"The Joses?" Proust suggested. "Francine was a drain on their resources. Do you enjoy having friends to stay for the weekend, Sergeant?"
"I do, yes."
"No, you dont. Think how pleased you are when they leave. Now imagine theyve brought their vegetative former partners with them and intend to stay not for a weekend but for the rest of their lives."
Sam would have bet his own life insurance policy that neither Dan nor Kerry Jose had smothered Francine Breary with a pillow. "If Tim Breary didnt kill his wife, my second choice would be Jason Cookson," he told the Snowman. "Hes got a history of violence. I had Sellers do a bit of digging around."
"And?"
"Two dropped GBH charges-one from 1998, the other in 2007. Second victim lost an eye. Sellers is chasing the details of the first, but the second charge fell apart because the vic changed his tune at the last minute, p.r.o.nounced himself unable to ID Cookson as the man who went for him with a knife in a care-home car park."
"So Cookson got to him somehow," said Proust.
"Cookson wasnt around today. Hes working on a friends house renovation, apparently. They all alibied him for last night, but Im sure theyre lying. I think he did it." Sam held up his hands, seeing the disbelief on the Snowmans face. "I know Gaby Struthers says the man who attacked her wasnt Jason Cookson. I think she could be lying too. For the same reason: fear. Cookson took a mans eye out, sir. Dan, Kerry and Lauren, theyre all frightened-"
"Not necessarily of Cookson," said Proust. "Perhaps theyre scared because they know theyre lying to the police in a murder inquiry and will soon have to face the consequences. And if Gabys so scared of Cookson after he attacked her, why report the attack at all?"
"I dont know." Sam had wondered that himself. Jason Cookson seemed by far the most obvious contender; if not him, then who? Dan Jose? No, no way. "Lets say Gabys right and Cookson sent an a.s.sociate of his to scare the living daylights out of her, because he doesnt want her getting any more information out of Lauren. Lets say we even find this thug-where does that get us? We still wont know what it is that the Dower House lot are hiding." Sam sighed. "I think weve got a problem we cant easily solve, sir."
"Could that be because were a major crimes investigation unit, not the Brownies?" Proust snapped. "Youre right: this isnt going to be fixed by DC Gibbs leaping over a toadstool, chanting, "We are the gnomes, we help in the homes. Not that Gibbs does help in any homes, his own least of all." The Snowman chuckled. "Ah, look, the thunderer returns," he said as Sellers walked in. "The weighty wanderer."
"First GBH charge went the same way as the second, Sarge," Sellers addressed Sam and ignored Proust. He was out of breath. He needed to lose a few pounds, that was for sure. "Victim and two witnesses went from being a hundred percent certain Jason Cookson was the a.s.sailant to having seen nothing at all. The first GBH wasnt just a drunken brawl either. It was a bloke who made the mistake of chatting to Cooksons then girlfriend, Becky Grafham, in a Chinese takeaway. Ended up in hospital with multiple broken bones. When I heard that, I thought it might be worth asking about motive for the second."
"And?" said Proust.
"Same. Cookson was married to Lauren by then. The man he stabbed in the eye was the son of one of the . . . inmates at the care home where Lauren worked, if thats what you call them. Poor bloke made the mistake of exchanging a bit of harmless friendly banter with Lauren when he came in to visit his mother. One day Jason was there picking Lauren up from work and overheard it."
"Thats a mistake you often make, isnt it, Sellers?" said Proust. "Exchanging harmless banter with other mens womenfolk, as a prelude to other exchanges. I suppose youd weigh less if you lost an eye, on the plus side."
"Sir, Ive tried to contact this Becky Grafham-"
"Why?" Proust barked.
"Maybe Im being daft, but I couldnt square the GBH temper stories about Cookson with what happened to Gaby Struthers yesterday. I know Charlie said she hadnt got anything like the full story out of Struthers, but shes seen her, spoken to her. Theres no broken bones, no missing eyes or other body parts, no serious physical injuries. I suppose I just wondered if Jason Cooksons in the habit of attacking both men and women, and, if so, does he attack differently depending on the s.e.x of the victim?"
