Page 45 of One Left Alive
Stan shook his head. ‘Kill them. I liked the O’Briens and I liked the Potters even more. They were kind, decent people. I may not be a model citizen but I’m not a killer.’
His hands were waving in the air and he was very animated. Ben liked to think that he was pretty good at reading people and Stan’s body language seemed to be telling the truth. He had kept a consistent rhythm of blinking the whole time. When people were lying they often kept their eyes wide and didn’t blink; they also kept very still. Stan had been moving around all over the place.
Ben glanced at Abigail, who nodded once and stood up. She excused herself, leaving them alone.
‘Right, Stan, you’re free to go for now. We won’t be pressing charges or setting any bail conditions.’
‘Good, I should think so.’ Stan stood up. He looked less agitated than when he’d been brought in.
‘There’s just one more thing. I work with your daughter, Morgan, and I happened to call at her flat last night on my way home from work. Do you know what I found?’
He shook his head; what little colour was in his cheeks left his face.
‘I think you do; you ransacked your own daughter’s flat after she took pity on you and let you stop there. That’s a pretty bloody lowlife thing to do. Where’s her necklace?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, what necklace?’
Ben stood up; he towered over him. ‘The necklace you stole from her. She doesn’t want to press charges, despite my advising her to do so. But unless you get that necklace back to me, I will, so you’d better go to whoever you sold it to and get it back. I’ll give you twenty-four hours, and then I’ll bring you in for burglary, and I can promise you this: I will give you a list of bail conditions to make your life a misery.’
He opened the door for Stan to walk out.
‘Have a good evening and don’t you dare go back to Morgan’s.’
Stan rushed out as fast as he could.
Ben would have liked to give him a shake, but he was much older than him and he didn’t want to risk him having a heart attack. He had no idea if he’d be able to get the necklace back; it might be better for him to check the second-hand shops himself than rely on Stan’s good nature, which was seriously lacking in morals.
As he passed the room he’d relocated Morgan to, he pushed open the door to update her. It was in darkness and her handbag had gone. He looked at his watch: it was almost seven. He wasn’t ready to call it a day yet but was glad to see she’d gone. When he went into the office Amy was mid-conversation, her phone stuck to her ear. She passed him a yellow Post-it note with a name scribbled across it: ‘Gary or Greg Barker or Ryder possible business partner, and the wife had a lover – no name as yet.’ She whispered, ‘Ring Morgan, she said you’d want to know about it. I sent her home, she looked knackered.’
He was taken aback by this kind gesture. Amy normally didn’t give a shit about anyone.
‘Oh, and you don’t look too hot either, you should call it a day as well.’
He waved his hand. Going into his office, he began to search for a combination of names on the intelligence system, to see if he was known to them. The business partner would be a good person to speak to.
A page loaded with a record of a person called Greg Barker with no photograph and a few lines about some dodgy dealings back in 2009. They also needed to find out the name of Olivia’s lover. He wondered if the two were connected. It was a bad idea to mix sex and business.
He realised he didn’t have Morgan’s phone number to ask; it would have to wait until tomorrow.
He looked at the calendar on his desk and felt his heart sink. It was three years to the day that Cindy had died, and he had been too busy all day to even think about it, he realised. Deflated, he grabbed his overcoat, stuffed his phone into his pocket and left.
Too many memories began rushing back into his mind. He’d worked later than he should have that day as well, and he hadn’t even needed to. When he’d gone home, she was dead, had been for some time. If he’d finished at the right time, he could have made the difference; he could have saved her life. Instead he’d failed her spectacularly and would shoulder that particular guilt the rest of his life.
He didn’t say goodbye to Amy like he normally would; he went down the back stairs where he wouldn’t pass anyone and have to speak to them. He wasn’t in the mood for polite conversation. He needed to stop off at the supermarket and buy a bunch of white roses to put in the bathroom where he’d found her. As well as a large bottle of whisky. He’d sit on the bathroom floor and toast his dead wife, because what else could he do for her now? He’d failed her in life and was still failing her in death. A decent husband would have known what date it was and taken a nice bunch of flowers up to the cemetery to lay on her grave.
All thoughts of the Potter family were pushed from his mind as he began to wallow in the self-hatred he thought he deserved.
* * *
When he parked the car outside the house they’d shared, he realised he’d rather not go in there. He should have packed everything up and put it into storage after it happened. Moved to a smaller place; a flat like Morgan’s would be more than sufficient for him and a lot cheaper than the mortgage on this monstrosity full of memories he’d rather forget.
Throwing his coat into the hall closet, he kicked his shoes in there too. He went into the messy kitchen with a couple of days’ worth of pots stacked by the sink. He was a terrible housekeeper and always had been. Tidiness was not one of his traits; he didn’t see the point when there was only him.
Taking the same small, square glass from the back of the cupboard that Cindy had left on the side of the sink that night, he grabbed the bottle of whisky and the flowers. The whole house was cloaked in a heavy feeling of sadness, or was it just him: did houses have feelings? He thought that they probably did. How could they not soak up the atmosphere of the people who resided within them?
Loosening his tie and the top two buttons of his shirt, he trudged up the steps. He often wondered if he would get to the bathroom and see it all play out again. What would he do differently if he had the chance to save her? Going into the bedroom, he unzipped his trousers and let them fall to the floor. Stepping out of them, he continued to the bathroom in his shirt, socks and boxers.
The door was closed; he always kept it closed. Pushing it open, he expected to see her there, her voluptuous, naked lifeless body in the bath. Pressing the light switch, he didn’t open his eyes until the room flooded with bright light. The breath he’d been holding released when he saw it was empty, messy and no ghost of his dead wife waiting for him. He placed the flowers on the side of the bath, then sat on the floor. His back pressing against the wooden panel they’d chosen together in B&Q one rainy Sunday afternoon. He’d wanted wood, she’d wanted plastic and they’d argued there in the shop not caring who was listening, until they’d come to an agreement. He could have a wooden panel; she could choose the colour scheme and she had. He looked at the rubber-duck covered walls and smiled; they were garish and completely Cindy.
