THROUGH THE GLASS DARKLY - OLD SINS CAST LONG SHADOWS

THROUGH THE GLASS DARKLY - EPISODE NINE

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

Mrs Roberts lived overlooking the Oxmarket Harbour.  The fishing fleet was in, at anchor in the inner harbour, rising and falling with the incoming tide, rusting trawlers, and raddled crabbers, painted over in primary colours like elderly ladies vainly trying to hide the ravages of time.

            She had lived in her house for over forty years. She had brought up eleven children and seen off two husbands there. She had cuddled thirty-five grandchildren there and given instruction to a half dozen daughters-in-law. She had known midnights when she could scarcely move in that residence without disturbing somebody asleep. Now she lived alone.

            She greeted us with indifference and led us into the cramped interior.  The damp air in the tiny living room had an undercurrent of mildew. She sat on the old armchair I imagined her husband had loved so much, her thick and wrinkled hands rested on the balding fabric. Before her, absorbing all the heat from her one bar fire was a clothes horse just as elderly as she was. It zig-zagged before her, the yellowing varnish over the oak barely visible under the weight of laundry. Her eyes rested on it as if they planned to stay there until the clothes were dry and ready to be ironed.

            “Mrs Roberts,” Shaw began, “we’ve been told on good authority that you are the person to come to, if we want to find anything out about the Mabbott family.”

            Her eyes suddenly came alive.  “I’m not a gossip,” she insisted.

            “Nobody said you were, Mrs Roberts.”  Shaw reassured her.  “It’s just we’re trying to find out who killed Lord Mabbott and Wendy Clark.”

            “Terrible thing,” she said, shaking her head.  “Such a terrible thing.  Lord Mabbott was such a kind man.  Never too busy to check on his staff make sure they were all right.  Had a bit of a wandering eye mind you.  Always one for the ladies, was young master Gregory.”

            “What about, Adam?”  I asked.

            The expression on her face at once changed.  “A bully.” She sneered. “He would quietly seek you out, for his next power fix. His victory was a foregone conclusion, his ego boost at everyone else’s expense guaranteed. He fed off chaos like an aphid on new spring growth, leaving energized and buzzing and all around him drained and tense. He was a bully, but to me and to the family he was nothing more than a parasite, boosting himself at a cost to others. Young master Gregory just couldn’t be that way.  He would boost himself by being kind and thoughtful. And so even though everyone came off worse every time in the eyes of their peers, I would rather work for young master Gregory than Adam. He is vapid inside, needing those transitory external crutches. Young master Gregory was solid from the core and the difference was vast.”

            “You said ‘was’ a bully,” I said.

            “Since his brother died, he’s changed, almost beyond recognition” she replied.  “Softened. Become more thoughtful towards others.  It is like his brother’s death shocked him out of his aggressive behaviour.  As if he suddenly realized that we all end up going the same way, and it’s how we spend our time here, on this earth, is how we will be judged.”

            “And Lady Mabbott?”

            “As I said, I am not one to gossip, but she virtually preys on men to destroy them for her purposes or enjoyment. She would flirt with and sexually engage any man who showed her the slightest bit of attention, to achieve his devotion and then destroy him when she lost interest in him.”

            “And has she changed since her husband’s death?”

            “Well,” she said excitedly.  “She’s become a caricature of herself, but she didn't use to be that way. Once her emotions were as variable as the rest of the family, sometimes gregarious, other times moody. Now she’s stuck in her negative range and always extreme. Once her face was soft with the beginnings of laughter lines, not creased in that angry way that has become her only face to the world. She was in hospital a few years back, no-one will say what for, but when she came out her personality had altered - rigid, I suppose. One by one her long-time friends dropped out of the scene, worn down by her new-found aggression and negativity.”

            “And Cleo?”

