The Widow Read Free Page B

who did her occasional facials.
    In the kitchen on her own, she idly read the notes and magnets on the fridge while she waited for the kettle to boil. Shopping lists and holiday souvenirs; nothing much for her here. A photo of the Taylors taken in a beach restaurant showed the couple smiling and raising their glasses to the camera. Glen Taylor, all tousled dark hair and holiday smile, and Jean, dark blonde hair done for the occasion and tucked neatly behind her ears, going-out make-up slightly smudged by the heat, and that sideways glance at her husband.
    Adoring or in awe? Kate wondered.
    The last couple of years had clearly taken their toll on the woman in the photo. Jean was sitting waiting for her in cargo pants, baggy T-shirt and cardigan, her hair escaping from a stubby ponytail. Steve was always teasing her about how she noticed the little things, but it was part of the job. ‘I’m a trained observer,’ she’d joked and delighted in pointing out tiny, telling details. She’d immediately spotted Jean’s rough and cracked hands – hairdresser’s hands, she’d thought to herself – and the skin around the nails, frayed from nervous chewing.
    The lines around the widow’s eyes told their own story.
    Kate took her phone out and photographed the holiday snap. She noted that everything in the kitchen was immaculate – nothing like her own, where her teenage sons would, no doubt, have left a trail of detritus from their abandoned breakfast – stained coffee mugs, souring milk, half-eaten toast, a lidless jar of jam with a knife sticking out of it. And the obligatory filthy football kit festering on the floor.
    The kettle – and thoughts of home – clicked off and she made the tea and carried the mugs through on a tray.
    Jean was staring into space, her teeth working on her thumb.
    â€˜That’s better,’ Kate said, plonking herself down. ‘Sorry about that. Now, where were we?’
    She had to admit, she was beginning to worry. She’d spent nearly an hour with Jean Taylor and had a notebook full of bits and pieces about her childhood and early married life. But that was all. Every time she edged a bit closer to the story, Jean would change the subject to something safe. They’d had a long discussion at one point about the challenges of bringing up kids, and then there had been a brief interlude when Kate had finally taken one of the insistent calls from the office.
    Terry was beside himself when he heard where Kate was. ‘Brilliant!’ he yelled down the phone. ‘Well done. What’s she saying? When can you file?’
    Under Jean Taylor’s watchful eyes, Kate muttered, ‘Hang on a minute, Terry. The reception isn’t very good here,’ and slipped into the back garden, signalling mock irritation to Jean with a weary shake of her head.
    â€˜For God’s sake, Terry, I was sitting next to her. I can’t talk now,’ she hissed. ‘It’s a bit slow, to be honest, but I think she’s beginning to trust me. Let me get on with it.’
    â€˜Have you got her under contract yet?’ Terry asked. ‘Get her under contract and then we can take our time getting the full works.’
    â€˜I don’t want to scare her off by pushing things, Terry. I’ll do my level best. Speak later.’
    Kate pressed the Off button on the phone with feeling and considered her next move. Maybe she just needed to mention the money straight away. She’d done the tea and sympathy and now she had to stop dancing round the edge.
    After all, Jean might be hard up now her husband was dead.
    He wasn’t there to provide for her any more. Or to stop her talking.

Chapter 4
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
The Widow
    S HE’S STILL HERE , an hour later. Before today, I’d have asked her to go. I’ve never had a problem before telling the press people to get lost when they knock. Easy when they are so rude.