All Things Nice Page 5

  ‘It happened at the bottom of my road,’ Charlotte said, changing the subject to the first thing that came into her head. ‘The place was crawling with police and the bottom of the road was all cordoned off with that tape, you know. Like something you see on the TV.’

  The look on her daughter’s face told Charlotte she’d said the wrong thing.

  ‘This is nothing like TV,’ Freya said. ‘He’s bloody dead, Mother. Christ almighty. He was stabbed.’

  Charlotte’s heart jumped. She remembered a knife and blood. The shock on her mother’s face. She shook her head and Mother disappeared.

  ‘How do you know?’ she asked.

  Freya looked at her as if she was stupid. ‘The police told me. Imagine that. Imagine sticking a knife into someone. Who would do a thing like that?’

  The gin and tonics she’d had earlier swilled around Charlotte’s stomach. She didn’t want to think about it, but her mind refused to let it go. A knife plunging into the skin and up inside his body, puncturing his heart. The burst of blood and the screams. Because he would have screamed, wouldn’t he, if someone did that to him? She imagined him staggering back, in agony, his hands over his chest, blood pumping through his fingers.

  ‘It’s so horrible,’ Freya said. ‘Beyond anything anyone could ever imagine.’

  Freya’s eyes filled with tears and Charlotte wished she could find the courage to wrap her arms around her daughter’s shoulders.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ she asked.

  Freya used her sleeve to wipe her face. Charlotte thought about offering a tissue but wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do. She thought tissues might be another middle-class affectation her daughter despised.

  ‘Sorry,’ Freya said. ‘I just … it’s so hard, you know?’

  And worse with a hangover, Charlotte thought. A part of her wondered at the fact the hangover could keep its hold on her, even in the face of something like this. She’d have thought the shock would obliterate everything else. Seemingly, that wasn’t the case. The short-term effect of the earlier drinks was starting to wear off and she felt like death. Again.

  Freya’s flat was so tiny, Charlotte was able to see into the kitchen from where she sat. She looked longingly at the bottle of wine. Surely at this stage it was okay to suggest a drink? But if she did, Freya would say something cruel, so she kept her mouth shut. She could always drop into The Station again on her way home. If she could last that long.

  ‘Will you tell me about it?’ Freya asked. ‘I won’t mind, I promise. I’d never even ask normally, it’s just, now he’s gone, I sort of need to know.’

  Charlotte wondered what she’d missed. She’d been distracted, thinking about a drink when she should be concentrating on Freya. Self-loathing mingled with a vague panic threatened to turn into something worse. Her breath caught in her throat and she closed her eyes, forcing herself to concentrate. The last thing Freya needed was having to deal with one of Charlotte’s panic attacks. Breathe. Focus on the breathing. In, out, in, out. If only the room wasn’t so bloody hot.

  She stood up, took off her jacket and gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Freya stared at her, like she was waiting for her to say something. Charlotte scrabbled through her thoughts, trying to find something she could say that would sound like she was in control of the situation.

  ‘What is it you want to know, darling?’

  ‘You and Kieran,’ Freya said.

  The clatter started up again in her chest and the roaring in her head blocked out everything else. She could see her daughter’s mouth moving but the words, so difficult to grab hold of the words and make sense of them. Something about being angry with Kieran and saying there was something Freya needed to know. Dear God.

  ‘It was nothing.’ She’d spoken too loudly. Shouted. Freya shrunk back in her chair. The way she used to when she was very little. Before she’d learned to shout back.

  ‘Sorry,’ Charlotte managed. ‘I really wasn’t angry about anything. Why would I be?’

  A look of sneering contempt crept across Freya’s face. Something else Charlotte was only too familiar with.

  ‘Maybe you don’t remember,’ Freya said. ‘You were pretty bad last night, even by your standards.’

  ‘It was my birthday,’ Charlotte said. Pathetic, she knew. No matter how much Freya hated her, it wasn’t as much as Charlotte hated herself. She wished Freya understood that. If she did, maybe she could find it in her heart to … what?