            “Cleo would cry for her misfortune, the men who treated her badly, and drink herself into oblivion. Then she would sober up and choose another man, often worse than the last. With her big spirit and personality, she would hook up with control freaks and surprised when things went wrong. After either a few weeks or a few years of flying profanities and fists she would again be confused, where had she gone wrong this time? Was it her weight? Her hair? Her wardrobe?”  She paused for a few moments before continuing.  “When she was at school there was this boy.  Teddy, I think was his name, well, she had enough of him blowing hot and cold, so she decided to get her revenge by accusing him of stealing her lunch money. She practised delivering the lines with the innocence of a choir member. She made sure she had wide eyes and a slight choke in her voice when she went to the Headmaster. Then she pinched her forearm forcefully enough for there to be a bruise by home-time. It never hurt to have a little hard evidence. Then she grabbed a rough stone and quickly grazed her knee. There was some blood. Teddy was in so much trouble when she explained how he’d stolen her lunch money. Then the next day young master Gregory went up to the school. Through his considerable weight about and Teddy was suspended, awaiting a full investigation.  I only found out was when I overheard her telling her best-friend Mandy Staple on the phone.  Overwhelmed by guilt, Mandy told her parents, who told young master Gregory, who then had to go back up the school and tell the principal the truth.  Cleo was expelled and had to be found another school and Teddy a few years later became head-boy.”          

“There’s a moral there somewhere,” I said, “Did you know about her relationship with Adam?”

            “Of course, I did,” she replied.  “I wouldn’t say it was a crush or anything like that.  Crush is such an infantile word. She didn’t have a crush on Adam, she loved him with the passion hotter than a thousand suns. He was the one. She thought. He was all that was in her mind; he was her true north, her everything. One day, they would prove everyone wrong, run away together, and start a family of their own.  But then after their relationship was discovered by Lady Mabbott, Adam called it off.  Said it was wrong.”

            “And how did she take that?”  I asked.

            “Badly,” Mrs Roberts said firmly.  “The sparkle of love extinguished at once. Her eyes moved slower and became more down-cast, skimming the floor, rarely raising to eye level. It was in her voice too. Quieter, with a meekness that was not usually part of her speech pattern. She was unhappy in a way nobody had seen before.  It was like she’d suffered a bereavement.”

            “Could that have been because of her father’s death?”  Shaw suggested.    

            Mrs Roberts shook her head.  “The worst flaw a person can have is that of self-deception. Cleo was like that. She acted on impulse and then created the reason for her actions after the fact. If she was feeling good, she did good things, if she was feeling negative in any way, she did dreadful things. She felt like her charitable deeds meant she was a good person and her bad deeds were justified. In truth, she never thought before she acted or spoke, she never stopped to ask herself if her response was the right one, or merely the first automatic reaction that sprung to mind. Whatever she said was never true, or at least it was only "true" for her. That is why that family has fallen apart, she wasn't the only one doing it and no two sides of the same story ever matched.”

            “I see,” Shaw said.  “And just before we leave you in peace, Mrs Roberts.  What about Wendy Clark?”

            There was a momentary flare of anger in Mrs Roberts’s face.  “That was the worst thing that ever happened when she turned up on the doorstep.  Every smile that lit up her features was the wrong sort. It is like she ran on cold malice instead of any form of genuine affection. She was a baby that was left to cry, or a personality disorder the doctors could not fix. Either way she had as much empathy as a medieval mace.”

            “Did you know that she was transgender?”  I quizzed.

            “I heard Lord and Lady Mabbott arguing over her, or him, one day,” Mrs Roberts admitted.  “Words flew from her Lady Mabbott’s mouth that I never thought she'd even think, let alone say aloud. She knew instantly from the look in Master Gregory’s eyes that they had hit their mark. In that instant their relationship shattered into glassy shards. Nothing would ever be the same again. It was becoming so aggressive, I thought up an excuse and went into the room to make them stop arguing.”

            “Go on.”

            “Young master Gregory’s face was mottled crimson, his eyes popped, his neck strained. His words were spat out with the ferocity and rapidity of machine gun fire. Without wiping the spit from her ashen face, she leant closer, perfectly composed, and uttered just three words, ‘I don't care.’ His fuse simmered and fizzed like a firework in a chill autumn breeze, then he exploded with unrestrained fury. She remained as still as a cadaver and just as pallid, unblinking against his onslaught. Then with a barely concealed smirk she turned on her heels and walked away as if strolling in the park on a fine day.”

            “When was this?”

            “About a few days before young master Gregory died.”

            “When it was suggested that Lord Mabbott had committed suicide,” I began.  “How did you feel about that?”

            “I never believed it.”  She was firm with her response.  “I wished I had been more thorough when I shut the window.”

“What do you mean?” Shaw pressed.

