Nigel Bowskill looked as if he belonged to a different world from his wife, in his grey suit trousers, green T-shirt and white trainers. ‘It’s too painful otherwise,’ he explained. ‘We can’t spend the rest of our lives waiting for Kit to change his mind. He hasn’t for seven years. Probably never will.’
‘Why should he have that power over us?’ Barbara sounded defensive, though no one had criticised her. There was something odd about the way this couple spoke, thought Simon – as if each disagreed violently with what the other had just said, though if you listened to the words rather than the tone, they appeared to be unanimous all the way down the line.
So far, Simon hadn’t enjoyed being in their house: a detached beige-brick modern villa which, together with its built-on double garage, made an L-shape. He reminded himself that it didn’t matter; this was unpaid work, not fun. Day eight of his honeymoon. He wished he’d brought Charlie with him, but knew that if by some miracle time were to rewind to yesterday, he would choose again to make the trip alone. ‘It must be hard,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I ask what caused the rift?’
‘Kit didn’t tell you?’ Barbara rolled her eyes at her own foolishness. ‘No, of course he didn’t, because he couldn’t, not without revealing something about himself that he didn’t want you to know – that once he tried to do something and didn’t succeed, shock horror. What you’ve got to understand about my son is that he’s the most intensely private person you’ll ever meet, as well as the proudest. Since he refuses to come to terms with his own fallibility, his pride is easily wounded – that’s where the secrecy comes in, all in the good cause of saving face. There’s no doubt in Kit’s mind that the whole world is watching him, eagerly awaiting his downfall. He might seem relaxed and chatty on the surface, but don’t be fooled – it’s all image management.’
‘He spent his whole childhood hiding from us,’ said Nigel.
Automatically, Simon looked round the living room for possible hiding places, and saw none; there was nothing here to hide behind, only two leather sofas at right angles to one another, each one pushed up against a wall. The hall Simon had been ushered through had been the same, as had the kitchen he’d stood in, briefly, while Barbara made him a cup of tea. He’d never seen a less cluttered house. There were no shelves, no ornaments, no coats on pegs by the front door, no plants, no fruit bowls or clocks, no occasional tables. The house was like a film set, not yet fully installed. Where did Kit’s parents keep all their things? Simon had asked them if they’d only just moved in, and been told that they’d lived in the house for twenty-six years.
‘I don’t mean he hid physically,’ Barbara was saying. ‘We always knew where he was. He never stayed out and left us worrying, like some of his friends did to their parents.’
‘We thought we knew who he was, too,’ said Nigel, whose face was his son’s plus two and a half decades. ‘A contented, polite, obedient boy – sailed through school, loads of mates.’
‘He showed us what he knew we wanted to see,’ Barbara blurted out, as if afraid her husband might get to the punch-line first if she wasn’t quick about it. ‘All through his childhood, our son was his own spin doctor.’
‘What was he trying to hide?’ Simon asked. So far, the questioning had been all one way. If either of Kit Bowskill’s parents wondered why a detective had invited himself to their house in order to ask about their son, they were keeping quiet about it. If only everyone Simon interviewed could share their lack of curiosity; he hated having to explain himself, even when the explanation was a good one.
‘No guilty secrets,’ said Nigel. ‘Only himself.’
‘His low opinion of himself,’ Barbara amended. ‘What he perceived as his weakness. Of course, we’ve only worked all this out in retrospect – we’ve been rather like detectives, you might say. We’ve spoken to his school friends, found out things we had no idea about at the time because Kit made sure to conceal them from us – the torture he inflicted on boys who won the prizes he thought he should have won, the bribes he offered those same boys once he’d come