Paternoster (26 page)

He swiped his sleeve across his eyes and watched her wriggle her fingers into latex gloves.

‘Why do you need those?’

‘Just in case we find something with someone else’s prints on it.’

‘The person who killed Mum?’

Eden didn’t answer. Wayne picked up a bowl from the floor and placed it on the shelf, a futile, tender gesture that flooded her heart with sympathy. He was only fifteen, his mother had been killed; he was facing this alone.

‘Your mum said she had insurance,’ Eden said. ‘She must have hidden it somewhere: I think that’s what whoever turned over the house was looking for.’

‘Do you think they found it?’

Eden looked at the mess. ‘No, because if they had, I think they just would have scarpered with it. Someone searched every room, so unless they only found it in the last place left to look, I think they left empty handed.’

She started in the sitting room, feeling behind and underneath cupboards and shelves, pulling drawers right out and checking whether anything was taped to the underside. She removed cushion covers and squeezed the cushions, listening for a tell-tale rustle. She lifted the rugs, flipped them over, and checked the flooring underneath. Nothing.

She worked from room to room, Wayne watching her from the doorway.

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Watch me, and tell me if I miss anything.’ She turned to him with a gentle smile. ‘Tell me about your mum.’

‘Like what?’

‘What was she like?’

Hesitating at first, Wayne started to speak. ‘She was just an ordinary mum, really. Shouted at me, made me pick up my clothes off the floor. When she and Dad were together, we used to go to the seaside on holidays. Nowhere flash, just Cornwall and places like that. She used to collect all sorts of crap. Leaves and shells and postcards, photos of all of us together, tickets for the steam train and stuff like that, and when we got home, she’d make a collage out of it. Like a little kid, with glue and a piece of card, and she’d call it the holiday collage, and put it up where we’d all see it to remind us of our holiday.’ Wayne stopped. When he continued, his voice was gravelly, ‘She didn’t do that any more after Dad left.’

‘Why did your dad leave?’

‘She kicked him out. Found out he’d had an affair. She couldn’t stand being near him after that. Dad married the other woman, Cora, after the divorce. I think that’s why Mum never went to their place: she didn’t want to see Cora.’

The woman who’d broken up their marriage. It made sense. Also explained why she might have an affair with a married man herself: it had been done to her, why not suit herself from now on.

Eden moved into the kitchen and searched the cupboards, one by one. There was a little utility room off the kitchen, with a washing machine and small sink. Hanging above the sink was a collage: a mess of ticket stubs, bits of shell, photos of Wayne when he was small, framed in a light wood.

‘Did your mum make this?’

‘Yeah. Horrible, isn’t it?’

She was surprised that Donna kept it on display. It must be hurtful, looking at these memories of a happier time day after day, a daily reminder of everything she’d lost.

She opened the cupboard and began to take out the box of washing powder and bottles of stain remover, then glanced again at the collage. She reached up and lifted it down. Turning it over, she saw it was backed with a piece of stiff hardboard held firm with four metal clips. She eased them off one by one and prised off the backing.

‘Bingo,’ she breathed, as she picked up an envelope concealed behind the backing. ‘The best place to hide anything is in plain view.’

She replaced the backing and rehung the collage then opened the envelope. It wasn’t sealed. Inside was a sheet of paper with entries written in different pens as though it had been compiled over a period of time. Eden turned the paper over. Writing covered both sides. It was in the form of a rough table. Date, then a name, then an amount, then a Y or N, which she presumed stood for yes or no. But yes or no to which question?

She handed the sheet over to Wayne. ‘This make any sense to you?’

Wayne studied it. ‘No. Whose names are they?’

‘I was going to ask you that. Butler, Carsons, Keble?’ She looked at Wayne and asked gently, ‘Your mum’s boyfriends? Men she dated once or twice even?’

Wayne shook his head. ‘No. She went out with someone called Paul not long ago. He was all right. He took me to the football.’ He flicked down the list. ‘His name’s here. Look, at the bottom.’

Not quite the bottom. Underneath was a date two weeks away, the name Shearer, and an amount. Over a million pounds. Next to it was an N.

‘What are you going to do?’ Wayne asked.

‘I’ll take it with me, if that’s all right with you,’ Eden said. ‘It doesn’t make sense to me yet, but I’ll see what I can work out.’