“I’m not very tall, you see,” she went on, “and I can’t look down from that window because I’m too short.  Anyway, I knew he hadn’t killed himself.  He had a responsibility to himself.  He had come so far.  On the verge of greatness within the Government.  Everybody knew about his adultery and Lady Mabbott turned a blind eye, but the prospective of a news leak about his relationship with Wendy Clark would destroy him.  They were going to close ranks.  If the photographs became known, they would ride out the scandal.”

            “So, Lady Mabbott was going to stick by her husband?”

            “Of course,” Mrs Roberts said, as if it was the most stupid question, she had been asked all day.  “Lady Mabbott told me, that she’d never expected his words to hurt her so much, saying it felt like a thousand knives had just pierced through her heart. As she told me, I remember seeing the hot tears already welling up in her eyes. I watched young master Gregory pottering around the house, and I could tell he regretted every word he’d said.  I’ve known him since he was a little boy, but we all knew that his words were the truth. Even if they wanted to deny them and fight about them, in the end they were still true.”

            Shaw looked at me with a bemused look and my mind was a mass of surging perplexity.

            “Mrs Roberts,” I said, “I hope you don’t mind me asking, and I hope you won’t take offence, but did you ever see the compromising photographs of Lord Mabbott and did you know that he was being blackmailed?”

            “I never saw the photographs,” she admitted.  “And nor would I want to.”

            “And did you see any evidence concerning Lord Mabbott being blackmailed.”

            “I thought something was wrong,” she said, her mind visually pondering over what she could remember or what she had seen.  “I think the last occasion was in October.  He went off the grounds with Butch and then came back with a large red holdall bag and would always give it to Cleo.  She would then go off in her car with the holdall and then return after a few hours empty-handed.”

            “Any idea, where she’d been?”  Shaw asked.

            “I tried to find out.  You know, keep my nose to the ground, but they all clammed up.  Never spoke about it.”

            “Lord Mabbott hired me to find the blackmailer,” I told her.

            “Yes, I know.”  She replied.  “I was in town, doing my shopping, when I saw you talking to him in that café.”

            The café she was referring to was Julie’s Place.  It had become an office for me after my office had been destroyed in a bomb explosion, when I’d been working on another case.  When my house got burnt down on the same case, I then decided to have my office wherever the client wanted to meet up.  It worked better for me and made the client feel more at ease.

            “But you didn’t know who I was?”  I suggested.

            Mrs Roberts had a glint in her eye.  She reached down for her handbag that was on the floor beside her feet.  She took out her purse and removed a piece of paper from it.  As she unfolded it, I could at once to see what it was: a printout.  “I read about you,” she said.  “On the internet.”

           There had been other stories on the same case.  Many other stories.  I’d given no interviews, even to my former employers at MI5, who’d called looking for answers.  But it had gone big.  For a week it had played out in the nationals until, like all news stories, it eventually burned itself out.  For everyone else, it was consigned to history.

            But not for Mrs Roberts.

            “I’ve read about you,” she said, nodding at the printout.  “I read about what you did when those lights were seen in the sky above Oxmarket Forest.  How the Government tried to hurt you.  What . . .” She stopped for a moment, wondering how far she could go with this.  “Then I remembered another story about you in the papers a couple of years ago.  It concerned the kennels nearby.  To do with those women who’d trained those dogs to kill.  When I’d read those stories, and then I saw you talking to Lord Mabbott, I thought, ‘there’s a man who could save this family.’”

            “Save the family?”

            “Do you believe in fate?”

            I shook my head.  “No, I don’t.”

            That stopped her in her tracks.  But then she found her feet again.  “I saw you and . . .” Her eyes drifted to DCI Shaw, “. . . Young master Gregory.  And then I saw you when I brought you some tea.  I thought there’s that man I’d read about on the internet.  When you sat there.  I couldn’t help but see it as fate.  I prayed the night I first saw you talking to Lady Mabbott.”

            “And what did you pray about, Mrs Roberts?”

            “I prayed you would find out what was going on with this family and put it right!”

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

Twenty minutes later we went looking for Cleo Mabbott, and we found her in the swimming pool at the rear of the house.

She moved towards us languidly, her hips swung in distractingly.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?”

Beads of water rested invitingly on her cleavage.  Shaw cleared his throat.  “We would like to ask you a few more questions.”

“Very well,” she said, impatiently.  “Shall we sit over here?”

“Can you tell us about your relationship with Adam Mabbott?” Shaw asked.