  ‘I’m forty-four,’ Charlotte said. ‘I hate growing older. You know that. But you’re right. I shouldn’t have got so drunk. I’m sorry.’

  She would have added a promise about it not happening again, but they both knew the promise would never be kept.

  ‘You were angry,’ Freya said. ‘Told me he didn’t deserve me and begged me to leave him. You said all sorts of crazy stuff.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Freya said. ‘I’m sure you didn’t mean half of it.’

  Another wave of self-loathing sucked her down. If only she could remember. She wanted to ask Freya what – exactly – she’d said. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer. Surely, no matter how drunk she’d been, she wouldn’t have told Freya. Would she? She didn’t think so. On the other hand, she’d obviously come close.

  It hit her all over again. He was dead. For minutes at a time, it seemed so unreal, like someone had made it all up. Then the brutal fact of it slammed into her, shocking her as bad as the first time she’d heard it. And if it was like this for her, what must poor Freya be feeling?

  ‘It’s terrible,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry, darling. So very sorry.’

  ‘What for?’ Freya asked. ‘It’s not your fault. I mean, it’s not like you killed him, is it?’

  Charlotte couldn’t work out if Freya was joking. Or not. She tried to think of something to say but before anything came to mind the doorbell rang, making them both jump.

  ‘I’ll get it.’

  Relieved for an excuse to get out of the room, Charlotte ran down the narrow staircase to the front door. She knew who it was before she opened the door. Recognised his outline – tall and broad-shouldered – through the opaque glass.

  Fixing her face into a smile, she pulled the door open.

  He saw her, took a step back like she was the last person in the world he wanted to see right now. Well tough, she thought. She’s my daughter too and if I want to be here with her, that’s what I’ll do.

  ‘Hello, Nick.’

  Seven

  ‘I want to sleep on my own tonight.’

  Ellen was in the kitchen, tidying up after dinner. She had her back to Pat, hadn’t even heard him come into the room. Resisting the urge to turn around, she stayed where she was.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, keeping her voice as neutral as she could. ‘Good idea. I’ll only be next door, anyway, if you need me.’

  ‘And can we watch a film together first? After Eilish goes to bed. Please, Mum?’

  She closed her eyes and counted to three. She really needed him in bed early tonight. So much work to catch up on.

  ‘I’m not sure we’ll have time for a film,’ she said. ‘But how about a double episode of The Simpsons?’

  She risked turning around then, weak with relief when she saw he was smiling.

  ‘Great,’ Pat said. ‘Will I go and get it ready?’

  ‘Not so fast,’ Ellen said. ‘I need to get Eilish up to bed first. Give me half an hour, okay?’

  Two hours later and feeling like she’d spent too much time in the company of Homer and his family, Ellen finally got Pat into bed. In his own room. After kissing him goodnight, she stood outside his bedroom for a moment, savouring the rare feeling of jubilation.

  Pat’s counsellor had assured her – again and again – that Pat was improving. Ellen had noticed changes herself but had been too scared to hope. Tonight, though, she was willing to let her guard down, just for a moment. She was desperate
for things to get back to normal before he started secondary school in September. Four more months. Tonight, for the first time, she thought maybe everything was going to be okay.

  * * *

  ‘Where’s Freya?’ Nick stayed on the doorstep, looking at Charlotte as if she’d done something wrong.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day,’ Charlotte said. ‘Where on earth have you been?’

  His strawberry blonde hair had flopped down over one eye. He flicked his head and the hair swung back. Strange to think she’d once found that move attractive. Until she actually saw him practice in the mirror once when he thought she wasn’t looking. She’d never known a man could be so vain.

  He went to push past her but she stood firm. For once they would do things her way.

  ‘Freya!’ He shouted over her shoulder, his voice loud, hurting her ear.

  ‘Calm down,’ Charlotte said, smile still fixed in place, despite her irritation.

