Chapter 16
SIMON
‘Have you been outside all this time?’ Charlie was sitting at Simon’s table in The Brown Cow when he walked back in from the garden, blowing on his hands to warm them up. ‘For God’s sake, Simon. It’s pitch black and freezing. What were you doing out there, communing with the stars?’
Simon didn’t understand why almost all the adults he knew treated alcohol as if it were nectar from heaven.
He’d never been a drinker himself, but recently it had started to annoy him when other people did it.
He’d heard on the radio that it was hard for cancer to kill you if your liver was functioning at its highest level.
He’d tried telling Charlie that alcohol was poison, but she either laughed at him or said, ‘So are killjoys.’ Simon wasn’t sure he was capable of feeling joy, but this was where he tended to feel least discontent: at his regular table at The Brown Cow, next to the fireplace, opposite a framed oil painting of a black and white cow (yeah, it made no sense to Simon either) standing side-on between a thick, gnarly-trunked oak tree and a red wheelbarrow.
Inexplicably, a large green apple was balanced on top of the cow’s head.
This wasn’t the original brown cow painting; that one, in which the cow had been an appropriate shade of caramel, had gone last year and taken the smell of old wood with it.
Now, under new management, the place reeked of roses and leather, which Charlie liked and Simon hated.
So far he’d had no luck tracking down the source of the smell.
There had to be a vent somewhere pumping it out, one he planned to bury under dozens of layers of masking tape if he ever found it.
It was half past ten. The pub was empty apart from the bar staff, Simon and Charlie.
‘Anyway, well done,’ she said. ‘You successfully manifested a sandwich.’ He’d texted her an hour ago: ‘brown cow bring cheese sandwich’.
‘Less successfully,’ she continued, ‘you left confidential paperwork lying around on a pub table while you went out and … did what, exactly, for twenty minutes?’Cause that’s how long I’ve been here, waiting with your stupid sandwich. ’
‘I asked for cheese, not stupid. Are we out of cheese?’
‘I can’t believe you left all this lot just lying here for anyone to rummage through.’
‘I don’t care about keeping Spilling Police’s secrets any more.’ Simon was annoyed that he had to spell it out. Didn’t Charlie know nothing was the same now that his team was going to be torn apart? That it never would be again? ‘I went out to ring Doug Brodigan. Couldn’t get a signal in here.’
‘You still haven’t enabled Wi-Fi calls on your phone, have you?’ Charlie sighed.
‘Don’t know what it means,’ Simon said proudly.
‘Can I do it for you now? It’ll take four seconds.’
‘No need. I’ve already spoken to Brodigan, who confirmed I was right. Made a nice change.’
‘What?’ Charlie looked confused. ‘Simon, you’re always right.
When aren’t you? Oh, for God’s sake!’ It was convenient for Simon that she could read his thoughts most of the time.
Saved him having to string sentences together.
‘The super’s not doing what she’s doing because she doesn’t think you’re a brilliant detective.
You know that. Everyone knows how good you are. ’
‘It’s my fault, what’s happening to Sam and Proust. The team.
There’d be no exiling of anyone if it weren’t for me,’ Simon said.
‘If I was as good at the job as you say I am, Dooper’d be scared of losing me and she can’t be, or she wouldn’t be trying to push me out the door by firing the only people I want to work with.
If I’d been less disruptive, more conventional—’
‘An entirely different person, yeah?’
‘—I’d have been a detective no one would have risked losing.’
‘Well …’ Charlie shrugged. ‘No one can be a perfect, flawless human all the time and in every way. Especially – and I cannot stress this enough – especially not you.’ She laughed at her own quip.
‘Tell me the truth,’ Simon said. ‘Anything and everything I’ve achieved over the past God knows how many years … Could I have done it if I hadn’t obeyed my gut instincts and nothing else? I don’t think so.’
‘It might be an interesting experiment,’ said Charlie. ‘If you’re willing to give being obedient a go, you could always ask for a meeting with the super and—’
‘Fuck that!’
Two young men behind the bar looked up to see where the outburst had come from.
‘She’s an over-promoted mediocrity with a puffy squirrel face,’ Simon muttered.
‘Valid.’ Charlie waved the wrapped sandwich under his nose. ‘Here, have something to eat.’
He pushed it away. ‘I’m not hungry any more.’
