At the Sunday lunches, Glen stopped drawing in the steam; he opened the back door to let it out. And everyone began leaving earlier and earlier, and then we all started making excuses. “We’re so busy this weekend, Mary. Do you mind if we leave it until next Sunday?” Then “next month,” and gradually family lunches were just on birthdays and at Christmas.
If we’d had kids, our parents would have been grandmas and granddads. It would’ve been different. But the pressure to perform for our parents became too much. There were no distractions. Just us. And the scrutiny of our lives was too intense for Glen. “They want to interfere in everything,” he said after one lunch when Mary and my mum had decided where would be best for me to buy a new oven. “They only want to help, love,” I’d said lightly, but I could see the dark clouds gathering over him. He’d be quiet and busy with his own thoughts for the rest of the day.
He hadn’t always been like that. But he started to take offense at everything. Tiny things—something the man at the corner shop said about Arsenal losing or a kid on the bus disrespecting him—would upset him for days. I’d try to laugh him out of it, but I got worn down by the effort, so I stopped and let him work it out for himself.
I began to wonder if he was looking for reasons to be upset. The people he’d always liked working with at the bank began to annoy him and he’d come home, moaning about them. I knew he was working himself up to something, a row probably, and I tried to talk him out of his moods. There was a time I might’ve been able to—when we were younger—but things were changing.
One of my ladies at the salon said all marriages “settle down after the ‘truly, madly, deeply’ bit.” But was this settling down? Was this it?
I suppose it was then that he started going upstairs to his computer more. Closing himself off from me. Choosing his nonsense over me.
SEVENTEEN
The Detective
SUNDAY, APRIL 8, 2007
Taylor’s delivery van was being dismantled and scrutinized, inch by inch, by the forensics boys in Southampton, along with his uniform and shoes taken from home, fingerprints, saliva swabs, samples from under his fingernails, genitals, and hair.
And experts were conducting their dig into the dark recesses of Taylor’s computer.
They were all over him. Now Sparkes wanted to try his luck with the wife.
On Easter Sunday morning, fresh from their Premier Inn breakfast in South London, Sparkes and Matthews knocked at eight a.m.
Jean Taylor answered the door with her coat half on.
“Oh God,” she said when she saw Sparkes. “Has something happened to Glen? His lawyer said it would all be sorted out today and he could come home.”
“No. Not quite,” Sparkes said. “I need to have a chat with you, Mrs. Taylor. We can talk here rather than at the station.” Mention of the station made Jean Taylor’s eyes widen.
She stood back to let the detectives in before the neighbors spotted them and wearily shrugged off the sleeve of her coat.
“You had better come through,” she said, and led the way into the living room. Jean hovered by the arm of the sofa. She looked like she hadn’t slept much, her hair lank with exhaustion, and there was a scrape of throatiness to her voice as she asked them to sit down.
“I answered all the questions yesterday with the other officers. This is all wrong.”
She was so agitated, she got up and then sat down again, lost in her own sitting room.
“Look, I’m due at my mum and dad’s. I always go on a Sunday to do Mum’s hair. I can’t let her down,” she explained. “I haven’t told them about Glen . . .”
“Perhaps you could phone and say you’re sick, Mrs. Taylor,” Sparkes said. “We need to talk about a few things.” Jean closed her eyes as if she was about to cry and then walked to the phone to tell her lie.
“It’s just a headache, Dad, but I think I’ll stay in bed for a bit. Tell Mum I’ll call her later.”
“Now, then, Mrs. Taylor,” Sparkes said. “Tell me about you and Glen.”
“What do you mean?”
“How long have you been married? Are you both from around here?”
Jean told the bus stop story, and Sparkes listened attentively as she progressed through their courtship to the fairy-tale wedding and their blissful married life.
“He worked for the bank, didn’t he?” Sparkes asked. “That must’ve been a good job with prospects . . .”
“Yes, it was,” Jean said. “He was very proud of his job. But he left to start a business of his own. Glen has lots of ideas and plans. He likes to think big. And he didn’t get along with his boss. We think he was jealous of Glen.”
Sparkes paused. “And there was the business with the office computer, wasn’t there, Mrs. Taylor?”
Jean stared at him, all eyes again. “What do you mean?” she asked. “What about the office computer?”
Bloody hell. She doesn’t know about the porn, Sparkes thought. Christ. Here we go, then.
“The indecent images found on his office computer, Mrs. Taylor.”
The word “indecent” hung in the air as Jean blushed, and Sparkes pressed on.
“The images found on his computer at work. And on the computer we took away yesterday. Do you ever use the computer?”
She shook her head.
“There were pornographic images involving children, Mrs. Taylor, found on both computers.”
She put her hands out to stop him. “I don’t know anything about pornographic images or computers,” she said, the color deepening to bruise her neck. “And I’m sure Glen doesn’t, either. He isn’t that sort of man.”
“What sort of man is he, Mrs. Taylor? How would you describe him?”
“Goodness, what sort of question is that? Normal, I suppose. Normal. Hardworking, a good husband . . .”
“In what way is he a good husband?” Sparkes asked, leaning forward. “Would you say you were happy as a couple?”
“Yes, very happy. We hardly ever argue or fall out.”
“Have you been having any problems? Money problems? Problems in your intimate life?” He didn’t know why he had shied away from using “sex life,” but the woman’s distress at the questions was palpable.
“What do you mean, our ‘intimate life’?” Jean said.
“In the bedroom, Mrs. Taylor,” he clarified delicately. She looked as if she’d been spat on.
“No, no problems,” she managed to get out before starting to weep.
Matthews passed a box of tissues from the nest of tables at his elbow.
“There you go, Mrs. Taylor,” he said. “I’ll get you a glass of water. I’m not trying to upset you, Mrs. Taylor, but these are questions I need to ask. I’m investigating a very serious matter. Do you understand?”
She shook her head. She didn’t understand.
“What about children, Mrs. Taylor?” The detective moved on to the next incendiary subject.
“None,” she said.
“Did you decide not to have any?”
“No. We both wanted children, but we couldn’t.”
Sparkes waited a beat.
“It was a physical problem with Glen. The doctor said,” she faltered. “We love kids. That’s why I know Glen could never have had anything to do with Bella’s disappearance.”
The child’s name was now in the room, and Sparkes asked the question he’d been waiting to ask. “Where was Glen at four o’clock on the day Bella went missing, Mrs. Taylor?”
“He was here, Inspector Sparkes,” Jean answered immediately. “Here with me. He wanted to see me.”
“Why did he want to see you?” Sparkes asked.
“Just to say hello, really,” she said. “Nothing special. Quick cuppa and then off to the depot to get his car.”
“How long was he home?”
“About, about forty-five minutes,” she said a little too slowly.
Is she doing the maths in her head? Sparkes thought.
“Did he often come home before returning the van?” he asked.
“Well, sometimes.”
“When was the last time he called in like this?”
“I’m not sure—I can’t remember . . .” she said, ragged blotches spreading to her chest.
“I hope she doesn’t play poker,” Matthews said later. “She has more tells than I’ve seen for a long time.”
“How did you know it was four o’clock, Mrs. Taylor?” Sparkes asked.
“I had an afternoon off work because I’d worked Sunday morning, and I heard the news at four on the radio.”
“It could’ve been the news at five. There’s a bulletin every hour. How do you know it was four?”