The Wrong Mother (40 page)

‘I need Sally’s address and telephone number and as much detail about her as you can give me,’ said Simon. As Pam spoke, he frowned and nodded, committing her words to memory. Charlie made notes. Simon looked surprised only when Pam mentioned that Sally Thorning’s husband, Nick, was a radiographer at Culver Valley General Hospital. Once he’d got all the information he could out of her, he left the room.

Charlie followed him, closing the door on Pam’s questions and demands. She was expecting to have to chase after Simon, but she found him standing motionless outside the interview room. ‘What?’ she said.

‘I think I saw
When Harry Met Sally
. She said, “the blonde one out of
When Harry Met Sally
”. Which is Sally, obviously, because Harry’s the man.’

‘I’ve seen it too. After a hopeless start, they get married and live happily ever after,’ said Charlie pointedly.

‘You’re called Charlie. Charlie can also be a man’s name.’

‘Simon, what the fuck . . . ?’

‘I know where I’ve seen the name Harry Martineau.’

‘The man who lives in the Olivas’ old house?’

‘No. He doesn’t exist. That’s why no one’s heard of Angel Oliva at Culver Valley General, the hospital where Nick Thorning works.’

‘I’m completely, utterly lost,’ said Charlie.

‘Jones is the name. Jones: the most ordinary name in the world.’

‘Simon, you’re beginning to frighten me. Who’s Jones? The killer? The man Sally Thorning met in the hotel?’

‘No. Come on, we’ve got to get back to the briefing.’

‘I’ve got my own work to do! I can’t just leave Pam . . .’

Simon strode down the corridor. Charlie found herself running after him. As always, she wanted something from him that he was not making readily available. It wasn’t her case, it was nothing to do with her, but she needed to know what he meant.

They hadn’t got far when they saw Norman Grace from HTCU hurrying towards them. ‘I was on my way to find you,’ he said to Simon.

‘What have you got?’

‘You were wrong . . .’

‘That’s not possible.’

‘. . . but you were also right.’

‘Norman, I’m in a hurry.’

‘The name’s Jones,’ said Norman, and Charlie’s skin turned cold.

‘I know.’ Simon broke into a run.

Not so much as a thank you
. Charlie shrugged apologetically. ‘Sorry,’ she said to Norman. ‘He’s got a bee in his bonnet.’

‘Can you tell him I’m hanging on to the Bretherick hard disk for the time being? There’s more, but it’ll take me a while to get it into a presentable state.’

Charlie nodded, and was moving away when Norman touched her arm. ‘How are you, Charlie?’

‘Fine, as long as no one asks me how I am,’ she said, smiling.

‘You don’t really want that. You don’t want people not to care.’

Charlie ran down the corridor, hoping she hadn’t missed anything, wondering if Norman was right. Would she prefer everyone to forget about last year? To treat her exactly as they had before?

She found Simon round a corner, on his mobile phone. He was telling somebody that he needed them to come to Spilling, saying that as soon as possible would be great. He gave the address of the nick. Charlie had never heard him sound so eager or grateful. Jealousy wasn’t an issue; it was obvious he was speaking to a man. Simon never sounded so unguarded when he spoke to women.

‘Who was that?’ she said once they were on the move again.

‘Jonathan Hey.’

‘The Cambridge don? But . . . Simon, you can’t just invite your own expert to the party without checking with Sam first. What about Keith Harbard?’

‘Harbard knows nothing.’

When he was in this sort of mood, Charlie knew there was no point contradicting him. If he thought Hey was that much better than Harbard, he was probably right. It wouldn’t stop Proust from taking one look at the second sociology professor to land at his feet and despatching him back to Cambridge without refreshments or an explanation.

Poor Jonathan Hey. What a fool, saying yes to Simon Waterhouse.

 

‘“Change it back”?’ Proust surveyed Gibbs from across the room. ‘Is that supposed to mean something to us? Change what back? Change it back to what?’

‘The password,’ said Gibbs. ‘It must be. To get into Amy’s Hotmail I had to change it. Whoever set up the account must have tried to get in using the old password and failed.’

‘And worked out that you changed it? How would he have known?’ said Kombothekra.

‘Intelligent guess. I sent a message to Amy’s Hotmail address, so he knew I knew about it. He wants us to see how clever he is. Look at the new e-mail address he created, not more than a few minutes after I broke into his old one: [email protected]. He’s trying to be witty.’

