without her knowing, and I believed that by exerting a little press—’
Wilson waved a hand, cutting him off. ‘Yes, Boscombe. And do you feel – just
feel
, mind you – that it’s also entirely possible that she knew nothing about the whole thing?’
‘Well,’ Boscombe said, shifting in his seat, ‘I suppose it’s
possible.
’
‘Yes. In which case it might have been better to think a little more carefully before accusing the poor, bereaved woman of being some kind of crazed sexual deviant. No?’
‘Sir, I was just trying to –’
‘Here’s what you
are
going to do, Boscombe. When forensics are finished with the late Mr Frobisher’s personal effects you’re going to return them to Mrs Frobisher and you’re going to be very, very nice to her so that when she comes out of mourning she doesn’t immediately set about suing us for harassment. With me?’
‘Well, I –’ Wilson stared straight into Boscombe, forcing him to rethink. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said quietly.
‘Excellent. Thank you. You may go, Boscombe.’ Chief Inspector Wilson took a fresh document from his in-tray and began reading.
Boscombe had taken three steps towards the door when a frown crossed his face and he turned back. ‘Sir?’
‘Mmmm?’
‘By “personal effects”, do you mean all the videotapes and photos and whatnot too?’
Wilson spoke without looking up from his reading. ‘Do you think Mrs Frobisher will have much use for a mountain of pornographic material featuring her late husband and a succession of prostitutes, Boscombe?’
‘Umm. No. I expect not, sir.’
A knock at the door.
‘There you are then. Run along now, Boscombe. COME!’
Fucking pompous old wanker, Boscombe thought as the door opened and Sergeant Tarrant entered with a sheaf of paperwork under his arm.
‘Hugh,’ Tarrant said.
‘Bob,’ Boscombe replied, nodding as he left, closing the door behind him.
‘These all need your signature, sir,’ Tarrant said, placing the paperwork in front of Wilson, who began to sign. ‘He’s a piece of work, old Hugh Boscombe, eh, sir?’ Tarrant added, nodding towards the door.
‘That’s one way of putting it, Tarrant,’ Wilson said, signing one form then turning to the next. ‘Another way would be to say he’s a crapulent buffoon with the IQ of a tampon.’
FIFTEEN
THE SAD NOTES of the organist drifted across the crematorium, masking the soft chatter of the mourners. In the front pew Tom and Clare gazed sadly at the polished pine coffin, at the thick purple drapes behind it, which would soon be parting to swallow it up, to commit the remains of Barry J. Frobisher (CA, BSC Hons) to fiery memory. Tom sat doing an unlikely thing for a man at his father’s funeral – struggling to square the image of his safe, dull,
Daily Mail
-reading father with the crazed sex monster he’d been learning about for the past week. A two-foot … Jesus. There was an empty space next to Tom, for his mother who was standing off to the side, greeting faces she had not seen in a long time. Susan smiled as she saw Jill coming towards her. ‘Jill, thanks for coming.’
They embraced. Susan was grateful for Jill being there – she could think of no one less likely to engage with the topic of
how
Barry had died than Jill Worth. Jill, who couldn’t even say ‘shit’. Susan felt … she felt lovely actually. Lovely and warm and kind of floaty.
‘Oh, Susan, I’m so sorry for … goodness. Just everything you’re going through right now.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s all just … horrible.’ She blew her nose. Susan noticed Jill’s eyes were already red from crying.
In truth, being here was costing Jill a great deal more than anyone knew. As she looked around the sad room, her ears full of the music of death, it was such a tiny hop for her imagination to place her here again, in the very near future, in far, far worse circumstances:
the tiny coffin. ‘Jamie was with us for such a short time, and yet he filled our
Wilson waved a hand, cutting him off. ‘Yes, Boscombe. And do you feel – just
feel
, mind you – that it’s also entirely possible that she knew nothing about the whole thing?’
‘Well,’ Boscombe said, shifting in his seat, ‘I suppose it’s
possible.
’
‘Yes. In which case it might have been better to think a little more carefully before accusing the poor, bereaved woman of being some kind of crazed sexual deviant. No?’
‘Sir, I was just trying to –’
‘Here’s what you
are
going to do, Boscombe. When forensics are finished with the late Mr Frobisher’s personal effects you’re going to return them to Mrs Frobisher and you’re going to be very, very nice to her so that when she comes out of mourning she doesn’t immediately set about suing us for harassment. With me?’
‘Well, I –’ Wilson stared straight into Boscombe, forcing him to rethink. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said quietly.
‘Excellent. Thank you. You may go, Boscombe.’ Chief Inspector Wilson took a fresh document from his in-tray and began reading.
Boscombe had taken three steps towards the door when a frown crossed his face and he turned back. ‘Sir?’
‘Mmmm?’
‘By “personal effects”, do you mean all the videotapes and photos and whatnot too?’
Wilson spoke without looking up from his reading. ‘Do you think Mrs Frobisher will have much use for a mountain of pornographic material featuring her late husband and a succession of prostitutes, Boscombe?’
‘Umm. No. I expect not, sir.’
A knock at the door.
‘There you are then. Run along now, Boscombe. COME!’
Fucking pompous old wanker, Boscombe thought as the door opened and Sergeant Tarrant entered with a sheaf of paperwork under his arm.
‘Hugh,’ Tarrant said.
‘Bob,’ Boscombe replied, nodding as he left, closing the door behind him.
‘These all need your signature, sir,’ Tarrant said, placing the paperwork in front of Wilson, who began to sign. ‘He’s a piece of work, old Hugh Boscombe, eh, sir?’ Tarrant added, nodding towards the door.
‘That’s one way of putting it, Tarrant,’ Wilson said, signing one form then turning to the next. ‘Another way would be to say he’s a crapulent buffoon with the IQ of a tampon.’
FIFTEEN
THE SAD NOTES of the organist drifted across the crematorium, masking the soft chatter of the mourners. In the front pew Tom and Clare gazed sadly at the polished pine coffin, at the thick purple drapes behind it, which would soon be parting to swallow it up, to commit the remains of Barry J. Frobisher (CA, BSC Hons) to fiery memory. Tom sat doing an unlikely thing for a man at his father’s funeral – struggling to square the image of his safe, dull,
Daily Mail
-reading father with the crazed sex monster he’d been learning about for the past week. A two-foot … Jesus. There was an empty space next to Tom, for his mother who was standing off to the side, greeting faces she had not seen in a long time. Susan smiled as she saw Jill coming towards her. ‘Jill, thanks for coming.’
They embraced. Susan was grateful for Jill being there – she could think of no one less likely to engage with the topic of
how
Barry had died than Jill Worth. Jill, who couldn’t even say ‘shit’. Susan felt … she felt lovely actually. Lovely and warm and kind of floaty.
‘Oh, Susan, I’m so sorry for … goodness. Just everything you’re going through right now.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s all just … horrible.’ She blew her nose. Susan noticed Jill’s eyes were already red from crying.
In truth, being here was costing Jill a great deal more than anyone knew. As she looked around the sad room, her ears full of the music of death, it was such a tiny hop for her imagination to place her here again, in the very near future, in far, far worse circumstances:
the tiny coffin. ‘Jamie was with us for such a short time, and yet he filled our
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