There were leaflets in the waiting room of the Harley Street clinic and I read their titles while we were waiting.
Give In to Your Exhaustion. Involve Your Partner. Don’t Suffer in Silence. Get Your Partner to Give You a Soothing Massage. Talk to Your Partner.
Good advice to prepare you for your new life, your changed life, and the new life that was coming into the world.
The receptionist glanced up at us, wishing us away, embarrassed by the uniformed officer who could be seen through the frosted glass of the clinic front door, determined to act as if it was another day at the office.
And I remembered the special day my wife and I – and Anne was still my wife then – came to a place like this for her twelve-week scan, and I remembered how we held hands and prayed silently and believed with all our hearts that if we could just get through this day then we could face anything. It was so vivid in my mind – Anne on her back, flinching and laughing as the nurse applied the cold gel to her bare belly, and the white knuckles of our held hands and our eyes no longer just for each other, our gaze now fixed on that black-and-white monitor, and lit by a cone of light coming down from above, illuminating the unborn baby, shining down on our daughter.
‘Have you got any names?’ the nurse asked.
‘There’s only one name,’ Anne said. ‘Scout.’
‘Like the book,’ the nurse said. ‘To Kill a Mockingbird. I love that book.’
And we smiled in the darkness, our eyes never leaving the screen, and our grip on each other had tightened as though we would never let go.
‘Here they come,’ Whitestone said.
A door opened at the end of the thickly carpeted corridor that was more like a hotel than a hospital, and Meadow Flowers and her husband came out, smiling with relief and joy. I remembered that feeling. It was the best feeling in the world.
Their smiles faded when they saw us waiting.
And Mrs Charlotte Flowers came behind them, holding a black-and-white photograph of her unborn grandchild, and she smiled at me with that same polished charm she had shown on her daughter’s wedding day, she presented me that same charming mask, and it did not begin to slip until I spoke.
‘Snezia told us everything,’ I said. ‘You have to come with us now, Mrs Flowers.’
And I was prepared for denial, that was what I was expecting, that would have been the standard response from the ordinary sociopath.
But there was nothing ordinary about Charlotte Flowers.
And even as her mouth was still turned into an almost-smile, she came at me without warning and pressed her thumbs into my eye sockets, trying to blind me.
And now the receptionist was struggling to pretend this was just another day at work because Charlotte Flowers and I were writhing on the floor in a tangle of thrashing limbs, my hands on her arms as she tried to gain leverage to push my eyes into the back of my brain. Then I had her off me and I was on my feet again, but her mouth was snapping at me, attempting to bite off my nose, my ears, my lips, her jaws and teeth so close to my face that I could smell the floral bouquet of her lipstick. Whitestone and Adams were pulling at her limbs and a uniformed female officer had come in off the street but Flowers fought with a strength that came from somewhere other than muscle and bone. And even when she was in cuffs she kicked and she spat and bit and cursed us all to hell.
But in the back of the car to West End Central she began to weep. We thought she was crying for herself, for the life that was ahead of her, which is why they usually cry, but that was not why she wept. While resisting arrest, and attempting to push my eyes out the back of my skull, she had lost the photograph she had been carrying.
And that was the only time I ever saw Charlotte Flowers cry.
Tears that were not for herself, but for the grandchild who was waiting to be born.
Charlotte Flowers sat in the interview room at West End Central.
The chair beside her, the chair for a lawyer, was empty.
‘Before the start of this interview, I must remind you that you are entitled to free and independent legal advice either in person or by telephone at any stage,’ I said.
I paused. She was smiling at the black-and-white photograph in her hands. The receptionist had found it and handed it to a uniformed officer. We had given it back to her in her holding cell. Now it felt like the image of that unborn child was more real to her than an interview room in West End Central.
And I could not tell if she was at peace or insane.
‘Do you wish to speak to a legal advisor or have one present during the interview?’ I said.
She looked up at me and smiled and shook her head.
‘Out loud for the tape, please.’
‘No.’
Charlotte Flowers did not want a lawyer.
She wanted to talk.
And so we let the tape roll.