Cleo at once bristled.  “What has that got to do with my father’s death?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out?”  Shaw reply was quick and sharp.  “Now, would you mind answering the question?”

She sighed.  “It was lust pure and simple.”  She threw her head back to show that she didn’t give a damn, but I could see in her eyes that she did. 

“I heard he’s ended it now,” I said cruelly.

Her eyes gave a glare that froze my bones, like being naked in the middle of a hailstorm, where every chunk of ice was a frosted dagger cutting into your skin.

“He felt it only right after father died,” she said, “and it had become more difficult after the mummy had found out as well.”

“And how did you feel about that?”  I pressed.

She looked at me earnestly.  “He turned every moment we spent together into painful memories. They were sharp and cut right through me every time I think about them. Even the sweet good moments we had been now turned into a knife that kills my already broken heart. He pierced my soul and made me sceptical about people and love. And I hate him. I hate him for that. He turned me into this broken mess, and even if I don’t see him again, his touch will be with me for years, or for the rest of my life, who knows. He destroyed my confidence, and I remembered every single word he said, I remember how he made me feel like a waste of space. And now the voice that put me down inside was not mine any more, but his voice telling me again how I will never be excellent at anything.”

Shaw and I exchanged glances before she went on.

“Mummy kept telling me to forget. To let him go. How? It's all part of me, I can't let go of the pain without losing something sacred. The good memories keep me going and the bad ones make me want to curl under the duvet and never come out again, but they are locked tight together like two sides of the same coin.”

“How did you feel when we discovered your mother had bugged your bedroom?”  Shaw asked.

“Disgusted,” Cleo said, “and if I am disgusted, I can't help it, it's an emotion we can all feel. What disgusts you? Why don't you listen to that little voice of repulsion? Just maybe, it's there for a reason. So, tell me Detective Chief Inspector, what makes your skin crawl? What makes you scared of the dark? What is repellent to you? Then ask yourself, do you watch that very thing in movies? Do you enjoy watching it? Why? Be honest with yourself and I guarantee you won't like the answer, whatever it is.  If I saw Adam in trouble I just don't know if I'd help. I imagined him dangling from a high-rise tower and the only thing between him and certain death was my outstretched hand. He was my life. He made me miserable, stealing every ounce of purity from my soul. Then he cast me off like a worn-out shoe. I don't think there is forgiveness in my soul for how he used me. He knew what he was doing, he rode that demon dragon inside me to new highs of cruelty and loved it. The more I dwell on it the more I see him falling to the cracked pavement below.”

I thought it was about time we followed a different line of enquiry.  “Miss Mabbott, I understand you knew your father was being blackmailed.”

She looked at me with a mixture of admiration and perplexed.  Admiration because we had discovered that she knew about the blackmail.  Perplexity in how we had found out.

“What of it?”

There was a level of defensive aggression to all her answers.

“Did you know why he was being blackmailed?”  Shaw pressed.

“Yes,” she nodded, defiantly.  “It was over his relationship with Auntie Wendy.”

“And what did you think about that relationship?”  I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders.  “I can hardly criticize my father with my record now, can I?”

“What was your Aunt Wendy like?”  I asked.

“She could squabble over anything,” Cleo said, “every word over pronounced, slicing rather than tumbling through the dry air. Her love for the human race hadn't gone, it had been distorted into a close mimic of hatred; and just as love endures, so would the wall of bitterness that separated her, growing more thorns every day. She did so much damage when she argued. Every mean thing she'd thought but knew better than to say came flooding out. When she saw hurt in her opponents’ eyes, she never backed off, only dug deeper, like a hunter at the first sign of blood. So, when she started flirting with Dad, I held my breath, he was simply too vulnerable to withstand her heat.”

“And how did you feel when you’d heard that she hadn’t gone back to Australia after all, but had in fact been murdered?”

“Empty,” she said, diverting her eyes away from me.  “But I have felt empty for a long time.  This house and family do that to you. The emptiness is always there; I consider myself decent at hiding it, masking it with normal human emotions. No one is going to ask me why I'm smiling. It hides everywhere, this emptiness, in the wardrobe, the cupboards. There isn't any getting away from it. My nightmares seem to help fill it, with what I don't care to elaborate. They remind me of my childhood, like the emptiness is the monster under the bed. I'm so scared of it, but I need it. I need to feel something. I need something to go wrong, something to be imperfect. I think, sadly, I feel safer when something is wrong. I need that monster under the bed. I need it to distract myself, from not everything else but, simply, from myself. Don't worry, monster, there is another one sleeping right above you.”