‘What about me?’

‘I think you should go to stay with your dad. The people who searched the house might come back. Anyway, you can’t stay here on your own.’

‘Dad’ll call the police if I turn up.’

‘You’ll have to speak to them eventually.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘Tell the truth and you’ll be fine.’

They left the house, locked up, and Eden drove him to the station where she bought him a ticket. ‘Ring your dad and ask him to pick you up. And let me know how you get on.’

She put him on to the train, fearing he’d skip and cash in the ticket, thinking he could run forever. As the doors closed, he poked his head out and asked, ‘What if they come after you?’

‘Don’t worry about me, Wayne,’ she said, ‘I can take care of myself.’

The receptionist at the planning office told her Greg Barker was out. ‘Working from home today,’ was her specific allegation. If that was meant to put her off, it didn’t work. She simply looked up Greg’s home address and tootled round there.

The woman who answered the door wasn’t what she was expecting. Having met Greg: macho, brash and overbearing, she’d expected a woman clad in leather trousers and a zebra-print top, not the gentle-faced woman in a pink wrap-around sweater who greeted her.

‘Hello?’

‘Mrs Barker?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is Greg in?’

‘No, he’s at work.’ The woman frowned at such an elementary mistake.

‘Then can I talk to you?’ Eden fished out her ID and flashed it like they do in movies. The woman took the ID from her hand and studied it before stepping aside and inviting her in.

Sally Barker had mousy brown hair hanging straight to her shoulders. She tucked it behind her ears as they sat down in her sitting room. A toybox spilled dolls and dolls’ clothes over the carpet; Eden trod one underfoot accidentally as she made her way to the seat Sally indicated. She bent and picked up a small plastic doll with long blond hair.

‘Sorry,’ Sally said. ‘Excuse the mess. Children, you know.’

Eden balanced the doll on the arm of the chair. ‘How old are they?’

‘Eight. Twin girls, Abigail and Amy.’ Her gaze strayed to a photograph above the fireplace: a studio portrait of Sally and Greg with two girls, dressed identically.

The house was modest: a simple three-bed semi on a modern estate. She’d imagined Greg to have a large detached house in a gated community. The sitting and dining room were open plan, with doors at the back of the house leading out on to a compact garden. A plastic slide dominated the square of lawn, but someone had created imaginative flowerbeds that made the most of the small space.

‘Are you the gardener?’ Eden asked.

‘What? Oh yes, I love gardening. I love being out there.’ She turned back to Eden. ‘You didn’t come here to talk about gardening.’

‘I’m investigating the death of Paul Nelson. Did you know him?’

‘Paul Nelson? No, I don’t recognise the name. How did he die?’

‘He was poisoned.’

Wide blue eyes fixed on her. ‘You mean food poisoning?’

Eden ignored her question. ‘Are you sure you don’t know him? Your husband might have mentioned him. Paul was a property developer.’

‘I don’t have anything to do with all of that.’

‘All of what?’

‘Business. Greg’s work.’ Sally gave a small laugh. ‘I just look after the house and the girls.’

‘So he never brought Paul here, for a party or drinks? He never mentioned him?’

Sally shrugged. ‘No, sorry.’

‘Does Greg ever talk about work?’

‘A bit. You know, complaining about stress, talking about people I don’t know. I just nod and sympathise.’ She fingered the beads on her red and black bracelet abstractly.

She wasn’t getting anywhere; time to try an appeal to chumminess. Nodding at Sally’s bracelet, Eden said, ‘Snap.’ She jutted out her wrist to show her. ‘Got mine from a music festival.’

It took Sally a moment to catch up. ‘Oh yes,’ she breathed, ‘Greg bought this for me. We got it from the Eden project years ago.’

‘Nice.’

‘I had a necklace that matched, but the string broke. Greg was going to fix it but …’ Sally dribbled to a halt. ‘Anyway, sorry I can’t help you.’

‘Where was Greg on Monday night?’

‘Monday?’ Sally screwed up her face. ‘Monday’s always the planning meeting.’

‘What time did he get home?’

Sally smoothed her skirt over her knees. ‘The usual time, about half past nine. Look, what’s this about?’

Eden persisted. ‘And Wednesday night? Where was he then?’

