‘Girlfriend?’
‘Yes.’ Another ‘no’ would have been too difficult.
‘Does she earn more or less than you?’
‘More,’ said Simon. ‘She’s a sergeant.’
‘My wife used to earn more than I did. Embarrassingly more-my salary was pocket money.’ Hey smiled. ‘I didn’t care, from a macho point of view. Do you?’
‘No.’ Simon did. Only a little, but he did.
‘It often changes once you’ve had children. Now I’m the sole breadwinner.’ Hey sounded as if he felt guilty. ‘Anyway, naturally women are more nurturing and more protective than men. They shoulder burdens rather than delegate them to their husbands or partners. Often they assume a man wouldn’t be able to cope in the way that they can. Plus, they want to make everyone happy, even if it’s at their own expense-you know, the martyr mentality. The “have-the-men-had-enough?” mentality.’
Simon had no idea what Hey was talking about.
‘Whereas men-again, huge generalisation-men tend only to care about making themselves happy. We’re undeniably more selfish.’
‘Apart from the men who are so distressed about not being able to provide for their families that they kill them,’ Simon reminded him.
‘Ah, but it’s their own egos they really care about. Not their wives and children. Obviously, because they murder them. And that’s why, ultimately, I don’t think women will start to commit familicide in the same numbers as men. Women care more about their families than about preserving their own vanity.’
‘You have a low opinion of men,’ said Simon, both admiring and resenting Hey’s honesty.
‘Some of us are all right. You see, this is my point.’ Hey smiled sheepishly. ‘I think aloud, and it causes trouble. All I said to Keith was that I wondered if, eventually, we’d start to come across cases of women whose business empires collapsed and who, rather than admit that they’d failed to look after their families properly…’ He chewed the inside of his lip. ‘Two weeks later, Keith had dashed off an article predicting more familicides committed by women for financial reasons.’
‘And then Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick were found dead.’ Simon stood up, couldn’t keep his body still when his mind was all over the place. ‘You’re saying Harbard’s using our case. He wants Geraldine Bretherick to have proved him right.’
Hey nodded. Patches of red had appeared on his cheeks. ‘I don’t think she has,’ he said. ‘Geraldine Bretherick was a full-time mother and home-maker. She had no financial responsibilities, and she had the security of knowing that her husband was rich and likely to become richer. So that’s prototype one down the pan. And the vengeful, vindictive modeclass="underline" Keith says there’s no evidence Mark Bretherick was planning to leave her, or had another woman?’
‘None,’ said Simon.
Hey held up his hands. ‘I just don’t see it. I keep telling Keith that none of the predictions he made in his article are borne out by this case, not a single one, but he keeps insisting he was right: he predicted more women would kill their children and now Geraldine Bretherick has. That’s what he says; he seems determined to ignore the specifics. It’s as if all the detail we’ve gone into, all those years of both our lives, have just been wiped out!’
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!’