  Typical of him to come here before calling her first. It had been like that for as long as she could remember. The two of them against her. She was the outsider and neither of them had ever done a single thing to make her feel included. Acting like they didn’t care about her when she was the one doing all the cooking and caring and being the wife and mother she was meant to be.

  ‘Something’s happened,’ she said.

  Again, he tried to go past her. Again, she stood her ground.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Please. It’s Freya, isn’t it? I’ve been going out of my mind the whole way over here. I came as quickly as I could.’

  ‘From where?’ The question was out before she could stop it.

  Something crossed his face, a look she’d seen before. Disdain or disgust – both, maybe – mixed with weariness.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Of course it matters, she wanted to scream. I’m your wife! Your place is here with me.

  She knew where he’d been. Not the details, of course. It was a different woman every time. She’d hired a private detective once, back when she’d still cared enough. These days, he didn’t even bother being discreet about it.

  ‘It’s Freya,’ she said. ‘You’re right.’

  His mouth fell open and he wobbled, actually wobbled, as if he might fall. Face full of horror giving her a sharp sense of satisfaction. Gotcha, you bastard.

  He fell against the doorframe, head in his hands.

  She put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Kieran’s dead,’ she said. ‘We think he’s been murdered.’

  An electric shock might have elicited a similar reaction. He grabbed her wrists and stared at her with an intensity she had forgotten.

  ‘He’s dead?’ he said, voice rasping and unnatural. ‘You’d better not be fucking with me, Charlotte. If this is your idea of a sick joke, I swear to you …’

  Suddenly, inexplicably, Charlotte felt scared. She tried to pull her arms free but he was holding her too tight. She started talking. Words tumbling over each other as she rushed through it all, not the way she’d planned it but not even caring about that, just wishing he’d stop holding her wrists so tight and stop looking at her like he’d lost his mind.

  When she’d finished speaking, he pushed her away and ran into the house, taking the stairs two at a time, shouting for his daughter. Charlotte went after him, got upstairs in time to see Freya falling into his arms, crying and saying thank God he was here, over and over.

  Charlotte slid past them and picked up her bag. At least with Nick here, she could leave for the pub without feeling guilty. Besides, it wasn’t like she was needed. The last thing she wanted was to sit and watch Nick play the superhero parent while she sat on the sidelines, unnoticed and unwanted.

  Outside, the night air was cool and crisp and it felt so good after the stuffy warmth of Freya’s flat. Charlotte lifted her face and let the breeze cool her hot cheeks. The lights were on in Freya’s flat but the curtains were still open. She could see the shadows of her husband and daughter, moving around inside.

  She was better out of it. Freya’s grief was suffocating and Charlotte didn’t have the skills to deal with it. And with Nick there, it wasn’t like anyone would miss her. But even though she told herself this as she hurried down the hill, away from Freya’s flat to The Station pub, Charlotte couldn’t quite shake off the feeling that – given the choice – she would rather be back there with her daughter, helping her through this, whether it was what Freya wanted or not.

  Eight

  Ellen knew Pat might not want to sleep alone tomorrow night, knew there was every chance a nightmare would wake him later. Even so … it felt like they’d turned a corner. As she went back downstairs, her spirits were lighter than they’d been at any time over the last five months.

  In the sitting room, she put on some music, pulled out her laptop and started going through her work files. She had barely started when her phone rang. Ger, calling for an update.

  ‘I’ve got Abby looking into Burton,’ Ger said. ‘The tech guys are trawling through his computer and phone records. Nothing so far.’

  ‘What about his mobile?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘The handset and SIM are password-protected,’ Ger said. ‘Abby’s already asked Freya if she knows the code, but she claims she has no idea.’

  ‘Odd,’ Ellen said. ‘I wonder what was on his phone that he didn’t want her to see.’

  ‘We should find out soon enough,’ Ger said. ‘Abby’s managed to get hold of Kieran’s sister, Emer Dawson. She’s on holiday in the Canaries. She’s sorting her flight back and hopes to be in London by Monday at the latest.’