‘Can I have it, then? I need extra calories to cope with your moodiness.’
‘No. I’ll probably want it in a bit.’ Simon pulled a sheet of A4 paper out of a file and passed it to Charlie.
‘See this? It lists all the places Oliver Mayo’s DNA was found at Marianne Upton’s house after she was nearly killed there in November 2012.
None in any of the bedrooms. The most by a significant margin was found in a room described there as Marianne Upton’s study – that’s the same room Marianne showed Jemma once it was empty, the one she’d kept locked for years and that Jemma had been curious enough to think about trying to break into. Did Jemma tell you about that?’
Charlie nodded.
‘It was very much for Marianne’s use only and kept locked in 2012, according to Brodigan.
She called it her “private sanctuary”, he said.
Except … Oliver Mayo was allowed in, apparently.
Marianne told Brodigan herself: Mayo was a regular visitor – had been since he and Jemma had split up in 2006 – and the study was where he and Marianne sat and talked when he went round. ’ Simon took a gulp of his Coke.
‘Right. So she didn’t want anyone else to see what was in there, but she didn’t mind Oliver Mayo seeing it,’ Charlie said.
‘Brodigan and his team were obviously given access at the time, and he says there was nothing out of the ordinary in the room. Just what you’d expect in a study: furniture, cushions, pictures on the walls, books and photos on shelves, stationery, pens, the odd ornament.
Nothing anyone’d want or need to keep secret. ’
‘Weird,’ said Charlie. ‘I can see why Jemma wanted to break in. Must have driven her mad that her ex-boyfriend got to go in there years after they’d broken up.
Assuming she knew about it. Maybe she didn’t, I don’t know.
I mean …’ She frowned. ‘Could Marianne and Oliver Mayo have been having an affair?’
‘Maybe,’ said Simon, ‘but like I said, there was none of his DNA in any of the bedrooms. But whatever they were doing, it was secret all right. If you read the interviews with Gareth Upton and Jemma Stelling, they both say Marianne last saw Mayo in 2006, the year he and Jemma split up. Both claimed to have no clue why Marianne said “Oliver” when asked who’d slashed her throat open.
But then in the transcript of Marianne talking to Brodigan, it’s right there: she tells him Mayo was a regular visitor, her regular visitor, between 2010 and November 2012.
Nothing on the record suggests anyone spotted this discrepancy or asked anyone about it.
There’s no interview with Gareth Upton where a detective says, “Your wife says Oliver Mayo’s still a regular guest and friend of the family.
” The discrepancy’s just sitting there in the file, easy to miss.
So I rang Brodigan, thinking he’d say how stressed they’d all been at the time and they must have missed it, but no.
He admitted it: he’d felt sorry for Marianne, so he’d covered for her. ’
‘What?’ Charlie sounded as surprised and disapproving as Simon had hoped she would.
‘He felt sorry for this old lady who’d just been nearly killed, so he covered for her.
She told him in confidence about the secret meetings between her and Mayo which always happened when no one else was at home, and he agreed not to mention it to anyone, especially not her family. He assumed an affair, he told me.’
‘Brodigan admitted all this?’ Charlie frowned.
‘Only because I led with an admission of my own: that I’d encouraged Jemma to kill Marianne and given her advice on how to do it.’
‘I guess it really is true, what I keep hearing,’ Charlie said. ‘The police don’t care about preventing or solving crimes any more. They only care about rude internet posts.’
‘Brodigan’s always thought it was Mayo, though he was with a therapy client at the time,’ said Simon. ‘He said it was clear Marianne was lying and proud of it, and there were no other suspects. He wanted to take it further, but his DI said it was uncloseable and a waste of time.’
‘I reckon it was an affair,’ said Charlie. ‘They shagged in the study instead of a bedroom because … maybe that was the only room with a lock on the door. I’ve got an idea: why don’t you join your team at Marianne Upton’s place – you know, where you’re supposed to be – and have a look?’
‘They won’t be there now, Char. It’s late. Don’t worry – I’ll be getting the answers I want soon enough.’
‘Good. Sam and the gang could use your help,’ said Charlie.
Simon opened his mouth, then closed it. Nothing good would happen if he explained that wanting to know and wanting to help were two very different things.
As for wanting to win, not for Spilling Police’s sake but in order to deprive them of that same win, in the spirit of crushing your enemies …
that was something different altogether.