"And?" said Proust impatiently.
"I spoke to Becky Grafhams mum, who said it was Cookson who dumped Becky for another girl, which I dont suppose means anything necessarily, but she also mentioned that shed told Becky at the start that Cookson would dump her. It was only a matter of time, she said, and she was right. Before he met and married Lauren, Jason Cookson had a reputation for not sticking around. He might stay a week, a year, two years, but hed be off to pastures new in due course. He left every girlfriend he ever had."
"Someone who stays in a relationship for two years can hardly be described as flighty," said Proust. "Thats a significant time investment, two years."
"Right." Sellers looked pleased. "Thats what I thought too. So I wondered: how come a guy who has a series of normal, varied-length relationships ends up with a rep as a leaver?"
Proust held up his hands in an exaggerated gesture of bored and irritated confusion. His body language had always been fuller and more complex than that of anyone else Sam had ever known.
"What if it was because no one ever left him-ever?" Sellers persisted. "What if not a single girlfriend left because they felt as if they couldnt? Either theyd been told they werent allowed, or they were too scared."
Proust drummed the flats of his hands on his desk. "I dont see where that gets us, even if its true," he said eventually.
"Well only see where it gets us if we pursue it," said Sam. "Track down Cooksons exes," he told Sellers. "Lets see how many of them are still too scared of him to talk openly, even at a distance of several years."
- Simon pulled up outside the house and switched off the engine. He made no move to get out of the car. He was always slower to emerge than Charlie, as if driving had sent him into a trance from which he couldnt easily extricate himself. Sometimes she lost patience and went inside alone. Tonight she didnt move. "Are you going to tell me?" she asked.
"No Harold Shipman, no Fred and Rosemary West. No Saddam Hussein or Osama bin Laden."
"True," said Charlie. "Its a big plus that none of those guys will be there."
"What?"
"At Liv and Doms wedding."
"That wasnt what I meant." Simon slid his seat farther back to give himself more legroom.
"Well have a better time without them than we would with. If only because theyre nearly all dead."
"What the f.u.c.k are you talking about?"
Charlie cheered silently and tried not to laugh. Why hadnt she thought to use this tactic before? She blamed excessive sobriety; tonight shed had three large gla.s.ses of wine and felt inspired. Normally she was ineffectually straightforward when she didnt have a clue what Simon was mumbling about: telling him she didnt understand, asking him every five seconds to explain, until eventually he did-when it suited him and not one second sooner. This new technique was more fun: for every baffling statement he made, she would fire one back at him. Why should she be the only one unable to follow the thread of the conversation?
"Think about Tim Brearys room," said Simon. "The books by his bed."
"The ones about murderers?"
"I need strong black tea," Simon said suddenly.
"Traditionally, that would involve going into the house."
"I can think better out here."
"Youre insane. Oh . . . b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l! Fine." Charlie got out of the car and slammed the door. "I can practically feel a ma.s.sive rod growing very near my own back," she muttered, pulling her keys out of her bag. The phone was ringing as she let herself in. She ignored it and headed for the kitchen, thinking it could only be Liv. It rang five more times while she made Simons tea. Each time sounded more urgent somehow, though the ringing sound was exactly the same.
Charlies curiosity got the better of her. "What?"
"Charlie? Its Lizzie Proust."
"Oh. Hi, Lizzie. Everything okay?" Or has my husband trashed your entire family dynamic?
"Yes, fine. Im sorry to phone so late."
"Its okay. Its not late."
"Oh, good." Lizzie sounded surprised: as if, without Charlies help, shed have had no way of working out for herself if now was an acceptable time to ring. "Charlie, this is a bit awkward. I a.s.sume you know about Amanda-Regan, as she is now. You know Simon had a word with Giles and . . . explained the situation to him?"
"I tried to stop him."
"But you didnt succeed?"
"Well, obviously not." If shed succeeded, Lizzie wouldnt be ringing her at nine forty-five on a Sat.u.r.day night. Nor would she know that her daughter had changed her name to Regan.
