however, he hurriedly said he had to leave for home. When she suggested she meet him there he claimed to be on his way to a pressing engagement. No problem, she would catch him in the morning. But she would talk to him. It was important.
And he had sighed and, realising she was going nowhere and that it would be best to get it over with as soon as possible, had relented. So there she was.
‘I must say,’ he said, still working on his smile, ‘you’re not what I was expecting.’
‘Really.’ Anni raised an eyebrow. Almost stifled a yawn. ‘Because I’m black?’
He nodded, then realised what Anni must have been thinking. ‘Oh no, not because you’re… because of that. No. Just… when I spoke to you on the phone I got quite a different impression of you.’
‘In what way?’
He tried for a smile. ‘You sounded like a police officer. Now, sitting here, you could pass for a student. That’s all.’
Anni thought of what had happened with Suzanne Perry and was glad she wasn’t. She smiled politely.
He returned it.
He was trying, she thought. To be polite, to be at ease. But he hadn’t offered her tea.
‘Nice painting, by the way.’
The smile became slightly more genuine. ‘Thank you. I like it, something a bit different. Got used to it, really. Forget it’s there until someone points it out to me.’
‘Must have cost a bit to have done.’
A small laugh. ‘Had a friend, aspiring artist. She wanted subjects, models. Cost me nothing.’ He couldn’t hide the pride in his voice. ‘But…’ He waved his hand as if dismissing it. ‘All in the past. A long time ago.’
Anni kept her attention on the wall. She pointed at Superman. ‘What about the guy next to him?’
‘Oh. Him.’ He smiled again, and this time he looked like a university teacher about to address a class. ‘What do you think he sounds like?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Superman. His voice. What do you think he sounds like? Timid? Shy? Does he stutter?’
‘I doubt it,’ Anni said, wondering where this was leading, ‘Authoritative. In command. That kind of thing. American.’
He nodded. ‘And Clark Kent?’
‘What?’
‘His alter ego. Clark Kent. How does he talk?’
‘Erm…’ Anni had never given the matter much thought. ‘Like… a normal bloke?’
Anthony Howe nodded, as if she had just confirmed a thesis he had personally created. ‘Exactly. If he spoke like Superman he would never fit in, would he? Not at the
‘No.’
Anthony Howe sat back, folded his arms. Thesis proven. ‘We change. We don’t have just one voice. We have several. Depending where we are, who we’re talking to at the time, how we want to be seen, to come across. Different voices for different situations.’ A smug smile. ‘One of the first things I teach my students. If you’re going to be a speech therapist, find out which voice – which persona – the patient needs to use most.’
She couldn’t resist the next line. His arrogant statement set him up for it.
‘And which persona did you use with Suzanne Perry?’
His expression – his demeanour – changed. The set of his mouth hardened. His eyes narrowed, were lit by a dark, ugly light. He moved his body towards her.
And in that moment, Anni wasn’t so ready to believe that Suzanne had been making it all up.
18
The death knock. The bit Phil hated most.
It made him think of his own parents, Don and Eileen. What it would be like if one of his colleagues turned up on their doorstep with news of him. And now, of course, there was Marina. And their daughter Josephina.
Everything had changed when she was born. He had been there at the birth, holding Marina’s hand as she screamed the baby out. Afterwards, he kept trying to understand the conflicting emotions he had gone through. It was a polarising experience. On the one hand there was his child, his daughter, coming into the world. Joyful, yes, but also terrifying. Another life. A huge responsibility. And there was Marina. Screaming out, her body twisted with pain. And the blood… he hadn’t expected there to be so much blood. It came gushing out of her, the weight of it pooling in the sheet underneath her. He had hated to see her suffering, and also hated the fact that he was helpless to do anything about it. But then there was the baby… And she more than made up for it.
But it was the responsibility that hit him most. A parent. A father. He had noticed himself do different things. Not take chances at red lights. Drive more carefully. Look both ways before crossing the road. Cut down his alcohol and takeaway food intake. Start running again. Because it wasn’t just him any more, or him and Marina. It was their daughter, and he had to be there for her. Because if something happened to him or Marina, Josephina might end up having the kind of upbringing he had. And he didn’t wish that on anyone.
Phil stood on the doorstep, hesitated. Rose Martin was beside him, along with Cheryl Bland, the Family Liaison Officer. She was a small, blonde woman, mid- to late twenties, Phil guessed, but difficult to place with any accuracy as she looked even younger. Soft eyes. Phil imagined that was a bonus in her area of work.
His Audi was parked in the gravel driveway. The house was detached, the plasterwork decorative, all fleur-de- lis and faux-heraldic roses. Pots of flowers lined the drive like herbaceous sentries. Twin potted bay trees flanked the heavy wooden front door.
‘What can we expect, then?’ he asked Cheryl.
‘They’re a nice couple. Decent. He might get a bit angry, wanting action, she’ll talk. About Julie.’
Phil nodded. Thought once more of Eileen and Don. ‘Any brothers or sisters?’
‘One brother. Works out in the Middle East. Supertankers, something like that.’ Cheryl smiled. ‘She did tell me.’
‘And their names?’
‘Colin and Brenda.’
Phil thanked her, rang the bell. Waited.
A woman opened it, middle-aged and in good shape, but tired looking. She looked at Phil, then Rose, hope rising in her eyes. Then she saw Cheryl Bland and the hope died.
‘Mrs Miller?’ Phil said. ‘Brenda?’
She nodded. Her mouth moved but no words emerged.
‘Can we come in?’
‘What’s happened? What have you got to tell me?’ She clung on to the edge of the door, her knuckles white.
‘I think it’s better if we come in.’ Cheryl moved forward, placed her hand on Brenda Miller’s arm.
She jerked the door backwards, stood aside, her breathing increasing.
They went in, Phil and Rose first, to the living room. Cheryl Bland, her hand still on Brenda Miller’s arm, steered her to the sofa. Cheryl sat, Brenda refused, staying standing. She looked at Rose and Phil as if only registering them now.
‘Who…’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Brennan and this is Detective Sergeant Martin.’
‘I know you,’ Brenda said. ‘You’re the one who was in charge of the…’ Her mouth hung open. ‘Oh God… you’ve… oh God…’
The three police officers shared a look between each other. Phil nodded. He would take it.
‘Mrs Miller… Brenda… I’ve got something to tell you.’
Brenda Miller’s breathing increased, her chest rising and falling, her hand to her neck.
‘We’ve discovered a body.’
