“You spoke to him last night?” demands Jake. “Why?”
I don’t answer his question but press on. “Secondly, the money he has, that came from our bank account—there’s nothing suspicious about that. I gifted it to him.”
“You gifted 2.976 million pounds to your friend?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you give it to him?”
“It was his share.”
“What do you mean?”
I squirm uncomfortably. Jake throws me a complex look: anger, warning, anguish? I answer carefully, hoping he’ll understand. “If the lottery numbers had come up a week before they did, my friends would each have been entitled to a share of the win. Each couple would have got just under six million pounds or each individual would have got 2.976 million pounds.”
“Of course that didn’t happen, on account of them dropping out of the syndicate,” adds Jake.
“What has any of this got to do with Toma Albu?” asks DI Owens.
“I gave him Patrick Pearson’s share.”
“Why?”
“Because Patrick Pearson murdered Toma’s wife and son.”
CHAPTER 47
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
Reveka carefully handed Benke the glittery star that they had made together earlier that afternoon. Then she hoisted him onto her hip. He was getting heavier, but still fitted quite comfortably into the side of her body, like two jigsaw pieces snapping together. Benke hooked one chubby toddler arm behind her neck and then confidently lunged forward toward the tree, excited to be placing the final ornament, trusting she would hold him steady, keep him safe. He propped the star up against a branch, but couldn’t manage to secure it in place with the ribbon. He turned to his mother, eyes wide and gleaming with pride and excitement. She kissed his face enthusiastically, breathing him in. The star was fashioned from tinfoil and cardboard from a cereal box, things they had in the house. Reveka had bought glitter glue, which Benke had joyfully and inexpertly smeared everywhere: the star, the tiny kitchen table, his clothes. There was more glitter on his hands than on the decoration, and that had delighted him. He clapped and repeatedly yelled, “Me have kissmas magic, me have kissmas magic.”
“You have indeed!” laughed Reveka. She gently lowered Benke down to the floor. They both took a step back to admire their handiwork. “Beautiful!” she enthused. Reveka had brought about half a dozen Christmas ornaments with her from home. Benke had been besotted with the jewel-colored glass trinkets. He’d teetered on the verge of a tantrum when she wouldn’t allow him to handle them. The tantrum had only been diverted because she persuaded him that he could instruct her as to exactly where they ought to go, that he was in control overall. All six decorations were currently huddled at Benke’s eye level, and the rest of the tree looked a little Spartan. She’d rearrange them tonight, spread them about a little, after he was in bed. Reveka had bought colored Christmas lights from the pound shop. They cost two pounds, not one, but still. She knew a lot of people only ever bought white twinkling lights, but Reveka liked color. She’d also bought tinsel. Five streamers, all different colors, they filled up the tree nicely. It looked wonderful. Reveka loved the pound shop. She had once watched an old film called Breakfast at Tiffany’s. The beautiful actress was supposed to be poor and she felt happiest, safest, at the jewel shop Tiffany’s. Reveka didn’t think the actress seemed very poor. Although she was very thin, she was beautiful thin, not penniless thin. Still, Reveka understood the film, liked it even. The pound shop was her Tiffany’s. Tonight, when Benke was in bed, she would wrap up his Christmas presents in the paper she had bought there. It had cheerful little reindeers on it. She’d taken ages deciding which wrapping was the most perfect. She had not bought ribbons. Ribbons were lovely, but even at Christmas Reveka had to make choices and she didn’t need to spend the extra pound.
She drew the bath, tested the temperature and lowered her chattering son into the warm water. It was always the same; a busy, full day did not make him tired, just more excitable, more buoyant. He babbled on nonsensically, happy in his make-believe world where an empty washing-up liquid bottle passed as a rocket, a rocket that could whoosh to the sky and land on a star.
“Do you think you might want to be an astronaut when you grow up, Benke?” Reveka asked her son, knowing perfectly well that he had no idea what an astronaut was. He nodded enthusiastically. “Or maybe an engineer?” He nodded again, compliant. Happy to see his mother smile. “You can be anything and everything you want to be, Benke,” Reveka whispered. The emotion caught in her voice. She believed this, but she also believed that the more often she said it, the truer it was. “This is why we are here, Benke. For the education. For the chances. You can be anything and everything.”
And for the first time in a long time, it seemed possible that this was true. Now the flat was usually warm. Thank God the landlord had finally had the boiler fixed. For the first two years of Benke’s life, the only heating they’d had was from one small electric fire that they moved from room to room, depending where the baby was sleeping. It was expensive to heat a flat, even one this compact, with an electric fire. Every time the orange bars glowed Reveka was torn, partially relieved that the icy air would thaw, mostly anxious about the money they were burning. More often she would put on another layer, another jumper, a second pair of tights under her trousers. During last winter the baby wore so many layers he looked like a little boiled egg! She put the fire on when they were all at home; when it was just her and the baby, she tried