"Its just that . . . well, Ama-Regan and I are somewhat baffled."
"Shall I ask Simon to ring you?" Charlie was keen to stay out of it. She didnt feel up to the task of unbaffling anybody; that was Simons department.
"Giles hasnt said anything, you see. Nothing. Hes behaving exactly as if nothings changed. I only know about it because Simon rang Amanda earlier and . . . sorry." Lizzie laughed nervously. "Im not sure Ill ever get used to the new name but Ive promised her Ill try, as long as Giles isnt around. Simon rang Regan earlier and told her what hed done, and she rang me in a terrible flap. She was beside herself-talking about having to move abroad, coming out with all kinds of hysterical nonsense. She said Simon had told Giles everything, and how could she ever face him again, knowing he knew?"
"I hope Simon apologized to Regan for having landed her in the s.h.i.t," said Charlie. "I told him to."
"I said on no account must she run away-she should come home with me and wed face him together. I thought the best thing would be if she denied it all, said it was a lie from start to finish, but she didnt think Giles would believe that, and since Regans now her legal name . . ."
"Wait a second." Charlie took a sip of Simons tea. It confirmed her suspicion that no one who preferred tea without milk could be entirely sane. "You want to get yourself and Regan out of trouble by portraying Simon as a liar when hes telling the truth? I know hes an annoying a.r.s.e, but that doesnt seem very fair."
"No." Lizzie sighed. "Of course it isnt. Im not proud of any of this, but Im afraid panic did rather set in. You know what Giles can be like. It wasnt just me and Amanda in a tizz. You should have seen my son-in-law, he was white as a sheet. Anyway, as I say, Amanda-Regan-didnt think Giles would believe her if she denied it outright-"
"Lizzie, for f.u.c.ks sake!" Charlie blurted out. "This is all totally mental."
"I know," Lizzie said mournfully. "I do know, Charlie, really. And Im so sorry to involve you in it."
"Forget me. Think about yourself, and Regan. Tell Proust the truth, let him see the situation as it really is: his daughters got a problem with him. A big one."
"I cant do that. Giles has always relied on his family. More than most people, perhaps. Were his rock."
Why was it always a rock? Charlie wondered. Were rocks particularly helpful to ordinary people in urban and suburban settings? Why did no one say, "Hes my central heating," or "Hes my fitted carpet?"
"If Giles thought his loyal wife and his only daughter had anything but love and respect for him, hed be devastated."
"Do you love and respect him?" Charlie asked.
"Of course I do!"
"Why "of course? Regan doesnt."
"Oh, I can sort her out," said Lizzie impatiently, as if it was as easy as doing the weekly shop. "Its this therapist shes been seeing. These people are wicked, Charlie. Wicked. They help themselves to your hard-earned money and fill you so full of grudges and grievances that youre worse off than when you started, and not only financially. Honestly, they do more harm than good. Some of them implant false memories of abuse. I read an article-"
"Lizzie," Charlie cut her off. "I have to go. If you want to bury your head in the sand, thats up to you, but I think you should listen to Regan. Shes right about Proust: hes a bully. Has been for as long as Ive known him. Im sure he has redeeming features, but . . . well, Ive only ever seen the tiniest glimpse."
"Why are you saying that?" Lizzies voice shook. Shed dropped the world-weary organizer persona and sounded about eight years old. "Giles is immensely fond of you, and Simon. He thinks the world of both of you. "Redeeming features implies theres some terrible . . . sin or something thats been committed. If youd said "sterling qualities, youd have been closer to the mark! Youre the one who should listen to Amanda-now, I mean. Shes dreadfully embarra.s.sed by her outpouring to Simon. She admits she went way over the top."
"Because shes frightened," said Charlie.
"Of what, exactly? Giles is devoted to her, and to her children. She knows that perfectly well." Lizzies tone was clamping down again: zero tolerance. Shes imitating Proust, Charlie thought with a shudder. That had to be it: she alternated, in her mind, between her voice and his, her own thoughts and her masters. Like a schizophrenic. "Giles has never laid a finger on Amanda, and he never would."
