Simon looked up from his notes.
‘Sorry,’ Hey muttered. ‘Look, it’s not my career I’m thinking about. I feel responsible. I’m one of the few people in the country who know as much about this topic as Keith does. Now that I’ve told you my opinion… well, at least the police know there’s another point of view.’
‘You’ve been very helpful,’ said Simon.
Hey looked at his watch. ‘We’d better start heading down to dinner.’
Simon had no appetite. ‘I might give it a miss, if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a tiring day and tomorrow’s going to be another one. I ought to start driving back.’
‘Oh.’ Hey sounded disappointed. ‘Well, if you’re sure. We don’t have to talk about this sort of thing. I mean, I don’t want you to think my conversation’s limited to-’
‘It’s not that,’ said Simon. ‘Really, I should get back to Spilling.’
Hey showed him to the door. ‘If Geraldine didn’t do it…’ he said. ‘Sorry, I’m thinking aloud again.’
Simon paused at the top of the stone staircase. ‘We’re short on suspects. That’s why, from our end, everyone’s lapping up Harbard and his theories.’
‘The husband?’ asked Hey.
‘Alibi,’ Simon told him. ‘And no motive. They were happy. Bretherick had no one waiting in the wings.’
‘I have to say this.’ Hey frowned. ‘It would worry me if I let you leave without having said it. When men do murder their wives… well, in the majority of cases the wives don’t work or have any status outside the home. It’s much rarer for a husband or partner to kill a woman he regards as his equal. Valued by people other than himself.’
Simon mulled this over as he walked back to his car. It was enough to make pregnant professional women give birth at board meetings, he thought. Geraldine Bretherick had been valued by her friends, but had they loved her? Needed her? Cordy O’Hara’s life would go on without her. There was her mother, of course, but Simon had a feeling Hey would say that didn’t count in this context.
Apart from Mark, perhaps even more than Mark, Lucy Bretherick must surely have been the person who most valued and needed Geraldine. Lucy, who was also dead.
When Charlie opened the door to her sister, the first thing she noticed was what looked like a large book in Olivia’s hands, roughly the size and shape of the Spilling and Rawndesley telephone directory. Olivia held it up; it was a Laura Ashley catalogue, Spring/Summer 2007. ‘Before you complain, their prices are very reasonable. You’d be surprised. I know what a skinflint you are, and you know I don’t settle for second-best. Laura Ashley is perfect-affordable designer.’
Charlie waited for Liv to notice her red nose and puffy eyes, but Liv pushed past her into the hall. She stopped when she drew level with the radiator, eyeing the stained plaster all around her. ‘I know the look I’d go for,’ she said. ‘I’ve given it a lot of thought, and picked out a few goodies, nice fabrics and stuff. Obviously it’s your choice…’
‘Liv. I don’t give a shit about fabrics.’
‘… but I’m almost going to insist on Allegra Gold wallpaper for the hall, with a basketweave nutmeg carpet. And for the lounge, a Burlington distressed leather three-piece suite. Laura Ashley’s not all country-spinster chintz and flowers, you know. They’ve got some strong, solid stuff too. They do everything-literally everything-and the beauty of getting it all from one place is that they come and-’
Charlie pushed her sister aside and ran up the stairs. She slammed her bedroom door and leaned against it. Spinster. That was her, would always be her. She heard Liv huffing and puffing her way up the stairs; more exercise than she’d done in years, probably. Charlie walked over to the bare, curtainless window. She took hold of one end of the curtain rail and ripped it off the wall. There. Now Liv wouldn’t be able to hang any Laura Ashley curtains from it.
‘Char?’ A small knock at the door. Olivia pretending not to want to intrude. ‘Look, if you don’t want me to interfere, why not take charge of the decorating yourself? You can’t live with bare floorboards for ever.’
‘It’s fashionable,’ Charlie told her. ‘Carpet’s out. Wooden floors are in.’
Olivia flung open the bedroom door. Her face matched her pink scoop-necked sweater. ‘Properly sanded and polished ones, yes. Not ones that look like this. You haven’t even got a bed!’
‘I’ve got a mattress. King size.’
‘You’re living like… like someone who’s plotting a terrorist atrocity in a squat! Do you remember the shoe bomber, that ugly git with long hair and a turnip nose who tried to blow up a plane? I bet his bedroom was nicer than yours!’
‘Liv, I’m upset. That’s why I asked you to come round. Not so that we could talk about floorboards. Or terrorists.’
‘I know you’re upset. You’ve been upset for over a year. I’m used to it.’ Liv sighed. ‘Look, I know why you gutted the house, and I understand that you can’t be bothered to sort it out. I’m happy to project-manage it all for you. I honestly think you’d feel better if you-’
‘No, I wouldn’t!’ Charlie yelled. ‘I wouldn’t feel better if I had an Allegra Burlington to sit on, whatever the fuck that is! And this has got nothing to do with what happened last year-nothing! You think that’s why I’m in a state?’
Olivia’s eyes darted left and right, as if she’d been asked a trick question. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘No! It’s Simon. I love him, and he asked me to marry him, and I swore at him and threw him out.’
‘Oh, right.’ Olivia sounded deflated.
‘Yeah, that’s right. Boring, isn’t it? Simon Waterhouse again.’
‘But I thought… from what you said on the phone, you dealt with it. He proposed, you said no-’
‘Of course I said no! This is Simon we’re talking about! If I’d said yes, his feelings by now would be slightly more lukewarm than when he proposed. By the time we announced our engagement, he’d have gone off me a bit more. By our wedding day he’d be indifferent, and by the time we arrived at the honeymoon suite-hah!-I’d be all his nightmares and worst fears rolled into one.’
Olivia’s eyes narrowed. ‘I seem to be missing some vital components of this situation,’ she said. ‘Simon’s never even taken you out for dinner. You’ve never so much as kissed!’
Charlie mumbled something non-committal. She had kissed Simon-at Sellers’ fortieth birthday party, shortly before Simon had decided he wasn’t interested after all and rejected her in the most humiliating and public way possible-but she’d never told Olivia. She couldn’t, even now. She could hardly bear to think about that party.
‘He’s got a tragedy fetish,’ she said. ‘He feels sorry for me because of last year.’
‘And because you’ve got a bedroom like the shoe bomber,’ Olivia reminded her.
‘It’s not inconceivable that he loves me, is it? For all the wrong reasons.’ Charlie’s voice cracked. ‘And if he does, and I say yes, then he’ll stop. Not straight away, but he will.’ She groaned.
‘Char, you’re… Please tell me you’re not considering saying yes.’
‘Of course not! What do you think I am, a headcase?’
‘Good.’ Olivia was satisfied. ‘Then there’s no problem.’
‘Oh, forget it. You might as well go.’
‘But I’ve brought some fabric swatches…’
‘I’ve got an idea: why don’t you stick your swatches up your arse and fuck off back to London?’ Charlie stared at her sister, determined not to blink in case she lost the fight while her eyes were closed.
Olivia stared back. ‘I’m not going anywhere until you’ve at least looked at the Villandry Duck Egg,’ she said, her voice cool and dignified. ‘It’s woven velvet. Look at it, touch it. I’ll leave it by the front door on my way out.’