‘Or she,’ said Keith Harbard. ‘Gibbs is right about the wit; to me that suggests a woman.’

‘Have you never read Oscar Wilde, Professor?’ Proust enquired.

‘He’s not that clever,’ said Sellers. It sounded as if he might have been talking about Harbard; Gibbs suppressed a smile. ‘ “Change it back.” How can we? We don’t know what the old password was.’

‘He knows that,’ said Gibbs impatiently. ‘It’s a threat, isn’t it? He knows he’s giving us an impossible order.’

Harbard nodded. ‘It’s part of the game. Either it’s a guarantee of punishment with a bit of psychological torture thrown in—she appears to be giving you a chance but it’s not a real one because you can’t possibly know her original password—or she’s inviting you to think about what the password might have been. Maybe it was her name.’

‘That’s a point,’ said Kombothekra. ‘Thanks, Keith. I’ll get on to Hotmail.’

‘In the meantime, reply to the message,’ said Harbard. ‘She’ll be flattered. Tell her you can’t think of a way forward, that you need her help with the task she’s assigned you.’

‘Psychological expertise as well as sociological,’ muttered Proust. ‘Buy one, get one free. Unlike you, Professor, I don’t care about our perpetrator’s inner demons or what makes him tick. Give me his name, tell me where I can find him and I’ll be happy. Let’s concentrate on information, not speculation. We’ve identified the two skeletons—that’s a good start.’

‘Harry Martineau and Angel Oliva have become top priority,’ Kombothekra told him. ‘Nobody at Culver Valley General Hospital can remember a heart surgeon called Angel Oliva, and their records suggest he never worked there. So either Martineau was lying or Oliva lied to Martineau.’

‘We’re still checking,’ said Sellers, ‘but it looks as if no child or teacher at St Swithun’s knows a William Markes. Cordy O’Hara’s new ride’s called Miles Parry.’

‘The nanny.’ Kombothekra nodded at Sellers.

‘Yeah, I’ve spoken to Amy Oliva’s former nanny. The number in the anonymous letter was the right one. She didn’t get back to us sooner because she’s in Corsica on her honeymoon, back tomorrow evening. But even before she told me that I recognised her voice on the phone.’ Sellers tried not to sound proud of his own achievement.

‘Have you knobbed her?’ asked Gibbs. Behind his hand, so only Sellers could hear, he began to whisper, ‘All right, love, wipe yourself, your taxi’s here . . .’

‘Corsica?’ said Proust. ‘Why does that sound familiar?’

‘Her name’s Michelle Jones,’ Sellers told him. ‘I knew her voice from interviewing her after Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick’s bodies were found. She was in Corsica then too—I interviewed her on the phone. She was Michelle Greenwood before she got married.’

‘The Brethericks’ babysitter,’ said Proust. ‘The one who selfishly arranged a holiday with her boyfriend for the May half-term last year.’

‘That’s right,’ said Kombothekra. ‘She was also Amy Oliva’s part-time nanny, so that’s another connection between the two families.’

‘Unfortunately, when I spoke to Michelle I didn’t know we were going to draw a blank at Culver Valley General, so I didn’t ask about Mr Oliva,’ said Sellers. ‘I’ve left another message for her.’

‘What about this bank where Mrs Oliva worked?’ Proust asked.

‘I’m going today,’ said Kombothekra. ‘I’m hoping someone there can tell me about Patrick.’

‘Ask about William Markes too,’ said the Snowman. ‘And Angel Oliva. Why not? Let’s brandish all our names wherever we go and see what we get.’ Proust would be going nowhere apart from back to his office. Saying ‘we’ instead of ‘you’ was his concession to the idea of the team.

‘I spoke to the Brethericks’ postman this morning,’ said Kombothekra. ‘He says he saw someone in the garden of Corn Mill House last spring, and he remembers it was while the Brethericks were in Florida because Geraldine had told him they were going away. He went to try and get a closer look, but by the time he got to the part of the garden where he’d seen the person, he or she had gone. Postie had the rest of his round to do, so he didn’t look much beyond that spot. When the Brethericks got back, he told Geraldine he’d seen someone. She looked a bit puzzled, but said that whoever it was hadn’t done any harm—there’d been no break-in. But here’s the really interesting part. I asked him if he’d noticed anything else, anything at all that was unusual while the Brethericks were in Florida. At first he said no, but when I urged him to think hard, he did remember something: a red Alfa Romeo parked at the bottom of the lane outside Corn Mill House’s gate. He said the car was there on at least three occasions while the Brethericks were away.’

