Bengeo Street, with new parents who’ve changed her name and won’t let her birth family anywhere near her. If I was Helen or Paul Yardley in that situation – someone stole my kid and, to add insult to injury, the law was on their side – I might get myself a shooter. If I’d had to stand in court and watch helplessly as my wife got two life sentences for crimes I was sure she hadn’t committed—’
‘You’ve made your point,’ said Proust.
‘I’ve made part of my point, and I’ll make the rest of it now: Helen Yardley spent nine years behind bars. If she wasn’t guilty, revenge might have been on her mind once she got out. And even if—’
‘Enough!’
Simon ducked as something flew past his head. Proust’s ‘World’s Greatest Grandad’ mug hit the corner of the filing cabinet and smashed. Sam bent to pick up the pieces. ‘Leavethat!’ the Snowman bellowed. ‘Open the top drawer of the cabinet. There are two copies of Helen Yardley’s book in there. Take one for yourself and give one to Waterhouse.’
The only way Simon could keep his mouth shut was by vowing to do what he should have done years ago and put in an official complaint. He’d do it first thing tomorrow morning. Proust would come back at him with counter-accusations of disrespect, sarcasm, disobedience.
True, true, true
. No one would speak up for Simon apart from Charlie, and she’d only do it because of her personal feelings for him, not because she would disagree with Proust’s portrayal of him as every line manager’s nightmare.
Sam handed him a copy of
Nothing But Love
by Helen Yardley and Gaynor Mundy. Simon had interviewed Mundy earlier today. She’d told him Helen had written most of the book herself and been a dream to work with. The cover was white, with a picture of a pair of knitted baby bootees at its centre. Curls of yellow paper protruded from the sides of several pages: Post-it strips. Simon glanced at Sam’s copy and saw that it was the same.
‘Let’s start again,’ said the Snowman, loading each word with a hefty dollop of patience in the face of provocation.
Not asking for another chance; bestowing one with self-conscious generosity
. ‘I called the two of you in here because you’re my best detectives – personality disorders notwithstanding, Waterhouse. I need to know that I can count on you.’
‘You can, sir,’ said Sam.
‘Count on us to do what?’ Simon asked. He could only occasionally manage a ‘sir’. Less and less often these days.
‘I want you both to read that book,’ said Proust. ‘I’ve read it, and I don’t think there’s anything in it that adds to whatwe know already, but you might spot something I missed. The sections I’ve marked are the parts where I’m mentioned by name. I arrested Helen Yardley three days after the death of her second child, and charged her with the murders of both her children. I gave evidence at her trial. I was a DS at the time. Superintendent Barrow was my DI.’
Not looking at Sam, not reacting at all, took all Simon’s willpower.
‘As far as I’m concerned, nobody working this murder needs to read the book apart from the two of you. At the briefing tomorrow morning, I intend to tell everyone about my . . . involvement. However irrelevant it is to the business at hand, I’d like it to be out in the open.’
Irrelevant? Was he joking? Testing them?
‘I won’t be mentioning the role played by Superintendent Barrow, whose name does not feature in the book.’
Had Barrow told Proust to leave his name out of it? Had the two of them been arguing behind the scenes about what to reveal and what to withhold? The Snowman had never bothered to conceal his hatred for Barrow, but it had blended so seamlessly, over the years, with his antipathy for everyone else he knew that Simon had never questioned it or wondered about its origins.
‘Ordinarily, as I’m sure you’re aware, any officer who charged someone with murder as a DS would not then
‘You’ve made your point,’ said Proust.
‘I’ve made part of my point, and I’ll make the rest of it now: Helen Yardley spent nine years behind bars. If she wasn’t guilty, revenge might have been on her mind once she got out. And even if—’
‘Enough!’
Simon ducked as something flew past his head. Proust’s ‘World’s Greatest Grandad’ mug hit the corner of the filing cabinet and smashed. Sam bent to pick up the pieces. ‘Leavethat!’ the Snowman bellowed. ‘Open the top drawer of the cabinet. There are two copies of Helen Yardley’s book in there. Take one for yourself and give one to Waterhouse.’
The only way Simon could keep his mouth shut was by vowing to do what he should have done years ago and put in an official complaint. He’d do it first thing tomorrow morning. Proust would come back at him with counter-accusations of disrespect, sarcasm, disobedience.
True, true, true
. No one would speak up for Simon apart from Charlie, and she’d only do it because of her personal feelings for him, not because she would disagree with Proust’s portrayal of him as every line manager’s nightmare.
Sam handed him a copy of
Nothing But Love
by Helen Yardley and Gaynor Mundy. Simon had interviewed Mundy earlier today. She’d told him Helen had written most of the book herself and been a dream to work with. The cover was white, with a picture of a pair of knitted baby bootees at its centre. Curls of yellow paper protruded from the sides of several pages: Post-it strips. Simon glanced at Sam’s copy and saw that it was the same.
‘Let’s start again,’ said the Snowman, loading each word with a hefty dollop of patience in the face of provocation.
Not asking for another chance; bestowing one with self-conscious generosity
. ‘I called the two of you in here because you’re my best detectives – personality disorders notwithstanding, Waterhouse. I need to know that I can count on you.’
‘You can, sir,’ said Sam.
‘Count on us to do what?’ Simon asked. He could only occasionally manage a ‘sir’. Less and less often these days.
‘I want you both to read that book,’ said Proust. ‘I’ve read it, and I don’t think there’s anything in it that adds to whatwe know already, but you might spot something I missed. The sections I’ve marked are the parts where I’m mentioned by name. I arrested Helen Yardley three days after the death of her second child, and charged her with the murders of both her children. I gave evidence at her trial. I was a DS at the time. Superintendent Barrow was my DI.’
Not looking at Sam, not reacting at all, took all Simon’s willpower.
‘As far as I’m concerned, nobody working this murder needs to read the book apart from the two of you. At the briefing tomorrow morning, I intend to tell everyone about my . . . involvement. However irrelevant it is to the business at hand, I’d like it to be out in the open.’
Irrelevant? Was he joking? Testing them?
‘I won’t be mentioning the role played by Superintendent Barrow, whose name does not feature in the book.’
Had Barrow told Proust to leave his name out of it? Had the two of them been arguing behind the scenes about what to reveal and what to withhold? The Snowman had never bothered to conceal his hatred for Barrow, but it had blended so seamlessly, over the years, with his antipathy for everyone else he knew that Simon had never questioned it or wondered about its origins.
‘Ordinarily, as I’m sure you’re aware, any officer who charged someone with murder as a DS would not then
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