  ‘What about Nick Gleeson?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘He’s with Freya,’ Ger said. ‘I got Abby to drop by on her way home. She spoke to both of them. Charlotte wasn’t there. I’m not sure what that tells us. Nothing, maybe.’

  ‘Freya and her mother don’t get on,’ Ellen said. ‘I wonder what her relationship with her father is like.’

  ‘Can you look into the family?’ Ger said. ‘Nick, Charlotte, Freya. Speak to Raj. See what he can tell us about Pete Cooper, Gleeson’s business partner.’

  ‘You think there’s a link between Cooper and the murder?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Ger said. ‘See what you can find out. Think you can handle that?’

  The question wasn’t meant to be patronising but Ellen felt patronised, nonetheless. Which made her more determined than ever to show Ger Cox what she was capable of. She ended the conversation and got down to work.

  She started by building a profile of Nick Gleeson. A self-made businessman, he was best-known for his phenomenally successful chain of Spanish restaurants, Totally Tapas. Family-friendly, reasonably priced tapas restaurants, Ellen was familiar with the chain; the local Greenwich branch was a favourite with her and the children.

  Gleeson himself had a reputation as a straight-talking, straight-up guy. A family man who gave the impression of being cleaner than clean. No rumours of dodgy business dealings or extramarital affairs. Nothing. He was also adored by the local media. Ellen found several nauseating interviews with Gleeson, several of them picturing his ‘glamorous and supportive wife, Charlotte’. No photos of Freya, Ellen noted.

  A search on Freya came back empty. Unlike her mother. Two drunk-driving charges and an alleged assault on a taxi driver. Kieran Burton, too, had been in trouble more than once. In his teens he’d been done for shoplifting, D&D and possession of cannabis. Over the last few years, Burton seemed to have got his act together. A degree in Politics was followed by an MA in Sociology and Politics, which he would never finish.

  Ellen thought back to earlier that day. When she’d broken the news about Burton’s murder to Charlotte Gleeson. The woman had seemed genuinely upset. Would she have reacted that way if she’d disapproved of her daughter’s boyfriend? Probably, Ellen concluded. Death was death, after all. Always tragic, no matter who the victim was.

  Too many questions and she was too t
ired to concentrate. She shut down the lid of the laptop and stood up. The music had stopped ages ago and the room felt too quiet. Even quieter without Rosie. Ellen wondered why the au pair wasn’t back yet. Then she remembered. Rosie was staying over with a friend tonight.

  Ellen sent Rosie a text, asking if she was okay. It was unnecessary, Ellen knew that. But she missed Rosie’s cheerful, noisy presence. A few minutes later, her phone rang. When she saw Rosie’s number on the screen, Ellen answered.

  ‘Hi Ellen, how’re things?’

  Ellen smiled. Vinny’s niece had that effect on her. Her sunny nature was such a tonic. And such a constant reminder of Vinny, too. Although Rosie looked nothing like Ellen’s dead husband, the family resemblance was still strong. Rosie had the same irrepressible personality, the same long limbs and the same soft west of Ireland accent that Ellen loved.

  ‘Good,’ Ellen said. ‘How’s your night going?’

  ‘Oh Ellen, it’s amazing! I’m at this artists’ studio place in Deptford. It’s this big old building and all the rooms have been converted into studios. It’s some sort of open evening so you can go and see all the artwork and meet the artists.’

  ‘Who are you with?’ Ellen asked.

  Rosie’s talent for digging out interesting people and making friends with them had been a constant source of surprise since the girl arrived in London two months earlier.

  ‘Well,’ Rosie said. ‘I met Karen earlier and we bumped into this group of people she knows from Spain. She works with one of them in the market.’

  Rosie’s best friend Karen had come to London with her. Karen was living with an English family, working as an au pair during the week and helping out at a stall in Greenwich market at the weekends.

  ‘They’re awesome,’ Rosie said. ‘Anyway, one of them, this guy Carlos, he’s an artist and he invited us over.’

  ‘What time are you heading back to Karen’s?’ Ellen asked. ‘Don’t leave it too late or you’ll miss the last train.’