‘Bright, is he, this postman?’ said Gibbs. ‘Didn’t he make the connection between the car and the man he’d seen?’

‘He didn’t,’ said Kombothekra. ‘On the day he saw the killer, the car wasn’t there.’

‘Maybe our man decided to walk that day.’

‘Person,’ Harbard reminded them all. ‘Remember, the evidence points to a woman.’

Gibbs scowled at him. He’d made his point, why did he have to keep making it? What evidence was he talking about? Gibbs knew a man’s crime when he saw one.

‘So Encarna and Amy Oliva were murdered and buried while the Brethericks were in Florida,’ Proust concluded.

‘They were buried then,’ said Kombothekra. ‘We don’t know when they were killed, but it was after Friday the nineteenth of May last year. That was Amy’s last day at school and Encarna’s last day at work. Neither of them said a word about leaving to schoolmates or colleagues. The sudden move to Spain, with no notice, was a surprise to everyone.’ Kombothekra raised his eyebrows.

‘The headmistress of St Swithun’s, Mrs Fitzgerald, was informed by e-mail after the fact,’ said Sellers. ‘Apparently Encarna Oliva was apologetic about the lack of notice and enclosed a cheque for a term’s fees in lieu.’

Proust was making disgruntled noises. ‘When did the Brethericks fly to Florida?’ he asked crossly.

‘Sunday the twenty-first of May last year,’ Kombothekra told him.

‘All right, then, Sergeant. Encarna and Amy Oliva were murdered at some point between the evening of Friday the nineteenth of May and . . . Sunday the fourth of June, when the Brethericks returned from Florida. If you must split hairs.’

Kombothekra looked as if he might be thinking about standing up for himself. ‘Mark Bretherick was telling the truth,’ he said. ‘He spent the fortnight working at the National High Magnetic Field Laboratory in Tallahassee. I think we have to release him, keen though he is to hang around and tell me how wrong I am about everything.’

‘That law firm Geraldine phoned, asking for a divorce and custody lawyer,’ said Sellers. ‘What if it wasn’t Geraldine who phoned? It could have been another woman who didn’t want to give her real name.’

The door banged open and Simon Waterhouse appeared with Charlie Zailer behind him. ‘Has the full list come through yet from St Swithun’s, the owl sanctuary trip?’ he asked.

Gibbs closed his eyes.
Shit
. Barbara Fitzgerald’s e-mail. Amy Oliva’s message had been such a shock, he’d forgotten about the list. ‘I’ve got it on my e-mail,’ he said. ‘Didn’t get a chance to print it.’

‘Is there a Jones on it?’

‘Michelle Greenwood is now a Jones,’ Sellers told Waterhouse. ‘Lucy Bretherick’s babysitter—she’s just got married. She also worked part-time as a nanny for the Olivas.’

Waterhouse laughed and smacked the wall with the flat of his hand. ‘Of course,’ he said.

‘I’m going to count to five, Waterhouse . . .’ the Snowman began.

‘No time, sir. We need to find Sally Thorning.’

‘Who?’

‘And Esther Taylor.’ He turned to Charlie. ‘Can you do that?’

‘Unlikely, since I’ve no idea where she is.’

‘I have,’ said Waterhouse. ‘Pam Senior said she threatened to go to the police, didn’t she? She’s here. Maybe she’s got no further than reception, but she’s here. At the nick.’

 

 

When I hear the key in the lock, I pull the massage table towards me so that it stands between me and the door. He comes into the room, unsmiling, his face blank. In his left hand he holds the gun and in his right the syringe, which is full. ‘No,’ I say. ‘No. Please. It’s too soon after last time . . .’

‘Why aren’t you lying with your legs up against the wall like I told you to?’

‘It would be pointless,’ I tell him. ‘I didn’t want to say anything before because I was scared of making you angry, but . . . I can’t have any more children.’

‘What?’ His face twitches.

‘After Jake was born I had some problems.’ I know words, details, that would make this lie more plausible. I know the names of all kinds of gynaecological syndromes from the dozens of books I read when I was pregnant with Zoe. Why can’t I remember any of them? ‘I’m infertile. However long I lie with my legs up against the wall, I won’t get pregnant. I’m sorry. I should have told you straight away.’

He laughs. ‘Infertile. Not suffering from a rare genetic disorder, then, which any child you had would be likely to inherit? Of course, you couldn’t say that because of Zoe and Jake.’