"Fingers arent the only thing to fear. Psychological cruelty can hurt more, and its easier to get away with. No visible scars." Keep going, Zailer. If anyone can undo the brainwashing of a forty-year marriage in one telephone conversation, you cant. Dont let that put you off, though. "If Giles is so jam-packed with sterling qualities, why do you think Regan felt the need to create a new ident.i.ty? And why are you willing to call her Regan? Arent you buying into her disloyalty every time you do?"
"Probably," said Lizzie defiantly. "Its all a b.l.o.o.d.y stupid charade, Charlie. If you want to know how I really feel, I think Amandas wallowing in negativity and blowing every tiny thing thats ever happened out of proportion-but, of course, I cant tell her that. I have to placate her and call her by her silly new name so that sh.e.l.l smooth things over with Giles, or else I might end up not being able to see my grandchildren, which is, frankly, unthinkable. If Giles decides we cant see Amanda anymore . . ."
"Tell him to f.u.c.k off. Go and see the grandchildren on your own."
Was Lizzie blowing up a balloon on the other end of the line? Didnt people give her this sort of advice all the time: her female friends, acquaintances, neighbors?
"Charlie, youre not making this easy for me. I didnt ring to talk about my high-maintenance daughter."
"Stop talking about her, then, before I start leafing through the Yellow Pages to see if theres such a thing as a Barnardos for grown-ups." Adoption for the over-eighteens: why had no one invented it? It was a brilliant idea: new parents for adults.
"Giles has said nothing."
"What do you mean?"
"Hes behaving as if nothings happened, nothings changed," said Lizzie. "Regan and I have been waiting for the explosion, but . . . nothing. Its as if he doesnt know, Charlie. Are you absolutely sure Simon told him?"
"I cant see why hed lie about it."
"Then why hasnt Giles brought it up?"
"Why dont you bring it up?" Charlie asked.
"Im clinging to the hope that Simon didnt tell him."
"Lizzie, if he told Regan he did, then he did. I know why Prousts not saying anything, and so would you, if you thought about it. Like all despots, he didnt get where he is today by giving away any power. Think about it: the minute he reacts, hes a bomb thats gone off. Youre all busy dealing with the wreckage. No ones scared of whats already happened, are they? By not reacting, he can keep you suspended in a state of fear, waiting for whats coming. Wondering why it never arrives, too scared to ask. Youre not even sure he knows. Thats even better-hes depriving you of certainty as well as acknowledgment. He gets to keep all the power."
"What kind of monster do you think my husband is, exactly?" Lizzie snapped.
Saddam Hussein, Harold Shipman, Osama bin Laden. Giles Proust.
Charlie had it, suddenly: the answer to the question Simon hadnt got as far as asking. "Ive got to go, Lizzie."
"Wait! Im sorry I raised my voice. Look, I do take your point. Youre probably right, in the main."
Would this ever end?
"I need to ask you a favor, Charlie. Thats why I rang. Could you . . . Would you mind asking Simon if he could have another go, try to talk to Giles about it again? Maybe pop round one evening, so that they wouldnt have to have the conversation at work? I could arrange to be out, thats no problem. I just . . . Id be able to deal with this so much better if I knew what Giles was-"
Thinking. Charlie didnt hear the last word; shed pressed the end-call b.u.t.ton and put the phone back on its base. It started to ring again. She unplugged it, went back to the kitchen, poured Simons tea away and made him a new cup.
Lizzie would never have let her go.
Simon hadnt moved, and didnt look up when she got back into the car. There was no point telling him now about the most dysfunctional telephone conversation in human history; he had fallen into a deep, dark pocket of obsession and would be there for a while yet.
"Ask me," Charlie said, handing him his drink.
"Hm?"
"The question in your head. No Harold Shipman, no Fred and Rose West . . . I think I might have the answer."
"Why those murderers? The books in Tim Brearys room: why Pinochet, that old n.a.z.i, the Lockerbie bomber, Myra Hindley? Why the mixture of political and non-political murder?"
"Coincidence? Random?"
"Thats your answer?"