffled.’

‘Shall I ask Simon to ring you?’ Charlie was keen to stay out of it. She didn’t feel up to the task of unbaffling anybody; that was Simon’s department.

‘Giles hasn’t said anything, you see. Nothing. He’s behaving exactly as if nothing’s changed. I only know about it because Simon rang Amanda earlier and . . . Sorry.’ Lizzie laughed nervously. ‘I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the new name but I’ve promised her I’ll try, as long as Giles isn’t around. Simon rang
Regan
earlier and told her what he’d done, and she rang me in a terrible flap. She was beside herself – talking about having to move abroad, coming out with all kinds of hysterical nonsense. She said Simon had told Giles everything, and how could she ever face him again, knowing he knew?’

‘I hope Simon apologised to Regan for having landed her in the shit,’ said Charlie. ‘I told him to.’

‘I said on no account must she run away – she should come home with me and we’d face him together. I thought the best thing would be if she denied it all, said it was a lie from start to finish, but she didn’t think Giles would believe that, and since Regan’s now her legal name . . .’

‘Wait a second.’ Charlie took a sip of Simon’s tea. It confirmed her suspicion that no one who preferred tea without milk could be entirely sane. ‘You want to get yourself and Regan out of trouble by portraying Simon as a liar when he’s telling the truth? I know he’s an annoying arse, but that doesn’t seem very fair.’

‘No.’ Lizzie sighed. ‘Of course it isn’t. I’m not proud of any of this, but I’m afraid panic did rather set in. You know what Giles can be like. It wasn’t just me and Amanda in a tizz. You should have seen my son-in-law, he was white as a sheet. Anyway, as I say, Amanda –
Regan
– didn’t think Giles would believe her if she denied it outright—’

‘Lizzie, for fuck’s sake!’ Charlie blurted out. ‘This is all totally mental.’

‘I know,’ Lizzie said mournfully. ‘I do know, Charlie, really. And I’m so sorry to involve you in it.’

‘Forget
me
. Think about yourself, and Regan. Tell Proust the truth, let him see the situation as it really is: his daughter’s got a problem with him. A big one.’

‘I can’t do that. Giles has always relied on his family. More than most people, perhaps. We’re his rock.’

Why was it always a rock, Charlie wondered? Were rocks particularly helpful to ordinary people in urban and suburban settings? Why did no one say, ‘He’s my central heating’ or ‘He’s my fitted carpet’?

‘If Giles thought his loyal wife and his only daughter had anything but love and respect for him, he’d be devastated.’

‘Do you love and respect him?’ Charlie asked.

‘Of course I do!’

‘Why “of course”? Regan doesn’t.’

‘Oh, I can sort her out,’ said Lizzie impatiently, as if it were as easy as doing the weekly shop. ‘It’s this therapist she’s been seeing. These people are wicked, Charlie. Wicked. They help themselves to your hard-earned money and fill you so full of grudges and grievances that you’re worse off than when you started, and not only financially. Honestly, they do more harm than good. Some of them implant false memories of abuse. I read an article—’