‘She doesn’t want to see Harry,’ she said, unable to resist a smile, her voice thick with triumph. ‘I saw the news. She’s with her family, isn’t she? Harry was just a rebound thing. After her fiancé died. Harry did not understand the deal. You see, Harry is one of those men who has had a lot of women – a lot of women – but who doesn’t understand the first thing about them. But with this one – he doesn’t understand that she doesn’t need his money. Not really. She can make her own money. And her family can look after her. And she can find a man her own age – look at her! She’s stunning! She’s a ten! She will be spoilt for choice. Harry doesn’t understand that it’s nothing for a woman to bring up a child alone these days.’ She nodded at me. ‘Maybe nothing for a man.’
‘But Michael is Harry’s child,’ I said. ‘Harry wants to bring up his son. It’s the most natural thing in the world.’
She chuckled.
‘That baby is not Harry’s son. Because it can’t be. After Junior was born, Harry had himself done.’ Her long fingers made a snip-snip scissors gesture in the air. ‘Harry had a vasectomy because it was just so hard – on both of us – with Junior. Our son started crying when he was born and he never really stopped. On and on and on! A most demanding child. Two children was enough. Two was plenty. I insisted. So the baby must belong to the boy on the bike. The boy who died. Her fiancé. Lawrence?’
‘Perhaps Harry doesn’t care who the father is,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he is so crazy about Jessica Lyle that, given the chance, he would be happy to bring up the boy as his own.’
She sighed, as if that was a technicality, but I saw her mouth twist with suppressed rage.
‘Perhaps. But the baby is not Harry’s baby. OK? And he knows it.’ Again with the snip-snip gesture. ‘And so does she.’
‘Can’t you say her name?’ Whitestone said. ‘Can’t you call Jessica Lyle by her name?’
Charlotte Flowers stared at her with haughty contempt, the amusement fading, like the lady of the house confronting an obdurate servant, and I saw the steel in her.
‘I think she’s quite enjoying her new-found fame, don’t you?’ she said. ‘She doesn’t need Harry any more. Harry’s out. Cut off. Dropped. Dumped from a great height. Services no longer required, thanks very much. And Harry thought he was the tough one in that relationship!’
Whitestone glanced at me. Charlotte Flowers was acting as if she had won. And my boss was wondering if she was insane.
‘Mrs Flowers, you should have a lawyer present,’ Whitestone said.
She shook her head, as if it made no difference.
‘Oh, Charlotte,’ I said, and she took her eyes from the photograph in her hand to look up at me. ‘All this for just another one of his girls,’ I said. ‘All these lives ruined. And for what? For just another one of Harry’s women. One among dozens. Hundreds.’
She sneered at me.
‘You’re wrong,’ she said. ‘This one was never just another girl. This one was never going to be content with being a bit on the side. Exclusive fucking rights for a nice apartment and a generous allowance – that was never going to be enough for this one, a sponsor who has to be home for Christmas, weekends and all the major holidays. This one was never going to be grateful for the usual deal. She was special.’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Everyone loves Jessica.’
Charlotte Flowers stared at me levelly. ‘When did you first know?’ she asked me. ‘It was before Snezia started opening her big mouth.’
‘Not until we met with Liam Mahone,’ I said. ‘Liam saw that picture of Derek Bumpus on the news and something stirred, something he had buried deep, something that had been eating away at him for a lifetime.’
She raised a wry eyebrow.
A smug smile began creeping across her face.
‘Liam remembered that it was a woman who came to see his family at that Sunday lunch,’ I said. ‘A woman who gave the order for the Mahone family to be marinated in petrol. A woman who made them believe they were going to be burned alive. Harry’s reputation – and his business – was built totally on fear. People were – are – terrified of him because of what he threatened to do to the Mahone family. But Harry Flowers never threatened to burn the Mahones. Because you did. Harry wasn’t even there that day. It was you and some hired goon. My guess – Derek Bumpus, back when he was a damaged kid from care, probably a clinical psychopath, and half in love with you, and ready to do anything for you.’
She pouted. ‘Big Del was only half in love with me? You’re such a hard man, Detective!’
