Springer snapped his mouth shut.
‘And did you get your money back?’
Another silence. ‘He promised he’d get it to me, but there was something about the way he spoke … I wasn’t sure I believed him. He said it was tied up in a project. Something he really had to do. I’d get it back but I might have to wait.’ He paused. ‘I told him I couldn’t wait. My wife wants a baby. I mean, we both want a baby, but she’s desperate and it’s just not happening. We only get one shot at IVF on the NHS. I’ve told her we’ll go private, but she’s a teaching assistant and I work in a gym and money’s tight.’ He looked up at them. ‘We were mates, served together. He knew how much I needed that cash back. He knew what my marriage means to me.’ He paused. ‘He said he’d get it back. That he understood.’
‘But he didn’t deliver?’
Springer shook his head. ‘No, he didn’t deliver. At least he hadn’t. Not before he died and I guess I’ll never get it now.’
‘Did you go and see him? Kate will have given you his address.’
He looked up. ‘You think I killed him? For twenty grand?’
It was Jen’s turn to shrug. ‘People have killed for less.’
‘But I haven’t got the money.’ He stood up, finally exasperated. ‘I have no idea what he did with it. And now I’ll never know.’
* * *
Walden’s wife Kate had never taken her husband’s name. The flat where she lived with her new partner was one of a number in a grand stone crescent in Clifton. She stood at the door and held out her hand.
‘Kate Dickinson.’ Cool and polished. Long legs in skinny jeans, a white linen shirt. Her hair looked polished too. It was hard to imagine her hooked up with the itinerant cook.
Bedminster had been busy, the pavements crowded with shoppers, pushchairs, cycles ridden illegally to avoid the busy road. Express supermarkets and pound shops. Chuggers and buskers. This seemed like a different world. Calmer. Lighter. The apartment was on the first floor, and the living room spread the width of the house, with views of the Downs to the front and over the city roofscape at the back. Polished hard-wood floor and classy furniture. Little colour and no clutter. The palette various shades of grey.
‘You’re here to talk about Simon.’ She offered them coffee and Jen caught a glimpse into the kitchen, which was just as she would have expected. Granite and chrome, without a mucky pot in sight. Again, as different as it was possible to be from the arty house in Hope Street. Or her house in Barnstaple. The coffee came from a machine that hissed in a genteel, upmarket sort of way. Jen felt an overwhelming desire to scribble on the wall with wax crayon.
‘When did you last hear from him?’
She and Ross were on a sofa and Kate sat in a chair opposite, legs curled under her.
‘Months ago. Before Christmas, certainly.’
‘Could you be more specific?’
She looked up with a little triumphant smile as she remembered. ‘Yes! It was the end of October. There are Americans living in the flat next door and they’d put pumpkins outside for Halloween. I remember seeing them on my way out. I was going to the theatre with Guy, my partner. I’d not long moved in.’ She paused. ‘Then my mobile started ringing. It was Simon, in a dreadful state. Pissed of course. I was used to that, but he was distraught. Suicidal. I didn’t know what to do or how I could help.’
‘Was he genuinely suicidal?’
‘I think so. He said he was weighed down with guilt and he couldn’t live with himself. The only way to stop the pain was to kill himself. I tried to talk to him, but he wasn’t listening. I knew I wasn’t doing any good.’
And your flash new partner was waiting for you. You wouldn’t want to miss the first act.
Then Jen told herself that was unreasonable. What could Kate have done? And what right did Walden have to guilt trip her?
‘So that was the last time you spoke to him?’
‘No!’ Kate said. ‘No! I should have explained. He phoned a few weeks later. I’d been trying to get in touch with him on his mobile, but he said he’d lost it that night when he was on a bender. He called me from a landline.’
‘And that’s the number you passed on to Alan Springer when he came