He was grateful that Salmond didn’t react to the name. It hadn’t been Fleur Jones’s fault that everything had gone bad.
“Why don’t you call her?” she said. “Before we get there. We need to know the best way to approach the widow.”
Salmond pulled over at the next service station and he began to dial.
An hour later, Sparkes walked through the accident and emergency department doors.
“Hello, Jean,” he said, and sat down beside her on an orange molded-plastic chair. She barely moved to acknowledge him. She looked so pale, and her eyes were blackened by grief.
“Jean,” he said again, and took her hand. He’d never touched her before beyond guiding her into a police car, but he couldn’t help himself. She looked so vulnerable.
Jean Taylor’s hand was frigid in his hot hands, but he wouldn’t let go. He kept talking, low and urgent, taking his chance.
“You can tell me now, Jean. You can tell me what Glen did with Bella, where he put her. There’s no need for secrets now. It was Glen’s secret, not yours. You were his victim, Jean. You and Bella.”
The widow turned her head away from him and seemed to shudder.
“Please tell me, Jean. Let it go now, and you’ll have some peace.”
“I don’t know anything about Bella, Bob,” she said slowly, as if explaining to a child. Then she slipped her hand out of his grasp and started to cry. No sound, just tears running down off her chin onto her lap.
Sparkes sat on, unable to leave. Jean Taylor stood and walked away toward the ladies’ room.
When she came out fifteen minutes later, she was holding a tissue to her mouth. She headed straight for the glass doors of the accident and emergenty department and was gone.
Disappointment paralyzed Sparkes. “I have screwed up the last chance,” he muttered to Salmond, who now sat in Jean’s chair. “Royally screwed it up.”
“She’s in shock, sir. She doesn’t know which way is up at the moment. Let her settle and think things through. We should go to the house in a couple days.”
“Tomorrow. We’ll go tomorrow,” Sparkes said, rising.
They were at the door twenty-four hours later. Jean Taylor was in black, looking ten years older and ready for them.
“How are you doing, Jean?” he asked.
“Good and bad. Glen’s mum stayed with me last night,” she answered. “Come in.”
Sparkes sat beside her on the sofa, angling himself so he had her full attention, and began a gentler courtship. Zara Salmond and Dr. Jones had rethought the situation and both suggested using a bit of flattery as an opener, to make Jean feel important and in charge of her decisions.
“You’ve been such a rock for Glen, Jean. Always there to support him.”
She blinked at the compliment. “I was his wife, and he relied on me.”
“That must’ve been hard for you at times, Jean. A lot of pressure to take on your shoulders.”
“I was happy to do it. I knew he hadn’t done it,” she said, the constant repetition of her stock reply leaving it hollow.
DS Salmond got up and started looking around the room. “No cards yet?” she asked.
“Not expecting any—just the usual hate mail,” Jean said.
“Where will you hold the funeral, Jean?” Sparkes asked. Glen Taylor’s mother appeared at the door, clearly having been eavesdropping in the hall.
“At the crematorium. Just having a simple, private service to say good-bye, aren’t we, Jean?”
The widow nodded, deep in thought. “Do you think the press will come?” she asked. “I don’t think I could bear that.”
Mary Taylor sat on the arm of the sofa beside her daughter-in-law and stroked her hair. “We’ll weather it, Jeanie. We have so far. Perhaps they’ll leave you alone now.”
The remark was aimed at the two detectives cluttering up the sitting room as much as the press waiting outside.
“They’ve been knocking since eight a.m. I’ve told them Jean is too upset to talk, but then another one comes. I think she should come back with me for a bit, but she wants to stay at home.”
“Glen is here,” Jean said, and Sparkes rose to leave.
FORTY-EIGHT
The Widow
THURSDAY, MAY 27, 2010
The funeral happened so quickly. I let Mary choose the hymns and readings. Couldn’t think straight and wouldn’t have known what to pick. She went for the safe options: “Amazing Grace” and “The Lord Is My Shepherd” because everyone knows the tunes—which was lucky, as there were only fifteen of us singing in the crematorium chapel.
We went to see Glen in the Chapel of Rest, all smart in his three-piece bank suit and the navy-and-gold tie he liked. I’d washed and ironed his best shirt, and it looked perfect. Glen would’ve been pleased. Of course, it wasn’t really Glen in the coffin. He wasn’t there, if you know what I mean. He looked like a waxwork Glen. His mum wept, and I stood back, letting her have a moment with her little boy. I kept looking at his hands with their perfect pink buffed-up nails—innocent hands.
Mary and I went from the funeral home to John Lewis to buy hats.
“You’ll find the range over there.” The assistant pointed, and we stood in front of thirty black hats, trying to imagine ourselves at Glen’s funeral. I picked a sort of pillbox one with a little net veil to hide my eyes, and Mary went for one with a brim. They cost a fortune, but neither of us could summon the energy to mind. We came out into the street with our carrier bags and stood, lost for a moment.
“Come on, Jeanie. Let’s go home and have a cup of tea,” Mary said. So we did.
The next day, we put on the new hats in front of the mirror in the hall before getting into the taxi to the crematorium. Mary and I held hands loosely, just touching. Glen’s dad stared out the window at the drizzle.
“Always rains at funerals,” he said. “What a bloody awful day.”
Funny things, funerals. So much like weddings, I think. Gatherings with people you never see any other time, catching up over a buffet, people laughing and crying. Even at Glen’s funeral I heard one of the old uncles laughing quietly with someone. When we arrived, we were guided into the waiting area, me with my mum and dad, his mum and dad, and a small crowd of Taylors. I was grateful anyone came, really.
No one from the bank or the salon. We were not part of that world anymore.
Then Bob Sparkes turned up, all respectful in black suit and tie, looking like an undertaker. He stood apart from us, on the edge of the Garden of Remembrance, pretending to read the names of the dead on the plaques. He hadn’t sent flowers, but we told people not to. “Family flowers only,” the undertaker had advised, so there was just my wreath of lilies and laurels—“Classic and classy,” the young florist had said, almost chirpily—and Mary had ordered Glen’s name in white chrysanthemums. He’d have hated it. “How common,” I could hear him say, but Mary loved it and that’s what mattered.
I kept looking to see where Bob Sparkes was.
“Who invited him?” Mary said, all cross.
“Don’t worry about him, love.” George patted her shoulder. “Not important today.”
The vicar from Mary’s church did the service, talking about Glen like he was a real person, not the man in the papers. He kept looking at me like he was talking just to me. I hid behind the veil on my hat when he was going on about Glen as if he knew him. He talked about his football and his cleverness at school and his wonderfully supportive wife during difficult times. There was a murmur from the congregation, and I rested my head on my dad’s shoulder and closed my eyes while his coffin slid forward and the curtains closed behind him. All gone.