Sally’s face closed. ‘He was here, with me. Where else would he be?’ She crossed her arms over her chest.

Liar, Eden thought. Time to play dirty. ‘What about Donna Small?’

Sally stiffened slightly, and brushed an invisible piece of lint from her sweater. ‘She’s Greg’s PA,’ she said.

‘How long has she worked for him?’

‘Why don’t you ask her?’

‘I would, Sally, but Donna was killed a couple of days ago.’

Sally slumped back in her chair. ‘Killed? How?’

She wasn’t going to answer that question. Surely Greg would have told his wife his PA had been killed? ‘How well did you know her?’

Sally was staring into space, her fingers working at her bracelet, and Eden had to repeat the question.

‘Not very well,’ Sally said, her words hollow. ‘I saw her occasionally at the work do at Christmas.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘The Christmas party, probably.’

‘How well did Greg know her?’

Sally bit her bottom lip. ‘She was his PA.’ Her voice hardened. ‘She was his colleague, that’s all.’

‘You didn’t socialise with her?’

Sally shook her head. ‘Why should we?’

‘I got the feeling you all went on holiday together.’

A pause. When Sally spoke, her voice was hoarse. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘Donna Small had a photo of her and Greg together, somewhere tropical, hotel pool, cocktails with fruit in. I assumed that your family and hers went as a group.’

Sally jumped up. ‘Get out,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Get out!’

Eden stood. ‘Where were you on Wednesday night, Sally?’

‘Here. I was here with the children. I don’t know anything.’

She grabbed Eden’s elbow and hustled her to the door. ‘Now go!’ she cried, opening the door and shoving Eden out.

As Eden walked back to her car, she turned and saw Sally framed in the window, watching her go, tears pouring down her face. For a second, Eden toyed with going back, apologising, comforting her; then she dismissed the idea. She had work to do.

She drove back home and parked in her allotted space outside the block of flats. Hoisting her bag on to her shoulder, she opened the front door and cantered up the stairs to her floor. No one about. She dug out her front door keys and froze.

The hair she placed carefully every time she left the flat was missing. Someone had got in.

She opened the door cautiously and slunk inside, her senses taut. The air in the flat was different; it had shifted since she’d last been here; accommodated the space of another human being.

Standing frozen, she strained her ears for any sound, any breath that would tell her the intruder was still there. Nothing. The sitting room was empty, as was the kitchen leading off it. She edged from room to room, scouting out signs of an intruder. Her nerves were at full alert, tensed to any shiver in the air that betrayed she wasn’t alone.

The dust she left on purpose on the bookshelf was disturbed: the books had been pulled out and replaced. No one in the bathroom, but the mirrored door on the medicine cabinet was closed tight shut: she always left it slightly ajar. She opened it: the medicines had been stirred around. Someone had searched her flat.

She screwed up her courage to open the wardrobe door in her bedroom, taunted by images of someone jumping out at her. It was Hammond’s style to lurk in her bedroom and frighten her, get the upper hand and shred her nerves before he even started.

She swallowed. She couldn’t think about what he’d start if he ever caught up with her.

No one in the wardrobe, but her clothes had shuffled along the rail. The hair across the top drawer of the chest of drawers was missing. The rooms were empty, that only left the balcony. She peered out on to it, craning her neck as far as she could. There was a blind spot where the balcony curved away round the side of building. He could be skulking there. The hair across the door had gone: whoever had searched the place had done a thorough job if he’d frisked the daffodils in their pot, too.

Yanking open the door, she leapt out on to the balcony and sprinted to the corner. Nothing. Her heart banging against her chest, she leaned on the balcony rail and looked out over the velvety grass and cedars that surrounded the block of flats to the shops, and beyond them, to the hills.

Her hand shook so hard she could only cling to the rail while she fought to calm her breathing. Someone in her flat. No sign of a forced entry, so it was someone who knew how to pick a lock. Someone with skills. Someone who knew what he was doing. She let go of the rail and ran back inside, slamming the door and locking it.

It was only then she realised that whoever had searched her flat had made a mistake: he’d left the balcony door unlocked. Was it a mistake, or a threat? Done deliberately to let her know someone had breached her sanctuary? Someone letting her know he’d found her and he’d come back for her one day?