She smiled at the memory and gazed fondly at the image of her daughter’s unborn baby, as if they were sharing a happy moment they would treasure forever.
‘You played it very well,’ I said. ‘The pantomime of throwing Harry’s clothes out of the window. Playing the hurt wife. It was all very convincing. It certainly convinced me. As if you didn’t know about Snezia Jones. As if you didn’t know about Jessica Lyle. As if you didn’t know that your husband has had something going on the side for years. When a woman as smart as you, Charlotte – you would have known all along.’
‘It’s difficult to hide infidelity these days,’ she said. ‘Especially for a man as stupid as my husband. We’re all so connected, aren’t we? Some of them – men like my husband, unfaithful tart-shagging bastards like him – think that a second phone and deleting a few racy text messages will keep it a secret. But there are no more secrets. Not any more. Everything comes out in the end.’
‘The wife and the mistress teaming up to rid themselves of the threat to the status quo,’ Whitestone said. ‘There’s a first.’
Charlotte’s mouth twisted with contempt.
‘We didn’t team up,’ she said. ‘Snezia was my employee, not a partner.’
‘Then it was your idea,’ I said. ‘To have Jessica Lyle killed.’
‘I made mistakes,’ she said, and I saw Whitestone was right.
Charlotte Flowers could not say Jessica Lyle’s name.
‘Using those two apes, who Harry has been debasing for years, that was a mistake,’ she said. ‘One of them – big black Ruben – always short of cash for a lifestyle he could never afford. And the other one – bat-crazy Derek – resentful that Harry’s workforce were starting to reflect our multi-racial society. And then involving that stupid stripper who Harry was trading in for her younger, fitter flatmate. But it seemed so right at the time! They were all so unhappy with Harry. His boys, Shavers and Bumpus. His bit on the side, Snezia. They have all suffered endless humiliations, just as anyone around my husband will. Harry has a roving eye, you see. And a roving cock, of course. Always on the lookout for something better! But I thought our little task force would be enough to rid us of that skinny bitch who threatened everything. I thought Snezia might be the weak link. The stupid stripper. But it turned out to be Ruben. Going soft on her! I should have seen that one coming. And I should have done it alone. What’s the old saying? Never work with hired thugs and hookers. That was my mistake, wasn’t it?’
She again looked fondly at the photograph of her unborn grandchild, happily drifting away.
‘You made your big mistake long before you decided to kill Jessica Lyle,’ I said. ‘You made your mistake when you doused the Mahone family in petrol and didn’t tell your man Bumpus to drop the match. Because those children were always going to grow up. And whatever the world did to them, they were never going to forget you.’
Her thumbs worked at the edges of the photograph, as if she was trying to soothe the baby, caress it, rock it to sleep.
‘Boy or girl?’ Whitestone said.
‘Girl,’ she said. ‘Thank Christ.’
‘But why did you want Jessica gone?’ I said. ‘It had happened before. Harry had always had his women on the side, probably since you expanded the business for him and the serious money started rolling in. What was so different this time?’
Pat Whitestone and Charlotte Flowers looked at me and then looked at each other.
And for a long second there was a real closeness between them.
Mrs Flowers took a deep breath and gently placed the image of her grandchild on the desk of the interview room.
‘This one just had to go,’ she said. ‘Jessica Lyle. There – I said her name. Happy now, are we? This one had to really go. Because this was something no wife on the planet could ever forgive. This was a special kind of humiliation. This was new. There was no coming back from this one. This time was different from all the other times – from all those other women in all those other rooms on all those other nights because this time my faithless, whore-fucking husband fell in love.’
The interview room was silent.
‘And where does the money come from?’ I said.
For the first time, I saw her squirm.
‘What money?’ she said.
‘Your beautiful home,’ I said. ‘Your daughter’s wedding. The love nest in Hampstead. Your husband’s women. The Bentley Bentayga with the nice polite driver. Are we meant to believe that recycling scrap metal pays the bills? Are we meant to buy the lie that dead cars pay for all that?’
Charlotte Flowers folded her arms across her chest.
And now she wanted a lawyer.