The mere fact that she didn’t bat an eyelid when I turned up out of the blue showed the amount of effort she’d put in, keeping it all together.
“You didn’t keep me hanging around on the doorstep because you’re cold or distant, or even suspicious. You needed that long to regroup.”
“Or I could just be another longtime single mum, who’s used to being strong and in control?”
“You could,” I agreed. “But no one’s that tough.” I stared at the pavement. Ran my hands through my hair. Changed tactics. “You had a son. Your only child. And when he died, you felt you’d failed him. If only you’d phoned him more often— Talked more about it— Made him stay with you after he’d won bail, instead of letting him go back to his own flat—”
The same guilt trip the bereaved always take. That, as his mother, she should have recognized the signs. Should have phoned the Samaritans. Should never have let him out of her sight...
“Mothers are supposed to protect their children, Mr. O’Donnell. They’re supposed to fight for them. Kill for them. Die for them, even. Not let them slip through their fingers like water.”
“With hindsight, we’d all be heroes, Mrs. Langstone, but I can tell you now, you did not fail your son. You believed in Craig when no one else did, you believe in him still, and, for the record, so do I.”
Her expression hadn’t changed, but tears began rolling down her cheeks, splashing onto her jacket.
“Angie,” she said. “My name’s Angie. I think you’d better come in.”
The flat was as neat inside as out, everything tidy and in its place, smelling of coffee, fresh flowers, and clean laundry. I used to think I had minimalism down to a fine art, but her beige sofas, floaty voiles, and glass-topped tables added a sophistication that left me in the shade. There were no photographs, at least none on display, but a set of watercolours, a sketchbook, and a pile of dog-eared paperbacks proved this was no sterile showhouse but a refuge. Not just from the busy insurance office where she worked, but a means of escaping from the past.
Guessing she’d need a moment to compose herself, I asked to use the bathroom, and spent so long pretending to wash my hands that she probably thought I suffered from OCD. By the time I returned, I expected to find her plumping the cushions on the sofa, lip gloss and mascara picture-perfect, every inch a woman in control. The only thing I’d got right was the sofa. Face in hands, she was perched on the edge, rocking back and forth. Same as she’d probably done every night, every weekend, since her son hanged himself...
I scooped her in my arms and opened a floodgate. Bitter, silent tears gave way to anguished howls, which turned to wracking sobs. And while she heaved away seven years of pent-up pain, I wondered why Ken Langstone bothered getting married if he intended to continue the bachelor life. Why men like him wanted kids in the first place, when they had no intention of hanging around to kick a ball, read them stories, go to school plays. And why more wasn’t done to make feckless fathers keep up with the payments, instead of forcing their young wives to work two jobs to pay off their debts.
When Angie finally lifted her head from my shoulder, her eyes were puffy, streaked, bloodshot, and red-rimmed. What stood out above everything else, though, and which surprised me above everything else, was that they were smiling. “You have a tight grip, Mr. O’Donnell.”
“Had to. You’ve held things together for so long, I didn’t want the pieces falling apart on your lovely white carpet. And it’s Frank.”
“Well, Frank, thank you.” She blew into a Kleenex. “No one’s held me like that for a long time.”
She was lucky. No one had ever held me like that.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” I said, because if there’s one thing a police officer knows, it’s his way around a kitchen. More sympathy can be shown, more confidences drawn, sometimes even confessions, over a simple cup of—
“Are you kidding?” She reached down and brought out a bottle. “After waiting seven years to clear Craig’s name, I deserve something stronger than tea. Glasses are in the cupboard behind you.”
I picked out two crystal tumblers and thought, Chivas Regal, Pink Floyd, Tarantino. Wonder what else we have in common.
“Lucy was a lovely girl,” she said, sliding onto a stool and leaning her elbows on the black granite breakfast bar. “Smart. Funny. One of those women who light up a room every time they walk in, you know? Until some psychopath comes along and wipes everything out, and the worst part is, Frank, the police didn’t even look for anyone else.”
Not true. Extensive searches and lab analyses were carried out at the time, witnesses questioned to the point of exhaustion, the details distributed to police forces across Britain and Europe, in an attempt to link this crime with others. But between the paramedics, the Kincades, and, bless them, their dog, any evidence that might have exonerated Craig, or pointed the finger elsewhere, was destroyed. On top of that, Lucy wasn’t the type to make enemies, which meant there was no one else in the frame. Especially when she was a hundred percent certain.
“Have you spoken to her parents?”
“I have.”
A visit that hammered home — as if I’d needed reminding — that, in a murder case, it was never just the one life that was taken. The ripples of destruction stretch wide and cut deep, and the truth is, they never heal. The crusading, inspirational lecturer that used to be Roger Fuller had become a shuffling old man, whose wife slept in a separate bedroom, because every time she closed her eyes at night, the tears wouldn’t stop welling.
Why? That’s what I don’t understand. Why?
Which was pretty much as far as that interview went. Roger Fuller repeating the question over and over, shaking his head, shaking his hands, as if the very movement would somehow give him an answer. Sarah, his wife, bringing out photos, mementoes, certificates, clippings, in a desperate attempt to keep her daughter alive, when the only thing she could think about was her daughter’s death.
If Langstone couldn’t face being dumped, why not kill himself and leave it at that? Roger spat. This way, everyone suffers.
He was right. Everyone did. But not on account of Craig Langstone.
“I had a long chat with the Kincades too.”
At least, with Susan Kincade. Her husband, John, was in Winchester Hospital, in the final throes of pancreatic cancer.
It’s ironic, she’d said, ruffling the ears of the spaniel I’d seen in the photo, just a little stockier now, with white hairs round his muzzle and eyes. My training prolonged that young woman’s life, but in the end, I was unable to save the person I love most in the world.
Another irony was that if her nursing skills hadn’t prolonged Lucy’s life in the first place, Craig Langstone would never have been in the frame.
Is there anything else you can tell me about that morning? Any detail that struck you as odd?
The police always look closely at who’s first on the scene, but in this case, you couldn’t get two more law-abiding, upstanding citizens than a ward sister and her bank-manager husband.
Nothing. Sorry.
The ultimate irony, of course, was that if it hadn’t been for Susan, Lucy would have died on the spot and her killer would have got off scot-free.