‘She’ll not be back? What exactly do you mean?’
Bernice shuffled her feet. This was harder than she’d imagined. Alastair was standing next to his pedestal desk, looking thinner – gaunt even. Dark circles underscored his eyes, in which the light seemed to have vanished as though into a black hole. The man she had met in this very room all those months ago had been swallowed up as if consumed by some wasting disease of body and soul. The yogic, easy movements, the centred confidence that had so fascinated her were now just memories. This was a broken man standing before her.
‘It’s over, Alastair. And I think that’s probably a good thing for you. In the long term.’
‘What happened to her? I need to know.’
‘And I’ll tell you. When we’ve finished our business here.’
‘We?’
Bernice sighed. ‘My boss, DCI Brendan Moran, is outside with a team from the Sussex constabulary. They’ll be asking you – and me – specific questions about the events leading up to and including Johnny’s death.’
‘You’ve betrayed me.’ His fingers scrabbled at the tooled leather desktop.
Now Bernice saw red. ‘I’ve betrayed you? Can you hear yourself? You threw me to the wolves, Alastair, you let Isabel Akkerman – a proven killer – set me up. You let her use me!’
‘I never wanted that.’ He shook his head.
Bernice heard herself ranting on. ‘To save yourself, Alastair. Your own skin was more important than mine. And I thought we had something here. I had no idea that this woman, this bitch, had her claws into you the way she did.’
‘I didn’t think she was coming back,’ Catton said miserably. ‘I thought I’d be free, but then…’
‘Well she isn’t coming back now, that’s for certain.’
‘I’m going to lose everything.’
‘And I should care? I should give a toss?’ Rage was a bubbling cauldron inside her. She knew she should stop before she became incoherent. ‘Ben can look after the place while you’re gone – if they convict you, and they bloody well should. And he’ll make a better job of it than you ever have.’
‘That’s just cruel. Unfair.’
‘Where’s the body, Alastair? They’re going to find it whatever, so you might as well tell me.’
He moistened his lips, took a step towards her. ‘Will you – put in a good word for me? Tell them I didn’t mean it?’
Bernice backed away. ‘I’ll tell it as I saw it. Hire a good lawyer. That’s my advice.’
‘I’m so sorry, B.’
‘Too late. Now, where is he?’
Catton looked down. ‘At the end of the rose garden, there’s a compost heap. The far end, by the hawthorn. It’s deep. Bernice, please—’
Her tone was icy. ’Don’t ever call me that. We’re done here.’
She turned her back on him; he’d never see the tears she’d fought so hard to suppress.
She threw her parting words over her shoulder. ‘I’ll send Detective Chief Inspector Moran up. He’s a good man. He’ll treat you fairly.’
She shut the door behind her, leaned hard on it, took a deep breath, and went to find the guv.
Moran surveyed his desk. His empty desk. Having cleared it once before, there was little to pack away now. Would he be back? No, not this time. He was done.
He shrugged on his coat, peered out of the window to check the weather. The forecasted fine drizzle was pattering on, misting the glass and dampening the spirits of the homebound commuters in their little tin vehicles, wipers thrashing ineffectually. Ah well, situation normal. For him, it was home to Alice, a log fire, perhaps a glass or two of Sangiovese.
He looked up at the brief, yet familiar, Morse code of Higginson’s knock.
‘Ah, Brendan. Glad I’ve caught you. This came for you in the late post. I suspect I know who it’s from. Recognise the handwriting.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Moran took the envelope.
‘Last post, eh?’ Higginson chuckled.
‘Last—? Ah, very good, sir.’ Moran awarded Higginson a smile.
Moran pulled a letter opener out of the box on the desk and slit the envelope. He read:
Dear DCI Moran
I feel I should apologise for my rather threatening behaviour in the car park the other day. You should perhaps be aware that your Sergeant Collingworth called me yesterday to set the record straight. He felt that he’d exaggerated your involvement in my late husband’s final hours and wished to retract his opinion that you were responsible for my husband’s state of intoxication. Sergeant Collingworth appears to be a fine young man, and I am content to take him at his word. I understand that you will be leaving at the conclusion of your current caseload. May I take this opportunity to wish you a very happy retirement.
Yours sincerely,
Sheila Dawson
‘Sheila Dawson. Am I right?’ Higginson said.
‘Yes. Apparently I now have no case to answer. Collingworth has vouched for me.’
‘Good lad, good lad.’ Higginson seemed pleased.
Moran adopted a suspicious expression. ‘You wouldn’t have had anything to do with that, sir, would you?’
‘Me? Well, perhaps I greased the wheels a little, Brendan. Least I could do.’
Moran laughed. ‘In what way, sir?’
‘Told the young fella that I might be able to speed up his substantive posting if he played with a straight bat – if you get my drift.’
‘I do indeed. And I appreciate the gesture.’
‘Well, as I said, Brendan, it’s the least I could do after you stepped in so graciously to handle the Szarka case.’
Moran allowed Higginson’s selective memory of his press-gang style re-recruitment to pass without comment. ‘And very well done, too,’ Higginson continued. ‘I understand that Reyka Szarka covered her tracks rather well?’
‘Yes, sir. She disguised herself as a man, called a cab from Fleet, met the cab in an anonymous location, paid in cash, entered the house via the rear. Her mistake was the bust. She wore gloves, but one of the broken pieces nicked a hole large enough to transfer a trace of lubricant from her finger to the shard.’
‘And the lubricant came from the taxi?’
‘Yes, from the internal door handle. Key evidence for the CPS.’
‘Remarkable. Woman had some mental issue, I believe?’
‘It seems that the mother’s death triggered a long-suppressed desire for revenge. Reyka Szarka lived in her stillborn brother’s shadow all her life, and Leila Szarka never let her forget it.’
‘Tragic. And very sad,’ Higginson reflected. ‘Nevertheless, excellent work, Brendan,’ he added. ‘Absolutely top notch.’
‘Credit must go to the forensics lab, sir – Pauline Harris and her team.’
‘Quite, quite. Well, I mustn’t keep you, Brendan.’ Higginson stuck out his hand – clearly enough detail was enough. ‘May I wish you a very happy and fulfilling retirement. Keep in touch, won’t you?’
‘I will, sir. Thank you.’
Higginson didn’t exactly click his heels as he turned and marched from the office, but the formal style of his exit had much the same effect.
Moran sighed.
At last, it was time.
He flicked the light switch, closed the office door behind him with a definitive clunk, and walked resolutely along the corridor towards the lift, his waiting car, and the unknowable future.