I sat forward in my chair, resting my elbows on my legs, and clasping my hands together.  “Being empty is not really being empty. It's because happiness is a pleasing weight that sits on you more often than not, like how air pressure sits on you, and you just don't notice it. But when you are sad that weight drops off giving the illusion you are weightless or empty. But you are never really empty... you're just full of the wrong thing.”

She shifted her eyes downward, thick black lashes brushing the apples of her high cheeks. Her eyelashes were, overhead piercing ice blue eyes and framing them in such a way that could be considered seductive.

“That’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me,” she said, endearingly.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” I said, apologetically.

“You haven’t.”

Shaw cleared his throat.  “Can we get back to the questioning?”

“Sorry.”

“Now, Miss Mabbott,” Shaw began.  “Where were you when your father died?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. Words had left her.

I stared into those bright blue eyes frozen with fear.

“Well, Miss Mabbott?” Shaw persisted.

But she couldn’t will her lips to move. As if stuck underwater, everything was slow and warbled as Shaw pressed for an answer.

“Do you have nothing to say?” he demanded.

But her mind was blank and her eyes wide as she stared at him in horror. Her eyes desperately searched mine for help… waiting.

I had to say something! I searched my mind for something reasonable to say, but to my surprise my heart answered for me, “Answer the Detective Chief Inspector, Cleo.”

Her face fell faster than a corpse in cement boots. In that instant her skin became greyed, her mouth hung with lips slightly parted and her eyes were as wide as they could stretch.

Her shoulders hunched together like she was trying to disappear inside herself. Even her blue eyes seemed to be attempting to retreat inside her head. She was as startled like a deer in the woods.  She brushed imaginary dirt from her naked shoulder and let her face fall even further with more gravity again.

“Who are you protecting, Cleo?”  I pressed.

“No one.”

“Then tell us where you were?”

“I’d been out.”

“Where?”

“In town with some friends.”

I noticed Shaw makes a mental note of that answer.  More people to interview.

“What time did you get home?” I continued.

“About twelve-thirty.”

“Did someone drop you off?”

“Yes.  Julie.  Julie Sevede.”

“Were there lights on in the house?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Think back, Miss Mabbott,” Shaw interrupted.  “It could be important.”

“Put yourself outside the house again, Cleo.”  I said.  “It’s late.  You’re tired.  You’ve had a lot to drink.  You enter the house.  What do you see?”

Cleo shut her eyes, trying to kick-start her memory.

“A light was on in the hall.”  She opened her eyes.

“Is that unusual?”

“Mummy normally leaves the light on when I’m out.”

“Okay, you’re inside the house.  What next?”

“I looked on the phone table to see if there were many messages on the answering machine or letters for me.  Mummy sometimes left me a note.”

“What about this time?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“There was a light on at the top of the stairs.”

“What about downstairs?”

“The TV was on.”

“Did you check on who was watching it?”

“No.  I was tired.”

“So, you went upstairs.  What did you hear when you got to the landing?”

“An argument,” fear flooded her eyes, “from Father’s study.”

“Between whom?”

“Between Father and Adam.”

“What were they arguing about?”

“I don’t know.  I tried to listen, but I couldn’t hear clearly.”

“What did you do?”

“I went to my bedroom.”

“Did you hear anything else?”

“Adam coming out of the study with Father shouting after him.”

“Did you hear what he said?”

“No.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes!  Yes!  Yes!”

Suddenly, Cleo was on her feet, trying to run out of the pool area.  I caught her before she took any more steps, wrapping her arms around her, lifting her easily.  She fought in my arms, her legs pumping.  Mucus streamed from her mouth and her nose.

“It’s okay, Cleo.  You’re safe.  You’re with me.”

Slowly the fear evaporated.  It was like watching an inflatable-pool spring a leak and then sag into a crumpled puddle of plastic.  I put her back on her chair and she curled her knees to her chest, closing her eyes.  Spent.  Raw.

It had been a tough interview, but Cleo couldn’t tell us anything more.  Her emotions couldn’t be detached from her memories.  We risked traumatizing her forever if we kept pushing.

That didn’t matter.  I now knew enough for DCI Shaw to charge the suspects with murder.