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THIRTY-ONE

Pippa had gone to bed, but Holland was not quite as tired as he had every right to be, so he stayed up to watch TV for a while.

He tried to get into some Netflix thriller about a woman whose husband was secretly a psychopath, but it was too ridiculous for words.

In all his years on the Job he’d only encountered one – the sort to give Hannibal Lecter a run for his money – and that individual was thankfully no longer around, but if TV dramas were to be believed, if you weren’t living with or next door to one, you were undoubtedly a psychopath yourself.

He changed channels but couldn’t concentrate.

He couldn’t stop thinking about an abandoned motorbike and a man stumbling along a railway line, high up in the dark.

He turned off the TV and made the call.

A man who he presumed was the son – Nathan, was it? – answered and Holland apologised for calling so late.

‘It’s fine,’ the man said. ‘Mum isn’t sleeping much, anyway.’

Holland waited.

‘Hello, there . . . ’

Karen Sadler sounded so stupidly pleased to hear from him that Holland immediately began wishing he’d never picked up the phone, feeling the guilt gain a little more weight. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ he said.

‘You’re really not.’

‘I wish I had better news.’

‘Oh . . . ’

‘Any news, really.’

‘Meaning you still haven’t been able to make . . . what did you call it . . . a determination? About Daniel.’

‘I’m afraid not.’ He heard the sigh. ‘I’m still working on it, though. I suppose that’s what I called to tell you, really.’

‘Only I’m sort of in limbo here,’ she said.

‘I do understand—’

‘I can’t organise the funeral, or deal with the awful legal stuff and what have you, and all the time I’m sitting here asking myself, if it’s not suicide, then . . . what is it?’

‘I don’t know, Mrs Sadler.’

Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I mean, obviously I’ve thought all sorts, because you do, don’t you? And all I’m left with is why ?’

‘I will find out,’ Holland said. ‘I promise you.’

‘I know I’ve already said this to you, so I’m sorry for repeating myself, but anyone who thinks Daniel killed himself is wrong. They’re plain wrong, simple as that. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life, because I knew Daniel better than anyone.’

Holland said nothing, thinking about the side of her husband for which he had once been arrested; those disturbing and highly illegal tendencies about which he could only assume Karen Sadler knew nothing.

Then he considered the likely circumstances of that arrest. He pictured officers removing a computer and other materials from the house she still lived in, and wondered if perhaps she did know, or at least suspect.

He certainly didn’t feel able to ask her, not yet at any rate. More importantly, he didn’t see how finding out what his widow did and didn’t know about her husband’s past would further the investigation into Daniel Sadler’s death.

‘You’re working very late,’ she said.

‘I’m at home, actually.’

‘Oh. Well, it’s very kind of you to call in your own time.’

‘It’s honestly not a problem.’

‘Are you married, Detective Holland?’

Holland was momentarily taken aback, before happily telling her that he was, that in fact he’d been married just under a year.

‘Well, do me a favour, will you? Stop wasting your time trying to make me feel better and go and kiss your wife.’

Holland felt himself redden. ‘Right . . . ’

‘Promise me.’

‘OK, I will. And just to say that as soon as I get to work in the morning I’m going to be back on your husband’s case. I’d hoped to have got a bit further with it, but things have been a bit hectic.’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘You must all be very busy. It’s dreadful what’s happening . . . I saw it on the news.’

Holland said that he’d call again if there were any developments. Or even if there weren’t. Then he said goodnight, turned off the lights and went upstairs to do what Karen Sadler had told him to.