Page 56

FIFTY-FIVE

While Tom Thorne tried to work out how much trouble he might eventually be in relative to how little he cared, Dave Holland sat three miles south in Clerkenwell clutching his own phone; summoning up the courage to make the call and have the conversation he’d barely stopped imagining for the previous twenty-four hours.

Since Thorne and Tanner had got back from Fin-Cel and passed on the news about Daniel Sadler and what kind of items he’d been paid to deliver.

He got up and walked into the kitchen. A quick cup of tea and then he’d do it . . .

It wasn’t as if he had to make the call at all.

The case – to which Karen Sadler was no more than peripheral – was still far from put to bed and there was no compulsion for him to pass on any updates whatsoever to her.

Even when it was over, it didn’t have to be him , besides which nothing he told her was going to bring her husband back, was it?

Her face, though, when she’d handed him that photograph.

Her voice, the genuine gratitude in it when he had called to let her know there was no news at all and promised that he’d call again as soon as there was.

With the kettle still grumbling, he marched back into the living room and snatched his mobile from the table.

‘Oh, hello, Mrs Sadler, this is Detec—’

‘Detective Holland. I recognise your voice.’

‘Right, good.’ Pippa was in another room, but Holland took a quick look over his shoulder anyway. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t want her to overhear the call. Maybe it was just that he didn’t want her to see him struggle. ‘How’re you doing?’

‘Well, you know. Things aren’t easy, but you’ve just got to keep going, haven’t you?’

‘I was calling because there has been a development in the case . . . in our investigation into Daniel’s death.

’ He waited, but her silence suggested that she was happy for him to continue, or would be if happiness and dread meant the same thing.

‘We’re now as sure as we can be that Daniel did not take his own life. ’ He waited again.

‘Oh . . . ’

‘There’s not much more I can tell you at this stage, I’m afraid, but I thought you’d like to know.’

‘Well . . . thank you, I suppose.’ She sniffed.

‘I knew I was right about Daniel not killing himself, and I should probably be . . . well . . . not relieved exactly, but this makes even less sense. You see what I’m saying?

I mean, God alone knows why he’d even have been up there, but I presume you don’t think it was an accident. ’

‘No, we don’t think that’s a possibility.’

‘So . . . ?’

There they were, the questions Holland had known would follow; unasked but clear enough above the slight hiss on the line and the sound of Karen Sadler sniffling.

Who killed my husband?

Why was he killed?

‘I’m sorry that I can’t really give you any further information,’ Holland said. ‘I can assure you that the case is still very much ongoing.’

‘I understand.’

‘Are you OK?’ Holland closed his eyes and shook his head. Maybe he didn’t want Pippa there listening to him asking ridiculous questions. ‘Would you like me to arrange for the Family Liaison Officer to come over?’

‘It’s fine. I’ve still got Nathan with me.’

‘Let me know if you change your mind. It’s really not a problem.’

‘We’ll manage,’ she said.

‘OK, then . . . ’

‘Thank you for letting me know, David.’

‘Like I said, it’s not a problem.’

‘For taking the time . . . ’

When he’d ended the call, Holland walked back to the kitchen and straight to the fridge. He poured himself a glass of wine from the bottle Pippa had opened earlier and carried it back to the living room.

He sat on the sofa, downed half the glass and let his head drop back.

Karen Sadler would have all her questions answered soon enough, and when all the details emerged would almost certainly wish she’d never asked them.

What had he said to Pippa a few nights before?

Not much to understand about kiddie-porn, is there?

Unless of course Karen Sadler already knew about her husband’s arrest twelve years before. Unless Holland had misread her every bit as much as they’d all misread Mandy Brightwell. More than anything, he hoped that wasn’t the case.

He lifted his glass again, listening to Pippa talking in the next room, making a phone call of her own. He wondered how things were going as far as the fertile window was concerned and asked himself if he really wanted another child at all.

Finishing the wine, he reminded himself – not that he needed any reminding – that he was an idiot. Having a baby with Pippa would be amazing . . . better than amazing. He couldn’t wait, but it was only natural to have a few . . . concerns, wasn’t it? Things being as they were.

How would Chloe react?

How would Chloe’s mother react?

Even thinking about that was ridiculous, of course.

He and Pippa were married, for God’s sake, so if they chose to have a child, or a dozen of them, it was no bloody concern of his ex’s.

All the same, it was definitely worth keeping in mind, because Thorne had been spot on when he’d been talking about her in the pub.

‘Nightmare’ was about right and he had to remember that Sophie could make his and Pippa’s life difficult if she chose to. With Chloe and what have you.

Holland turned when he heard the door open to see Pippa nodding towards the empty glass in his hand.

‘You left any for me?’

‘There’s half a bottle left,’ Holland said.

‘That’ll do.’ She walked across, leaning down to kiss him on her way to fetch some wine for herself.

A few seconds after she’d disappeared into the kitchen, Holland shouted through. ‘Listen, I know I’m getting a bit ahead of myself here. I mean, I don’t want to jinx it, but presuming everything goes the way we want it to on the baby front . . . have you given any thought to names?’

Pippa reappeared in the kitchen doorway and leaned against it, her own glass in one hand and the bottle in the other, ready to top up Holland’s. She grinned. ‘Maybe.’

‘OK, great. I was just wondering if Tom might be anywhere on the list.’

‘Only if it’s a really long list,’ she said.