“You know how much I admire you, Katie,” he’d said. “You’re brilliant at what you do.”
She’d kissed him back, but he was right. It was sometimes a game or a flirtatious dance, to make an instant connection with a suspicious—even hostile—stranger. She loved it. Loved the adrenaline rush of getting to the doorstep first, ahead of the pack, ringing the bell and hearing the sounds of life inside the house, seeing the light change in the frosted glass as the person approached and then, as the door opened, going into full performance mode.
Reporters had different techniques on the doorstep: One friend she’d trained with called it his “last puppy in the basket” look to get sympathy; another always blamed her news editor for making her knock on the door again; and one had once stuffed a pillow up her jumper to pretend she was pregnant and asked to use the loo to get in.
Not Kate’s style. She had her own rules: Always smile; never stand too close to the door; don’t start with an apology; and try to distract from the fact that you’re after a story. She’d used the bottle-of-milk thing before, but milkmen were a dying breed. She was very pleased with herself for getting through this door with such apparent ease.
In truth, she hadn’t wanted to come in the first place. She needed to go into the office to finish her expenses forms before her credit card bill came through and cleaned out her bank account. But her news editor was having none of it.
“Go and knock on the widow’s door—it’s on your way in,” Terry Deacon shouted down the phone above the radio news headlines blaring out beside him. “Never know. Today might be your lucky day.”
Kate had sighed. She knew immediately who Terry meant. There was only one widow everyone wanted to interview that week, but she also knew it was a well-trodden path. Three of her colleagues at the Post had already tried—and she was sure she must be the last reporter in the country to knock on this particular door.
Almost.
As she reached the turn onto Jean Taylor’s road, she automatically checked for other press and immediately spotted the man from The Times, standing by a car. Boring tie, elbow patches, and a side part. Classic. She edged her car forward as the traffic crawled along the main road but kept one eye on the enemy. She’d have to go around the block again and hope he’d gone by the time she got back.
“Bloody hell,” she muttered, signaling left and swinging down a side street to park.
Fifteen minutes and a flick through the dailies later, Kate put her seat belt back on and restarted the car. Her phone rang, and she dug deep into her bag to find it. Fishing it out, she saw Bob Sparkes’s name on the display and turned off the engine.
“Hello, Bob. How are you? What’s happening?”
Detective Inspector Bob Sparkes wanted something; that was obvious. He wasn’t the sort of bloke to ring for a chat, and she bet herself the call would last less than sixty seconds.
“Hi, Kate. Good, thanks. Quite busy. You know what it’s like. Got a couple of cases on the go but nothing interesting.
“Look, Kate, just wondered if you were still working on the Glen Taylor case.”
“Christ, Bob, have you got me on CCTV or something? I’m just about to go and knock on Jean Taylor’s door.”
Sparkes laughed. “Don’t worry—you’re not on the surveillance list as far as I know.”
“Anything I should know before I see her?” Kate asked. “Anything new since Glen Taylor died?”
“No, not really.” She could hear the disappointment in his voice. “Wondered if you’d heard anything. Anyway, I’d appreciate a heads-up if Jean says anything.”
“I’ll give you a call afterward,” she said. “But she’ll probably slam the door in my face. That’s what she’s done to all the rest of the reporters.”
“Okay, speak later.”
End of. She looked at the phone and smiled. Forty-one seconds. A new record. She must tease him about it next time she saw him.
Five minutes later she’d cruised down the Taylors’ newly media-free street and walked up the path.
? ? ?
Now she needed the story.
Oh, for God’s sake, how can I concentrate? she thought, digging her nails into her hand to distract herself. No, no good.
“Sorry, Jean, but would it be all right to use your loo?” she said, smiling apologetically. “Tea, it goes straight through you, doesn’t it? I’ll make us another drink if you like.”
Jean nodded and rose from her seat to guide the way. “It’s through here,” she said, standing aside so Kate could edge past into the peachy haven of the downstairs loo.
Washing her hands with the perfumed guest soap, Kate looked up and caught her expression in the mirror. She looked a bit tired, she thought, smoothing her unruly hair down and tapping the bags under her eyes with her fingertips, as instructed by the girl who did her occasional facials.
In the kitchen on her own, she idly read the notes and magnets on the fridge while she waited for the kettle to boil. Shopping lists and holiday souvenirs—nothing much for her here. A photo of the Taylors taken in a beach restaurant showed the couple smiling and raising their glasses to the camera. Glen Taylor, all tousled dark hair and holiday smile, and Jean, dark blond hair done for the occasion and tucked neatly behind her ears, going-out makeup slightly smudged by the heat, and that sideways glance at her husband.
Adoring or in awe? Kate wondered.
The last couple of years had clearly taken their toll on the woman in the photo. Jean was sitting waiting for her in cargo pants, baggy T-shirt, and cardigan, her hair escaping from a stubby ponytail. Steve was always teasing her about how she noticed the little things, but it was part of the job. “I’m a trained observer,” she’d joked, and delighted in pointing out tiny, telling details. She’d immediately spotted the damage to Jean’s rough and cracked hands—hairdresser’s hands, she’d thought to herself—and the skin around the nails, frayed from the widow’s nervous chewing.
The lines around her eyes told their own story.
Kate took her phone out and photographed the picture. She noted that everything in the kitchen was immaculate, nothing like her own, where her teenage sons would, no doubt, have left a trail of detritus from their abandoned breakfast—stained coffee mugs, souring milk, half-eaten toast, a lidless jar of jam with a knife sticking out of it. And the obligatory filthy football kit festering on the floor.
The kettle—and thoughts of home—clicked off, and she made the tea and carried the mugs through on a tray.
Jean was staring into space, her teeth working on her thumb.
“That’s better,” Kate said, plonking herself down. “Sorry about that. Now, where were we?”
She had to admit, she was beginning to worry. She’d spent nearly an hour with Jean Taylor and had a notebook full of bits and pieces about her childhood, early married life. But that was all. Every time she edged a bit closer to the story, Jean would change the subject to something safe. They’d had a long discussion about the challenges of bringing up kids at one point, and then there had been a brief interlude when Kate had finally taken one of the insistent calls from the office.
Terry was beside himself when he heard where Kate was. “Brilliant,” he yelled down the phone. “Well done—what’s she saying? When can you file?”
Under the widow’s watchful eyes, Kate muttered: “Hang on a minute, Terry. The reception isn’t very good here,” and slipped into the back garden, signaling mock irritation to Jean with a weary shake of her head.
“For God’s sake, Terry, I was sitting next to her. I can’t really talk now,” she hissed. “It’s a bit slow, to be honest, but I think she’s beginning to trust me. Let me get on with it.”
“Have you got her under contract yet?” Terry asked. “Get her under contract, and then we can take our time getting the full works.”