“Lovely,” he said. When he sat down, I tried to talk about normal things, but it sounded so false.
In the end, Glen stopped me talking by kissing me and said: “There are going to be some very difficult days ahead, Jeanie. People are going to say some terrible things about us and probably to us. We need to be prepared.
“This is a terrible mistake, but we mustn’t let it ruin our lives. We need to stay strong until the truth comes out. Do you think you can do that?”
I kissed him back. “Of course I can. We can be strong for each other. I love you, Glen.”
He smiled at me properly then. And squeezed me tight so I wouldn’t see him getting emotional. “Now, is there any more bacon?”
He was right about it ruining our lives. I had to give up work after he was questioned. I tried to keep going, telling my clients that it was all a terrible mistake, but people stopped talking when I got near them. The regulars stopped booking appointments and began going to another hairdresser down the hill. Lesley took me to one side one Saturday night and told me she liked Glen and was sure there was no truth in the press reports, but I had to leave “for the good of the salon.”
I cried because I knew then that it would never end and nothing would ever be the same again. I rolled up my scissors and brushes in my coloring overall, shoved them into a bag, and left.
I tried not to blame Glen. I knew it wasn’t his fault. We were both victims of the situation, he said, and tried to keep me cheerful.
“Don’t worry, Jean. We’ll be fine. You’ll find another job when this blows over. Probably time for a change, anyway.”
FIFTEEN
The Detective
SATURDAY, APRIL 7, 2007
The first interview with Glen Taylor had to wait until everyone arrived back in Southampton. It took place in an airless cupboard of a room with a door painted hospital green.
Sparkes looked through the glass panel in the door. He could see Taylor sitting up like an expectant schoolboy, his hands on his knees and his feet tapping some mystery tune.
The detective pushed open the door and walked to his mark on this tiny stage. It was all about body language, he’d read in one of the psychology books on his bedside table. Dominating by making yourself bigger than the interviewees—standing over them, filling their frame of reference. Sparkes stood for slightly longer than necessary, shuffling the papers in a file on the table, but finally lowered himself into a chair. Taylor wasn’t waiting for the detective to make himself comfortable.
“I keep telling you, this is all a mistake. There must be thousands of blue vans out there,” he complained, banging down his hands on the coffee-stained table. “What about Mike Doonan’s? He’s a strange bloke. Lives on his own—did you know that?”
Sparkes took a deep, slow breath. He was in no hurry.
“Now, then, Mr. Taylor. Let’s concentrate on you and look at your journey again on October the second. We need to be sure of the timings.”
Taylor rolled his eyes. “There’s nothing more to tell. Drove there, dropped the package, drove home. End of story.”
“Right. You say you left the depot at twelve twenty, but it isn’t recorded in the work sheets. Why didn’t you record the journey?”
Taylor shrugged. “I did the job for Doonan.”
“I thought you didn’t get along with him.”
“I owed him a favor. The drivers did it all the time.”
“So where did you have lunch that day?” Sparkes asked.
“Lunch?” Taylor asked, and let out a bark of a laugh.
“Yes. Did you stop somewhere for lunch?”
“I probably had a bar of chocolate, a Mars bar or something. I don’t eat much at lunchtime—I hate supermarket sandwiches. Prefer to wait till I get home.”
“And where did you buy the Mars bar?”
“I don’t know. Probably bought it at a garage.”
“On the way there or back?”
“Not sure.”
“Did you buy fuel?”
“I can’t remember. This was months ago.”
“What about your mileage? Is it recorded at the beginning and end of your working day?” Sparkes asked, knowing full well the answer.
Taylor blinked. “Yes,” he said.
“So, if I did the journey you’ve described, my mileage should be the same as yours?” Sparkes reasoned.
Another blink. “Yes, but, well, there was a bit of traffic before Winchester, and I tried to find a way around it. I got a bit lost until I got back on the ring road and had to double back on myself before I found the drop-off point,” he said.
“I see,” Sparkes said, and exaggerated the time it took him to note the response on his pad.
“Did you get a bit lost on the way back?”
“No, of course not. It was just the traffic jam.”
“You took a long time to get home, though, didn’t you?”
Again the shrug. “Not really.”
“Why did no one see you return the van if you were back so quickly?”
“I went home first. I told you. I’d finished the job and popped in,” Taylor said.
“Why? Your work sheets show that you usually go straight to the depot,” Sparkes pressed.
“I wanted to see Jean.”
“Your wife, yes. Bit of a romantic, are you? Like to surprise your wife?”
“No. I just wanted to tell her I’d sort out supper.”
Supper. The Taylors ate supper, not dinner or tea. The bank had given Glen Taylor aspirations to a lifestyle, then, Sparkes mused.
“And you couldn’t have phoned her?”
“My mobile had run out of juice and I was passing the house anyway. And I fancied a cup of tea.”
Three excuses. He’s spent too long putting together this story, Sparkes thought. He’d check the mobile straight after the interview.
“I thought drivers had to stay in touch with the depot. I’ve got an in-car charger.”
“So have I, but I’d left it in my car when I picked up the van.”
“What time did your phone battery die?”
“I didn’t notice it was dead until I got off the M25 and tried to ring Jean. Could’ve been five minutes or a couple of hours.”
“Do you have children?” Sparkes asked. Taylor clearly hadn’t expected the question and pressed his lips together while he gathered his thoughts.
“No. Why?” he muttered. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Do you like children, Mr. Taylor?” Sparkes pressed on.
“’Course I do. Who doesn’t like children?” His arms were crossed now.
“You see, Mr. Taylor, there are some people who like children in a different way. Do you know what I mean?”
Taylor tightened his grip on his upper arms and closed his eyes, just for a second, but it was enough to encourage Sparkes.
“They like children in a sexual way.”
“They are animals, aren’t they?” Taylor spat.
“So you don’t like children in that way?”
“Don’t be disgusting. Of course I don’t. What kind of a man do you think I am?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Mr. Taylor,” Sparkes said, leaning forward to crowd his quarry. “When did you start driving for a living? Strange change of career—you had a good job, didn’t you, at the bank?”
Taylor did his pantomime frown. “I fancied a change. I didn’t get on with the boss and thought I would look at starting my own delivery business. I needed to get experience of every aspect, so I began driving—”
“What about the business with the computers at the bank?” Sparkes interrupted him. “We’ve spoken to your former manager.”
Taylor reddened.
“Weren’t you sacked because of inappropriate use of the computers?”
“It was a setup,” Taylor said quickly. “The boss wanted me out. I think he felt threatened by a younger, better-educated man. Anyone could’ve used that computer. The security was laughable. Leaving was my decision.”
The arms were so tightly crossed over his chest, they were constricting his breathing.
“Right. I see,” Sparkes countered, leaning back in his chair to give Taylor the space he needed to embellish his lie. “And the ‘inappropriate use’ of the computer you were accused of?” His voice was casual.