The next thing, she was jolted awake by her alarm clock. She reached over to slap it off with the flat of her hand and lay there for a moment, her heart thudding. The silence, the total silence, did it to her; she broke down and sobbed. It was over, he’d gone, and already she missed him.
Arthur George Murphy was sentenced to life with a minimum term of fifteen years for the murder of Irene Phelps. His mother, Beryl Dunn, sat almost hidden at the end of the gallery. Three of Irene’s co-workers from the library sat in the centre of the gallery, staring at the smug gloating face of their friend’s killer, unaware his mother was so close. Irene’s parents wept, holding each other’s hands. Murphy showed no remorse, and shrugged his shoulders in the dock as if the sentence meant nothing.
As Anna left the court, Beryl Dunn hurried towards her.
‘Excuse me? Hello!’
Anna had seen Beryl but didn’t really want to face her again.
‘I’ve still not heard from our Gail,’ she said loudly. She was wearing the same clothes she had worn in the café, and her make-up looked as if she’d just given it another layer. ‘Did you do anything about it for me?’
Anna saw Brandon making a quick exit, and she hesitated.
Mrs Dunn continued. ‘Like I said, I’ve not heard from her. Something’s got to be done — I mean, she’s not even called me.’
‘I gave the local police near her bungalow the details, and they will have no doubt contacted social services.’
‘Did you report her missing?’
‘No. I told you that you would have to make a formal report.’
‘But that’s not right; she’s never not kept in touch and I got her social cheques and her child support. I told you they get sent to me, now why wouldn’t she want them?’
‘Mrs Dunn, if you really think something is wrong then—’
‘I know something is.’
‘—then make a report.’
‘Fuck off,’ she said, and pushed past Anna.
It was then that Irene’s ex-husband walked towards Anna. He introduced himself and thanked her, as Beryl banged out of the court. He was a tall, rather gaunt man, with thinning sandy hair and a dark navy suit.
‘I am Kenneth Phelps,’ he said, then hesitated, as if saying his name was somehow embarrassing.
‘How is your daughter?’ she asked.
‘Natalie is gradually settling down with us in Devon, but it’s very hard; she misses her mother, obviously. We have some help from a counsellor, but of course, she has nightmares. Her grandparents visit when they can. Eventually, she’ll make new friends at the school, but right now, we just take it day by day.’
Anna watched him walk over to join Irene’s mother and father; at least he was not alone.
Outside, Harry Blunt made Anna jump as he put his arm around her.
‘Want a lift?’
‘Yes, thanks. That’s Irene’s ex-husband and her parents,’ she said, watching their car go past.
‘I know,’ he said, then burst out: ‘Bastard got fifteen years, will probably serve even less; while that little girl will be twenty-seven years old when he gets out. She’s the one with the life sentence.’
‘Actually, Harry, I think I’m going to walk for a while, but thanks for the offer.’
‘Up to you.’ He started to walk away then stopped. ‘Eh! I heard Langton’s back — bloody unbelievable. We all thought he was a goner; tough bastard, isn’t he?’
She nodded and walked away, not wanting to discuss it or now to ask Harry to help her move the exercise equipment, after all.
‘Been good working with you, Travis!’ he called after her.
She turned and forced a smile. ‘Thanks, Harry.’
Anna knew she would have a couple of days before she was assigned to another enquiry, so decided to put them to good use: maybe take a weekend at a spa and pamper herself. She tried not to think about Langton, but it was very difficult, with her hallway still occupied by his stuff. At home, her answerphone light was blinking; her heart thudded with the expectation of a message from him, but it was Brandon, saying he’d missed her after the trial. The second message was from Mike Lewis, congratulating Langton: he’d just heard the news — it was going round the Met like bushfire! She deleted the messages and then jumped as her doorbell rang.
It was a short square Indian, with a terrible striped sweater. He showed Anna his pick-up order and delivery drop.
She watched the poor man almost give himself a hernia as he carried out the bicycle and then took apart the rowing machine. He said he couldn’t take the suitcase, as that was not on his list. Anna grabbed her purse and took out a ten-pound note.
‘Just take it to the same address, would you?’
He agreed. After he’d left, she opened the kitchen windows for a through draught and lit a scented candle, to reclaim her space. She had to hand it to Langton. He didn’t do things by halves — walking out and then hiring the van and driver, without even one call to her. Well, she could be just as cold. There was no way she would contact him now. She was just going to get on with her life and think back to that list she had made about how difficult it was living with him. Well, he was not living with her any more — and she hoped that went round the Met like bushfire!
Chapter Eight
Tom Adams, the landlord of the property in the New Forest rented by Gail Sickert, had done little with it since she had gone. The partly built henhouse that Sickert had been working on was left boarded up; stacks of planks leaned against it. The chickens had been sold, but Adams still made regular visits to feed the pigs and goat. Finding another tenant was not easy; the bungalow required extensive renovations.
Everything had been left half-attended to, from the manure heap to the broken fences. Children’s toys still littered the bare lawn, and the drive had even more potholes due to the heavy rain. Driving his old jeep, as he arrived to feed the animals, Adams crashed the gears as it plunged into a small crater. Swearing, he continued round to the pigsties.
Tipping their food into the troughs, he was thankful that they at least had been left behind. The pigs had come as part of the deal; Gail had agreed to feed them and clear out the walled pens. When the time was right, they, too, would be sold. Adams sloshed through the mud to get the rakes for clearing up the sties, turned on a hose and began to swill down the pens as the pigs gobbled up their food.
Moments later, a patrol car hit the same mud-filled crater as it drove into the yard. Two uniformed local officers got out and approached the stinking pigpens, mindful of the mud and sewage that covered the old cobbled yard.
‘You found my tenants then, have you?’ Adams greeted them, switching off the hose. ‘I was just thinking, at least they didn’t take me effing pigs, but they left the place in about the same state. I don’t think that woman cleaned the house once since they moved in.’ He crossed to a small digger, and climbed up.
‘Mr Adams? We’ve had an enquiry about your tenants; have you had any contact from them?’
‘I’m not likely to, am I? They left owing me two months’ rent.’
One of the officers put his hand over his mouth. ‘The stench is terrible,’ he said, gagging.
‘It’s worse than usual, ’cos they’ve not been cleaned out. I was just hosing down the pens before you came.’ The man turned, pointing to the manure heap. ‘I’m going to have to shift that over to the back field; they just bloody dumped it! You see the henhouse? They got me to pay for the wood to rebuild it — and look at it!’ He started up the engine and headed for the manure heap.
The two officers stood around for a few more minutes and then took off, climbing back into the patrol car. They were almost at the end of the drive, when Adams came running after them, waving his arms and hollering at the top of his voice. They pulled up and the officer in the passenger seat rolled down his window.