The Perfect Widow. A.M. Castle
that’s being taken care of.’ The policewoman looked at her notebook briefly. ‘His mother.’ There was a stab of pity for my mother-in-law, but also a wave of relief. The building?’ She looked back at me. Her eyes, dark as currants, were narrowed, expectant. Had there been a question?
‘Sorry?’
‘The building.’ She tapped the notebook with her pencil. ‘It would have been insured?’ she persisted. This time she was shushed by her colleague. A big, kindly man. Now he apologised, put a hand very briefly on my arm. His knees creaked slightly as he bent forward, almost like a toy policeman. He had the kind of pale skin that mottles with the sun, hair that would have been ginger once but was now the colour of a British beach. His eyes were a watery blue. Patrick had had a polo shirt that exact shade. My sight blurred suddenly. At last. ‘So sorry for your loss. Anyone we can call?’
I shook off all offers of help, even their suggestion that they make me tea or coffee, though later I realised that had no doubt come over as churlish. The widow should accept things gratefully, graciously, after all. Pity is her lot. And the woman officer was probably dying for a cuppa, not to mention a biscuit or three. Never mind. I had very little faith in the ability of that great cure-all, hot sweet tea, to improve this mess. I just wanted these two out, away, gone, with their platitudes and darting eyes. I wanted the doors shut, I wanted to sit and comfort my babies. To push all this horror far away. As far away as my dead husband now was.
So the three of us could start living again.
Now
Becca
PC Becca Holt turned to leave Louise Bridges’ house, whacking her hip painfully against the doorjamb. She still wasn’t used to the extra inches her stab vest put on her, together with all the paraphernalia of radios, cuffs, pocketbook … the list went on. Ironic, really, when you thought about the hours – who was she kidding, years – she’d put into dieting. In this little lot, you couldn’t see if she weighed eight stone or fifteen.
She remembered her mum’s face. Wanting to be proud of her daughter, longing to cheer her on after all that training. Then, seeing her in the full kit, she hadn’t been able to hide her disappointment, rushing forward to try and yank Becca’s stab vest down over her bust. But there was nothing even the most determined mother could do to make this rig look attractive. So much for all that stuff about uniforms being sexy. ‘Well, the hat’s nice, anyway, love,’ her mum had finally managed, turning from her with a sigh at the grandchildren she’d never have.
Becca felt it all the more sharply, ambling out of Louise Bridges’ place. There was something about the woman’s freshly ironed blonde hair, even the way she stood there, pushing the wooden spoon into the spaghetti Bolognese once she’d finally allowed them over the threshold, her work-out gear (athleisure, Becca sniffed) gliding over yards of leg. On Becca, those leggings would have been creased like an accordion, cratered like asphalt after snow. But Mrs Bridges’ thighs were as smooth as an airport runway, and as long. Cellulite? How very dare you.
All that shouldn’t matter. It was irrelevant, absolutely. And so was the fact that the house – what a house! – was like something you’d get in a sitcom about perfect family life. Though Becca had a suspicion that there weren’t many laughs around the place, even at the best of times.
It was all very serious. Seriously stylish. The huge, open-plan kitchen-cum-living room, with high-gloss units that looked like they were polished on the hour, every hour. The whisper-grey velvety sofas in an L-shape, arranged around a plasma telly on the wall, just an inch short of out-and-out vulgarity. The large room, lined floor to ceiling in books, that they’d passed in the passageway. Even that kitchen table, casually strewn with the homework that had been abandoned and sheaves of papers that Louise had rapidly gathered up and tried to shove in a cupboard. A mess that wasn’t really messy. It gave Becca a pang. It was a symbol of family life, something that, according to Becca’s mother’s ill-concealed fears, she was unlikely ever to achieve, going on the way she did.
Becca was acutely conscious that she and her partner, PC Tom Burke, had lumbered into this show home like creatures from a sub-standard zombie movie, where things went wrong and life got tangled.
Was she crazy, envying a woman who’d just had the news they’d broken? It was surely the worst thing that could ever befall a wife, a family. How could Becca even be thinking this way?
It was the woman’s behaviour. Yes, she’d clasped her children to her, yes, she’d asked all the obvious questions. So far, so normal. But had she really been shocked? As shocked as you should be if you got the news, out of the blue, that your husband had just died a horrible death? Becca really didn’t think so. It had been more like the kind of reaction you’d have when a nasty rumour about a nextdoor neighbour is confirmed. It’s unpleasant, it’s upsetting for the kids – but it’s something you’re half-expecting.
No, there was something out of kilter with this Louise Bridges woman. She’d been too watchful, too guarded. And, crucially, she was not nearly sad enough, in Becca’s view.
It was a cliché, a woman breaking down, sobbing, turning pale, tearing out her hair. Expressing some genuine emotion. But clichés existed because, well, they fitted the bill.
Maybe it was because Becca herself cried if she ran out of teabags. She might be built like a tank, yes – and now like a tank festooned with novelty items, like cuffs and sticks – but she was a marshmallow inside, welling up whenever she saw an anxious child or a dog waiting for its owner outside a shop. She felt for others. But not for this Louise Bridges woman, it seemed. Becca had looked on for once, a disinterested observer. She hadn’t had to restrain herself from coming over all unprofessional, hugging and crying too.
The fact that Becca’s not-insubstantial sympathy gland wasn’t working, at this of all times, said something. Surely?
As she buckled up in the car, she turned to Burke. ‘What’d you make of her, then?’
Burke was silent for a moment, his face hard to read in the gloom. The drive at the Bridges’ place was long, and the streetlights were a way off. Becca waited.
‘Totty, obviously.’
She swatted his arm and he laughed. ‘Well, come on, I’m only human. Yeah, she’s a bit chilly, if that’s what you’re getting at. But seriously, Becca, what are you expecting, news like that? She’s not going to welcome us like long-lost members of the family.’
‘No. But don’t you think something was odd? The way she kept stirring that bloody stew?’
Burke faced the front for a moment, hand on the ignition. ‘Bolognese, you heard her. They’ve got to eat. She’s got to feed the kids, whatever’s happened.’
‘But—’
‘Becca. Not everything is more complicated than it looks.’ He sighed, his hand dropping from the car key, resigned. She knew he found her attitude tiring at the best of times. ‘Poor woman, give her a chance. You’re expecting her to be on the floor. She can’t do that with the little ’uns. She’s got to be strong, hold it together.’
‘What about when she saw us at the door? The first thing she said was “Patrick!” She knew. She knew what was up. That means – that means she must have had something to do with it.’
There was a silence. Becca could almost hear the cogs turning. Finally Burke spoke. ‘You’re right, that was a bit funny maybe. But you’re making a huge leap. She makes a wild guess, so she’s a killer. Nah, I don’t think so. Look at it the other way, who else would we be coming about? The rest of the family was already sitting there. It was obvious, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes but … she didn’t know we were coming with bad news, did she? Could have been anything. Neighbour’s cat missing, whatever.’
‘People