The Widow (37 page)

I wanted to blot it out and stood under the shower, letting the water drum on my head and fill my ears. But nothing could stop me thinking.

I went down to him in the kitchen and told him we were going to find her. Glen looked at me blankly and said, ‘Jeanie, I left her nearly four years ago.' But I wasn't taking no for an answer.

‘We have to,' I said.

We get in our car and go looking for Bella. I make sure we're not being watched as we come out, but the press don't live in our street any more. I've already decided that if we see one of the neighbours, we'll say we're going shopping at Bluewater.

The traffic is heavy and we don't speak as we follow the signs for the M25.

We follow the route Glen must have taken that day from Winchester to Southampton and then on. The country roads he took with Bella in the back of his van. I imagine her sitting happily on the floor of the van with a fistful of sweeties and I hold on to that image for grim death. I know it wasn't like that, really, but I can't think about that yet.

Glen is pale and sweaty at the wheel.

‘This is bloody stupid, Jean,' he says. But I know he wants to go back to that day. To what happened. And I'm letting him do this because I want Bella.

About two hours after we've left home, he says, ‘It was here.' It doesn't look any different from dozens of clumps of trees we've passed, but he pulls over.

‘How can you be sure?' I ask.

‘I made a mark on the fence,' he says. And there it is. A faded smear of car oil on a fence post.

He meant to come back, I think, then push the thought aside.

Glen drives the van off the road so it can't be seen. He must've done the same thing that day. Then we sit in silence. It's me who makes the first move.

‘Come on,' I say. And he undoes his seat belt. His face has gone blank again, like it did that day in the hall. He doesn't look like Glen now, but I'm not frightened. He's shaking, but I don't touch him. When we get out, he leads me to a tree near the edge and points at the ground.

‘Here,' he says. ‘This is where I put her.'

‘Liar,' I say and he looks startled. ‘Where?' I demand, my voice sounding like a shriek, scaring us both.

He leads me deeper into the trees and then stops. I can see nothing to show anyone was here before, but I think he's telling the truth this time. ‘I put her down here,' he says and stumbles to his knees. I squat down beside him under the tree and make him tell me all over again.

‘She put her arms up to me. She was beautiful, Jeanie, and I just leaned over the wall and took her and put her in the van. When we stopped, I held her really close and stroked her hair. She liked it at first. Laughed. And I kissed her cheek. I gave her a sweet and she loved it. Then she went to sleep.'

‘She was dead, Glen. Not asleep. Bella was dead,' I say and he starts to sob.

‘I don't know why she died,' he says. ‘I didn't kill her. I would know if I had, wouldn't I?'

‘Yes, you would,' I say. ‘You do.'

All I can hear is his sobbing, but I think he's crying for himself, not the child he murdered.

He says, ‘Perhaps I held her too tight. I didn't mean to. It was like a dream, Jeanie. Then I covered her up with the sleeping bag and branches and things to keep her safe.'

I can see a shred of faded blue material, caught in the roots of the tree. We're kneeling beside Bella's grave and I stroke the ground, soothing her, letting her know she's safe now.

‘It's all right, my baby,' I say, and for a second, Glen thinks I mean him.

I get up and walk back to the car and leave him to make his own way. He's left it unlocked, and when I get in I fiddle with the GPS and make this place Home. I'm not sure why, but it feels right. Glen appears and we drive back without speaking. I look out of the window at the countryside changing into suburbs and plan for my future.

Glen had done something terrible but I could care for Bella, look after her and love her. I could be her forever mummy.

And, last night, I decided that I'd get up early and go. It'd be dark still, so no one would see me leave. I didn't sleep while I waited to go. I was scared – scared of driving on the motorway – Glen always drove when we went on long journeys. His department. But I made myself do it. For her.

I stopped at the services because I wanted to buy some flowers to take with me. Some little pink rosebuds for her. She would like those. Small and pink and pretty like her. And some lilies for her grave. I wasn't sure if I was going to leave them there. Perhaps I'd bring them home again so I could look at them with her. I bought some sweets for Bella, too. I chose Skittles and then I realized in the car that that was what Glen had chosen. I threw them out of the window.

The GPS took me straight there. ‘You've reached your destination,' it said. And I had. Home, it said on the screen. I slowed down a bit to let the car behind overtake me and then turned into the track. It was getting light by then but was still early so no one else was around. I walked into the trees and looked for Bella. I'd left the yellow cloth Glen used to clean the windscreen wedged beside the blue material under the tree root where he'd left her and I hoped it would still be there. The wood wasn't very big and I'd brought a little torch in case. It didn't take very long to find it. The cloth was there, a bit soggy from the rain.

I'd planned what I'd do in my head. I'd say a prayer and then talk to Bella, but in the end I just wanted to sit and be near her. I spread my coat out and sat down beside her and showed her the flowers. I don't know how long I'd been there when I heard him. I knew it would be him who found me. Destiny, my mum would say.

He was so gentle when he spoke to me. When he asked me why I was there. We both knew, of course, but he needed me to say it. Needed it so badly. So I told him. ‘I've come to see our baby girl.' He thought I meant Glen's and my baby girl, but Bella is Bob's and mine, really. He loves her as much as I do. Glen never loved her. He just wanted her and took her.

We sat for a bit, not talking, then Bob told me the real story. The story Glen couldn't tell me. He told me how Glen had found Bella online and hunted her down. How the police had watched a film of him following her and Dawn from nursery four days before he kidnapped her. How he had planned the whole thing.

‘He said he did it for me,' I said.

‘He did it for himself, Jean.'

‘He said I made him do it because I needed a baby so much. It was my fault. He did it because he loved me.'

Bob looked at me hard and said slowly, ‘Glen took her for himself, Jean. No one else was to blame. Not Dawn, not you.'

I felt like I was underwater and couldn't hear or see anything clearly. I felt like I was drowning. It felt like we had been there for hours when Bob helped me up and put my coat round my shoulders and took my hand to lead me away. I turned back and whispered, ‘Goodbye, darling,' then we walked towards the blue lights flashing through the trees.

I saw the funeral pictures on the television. A little white coffin with pink rosebuds on the lid. Hundreds of people went from all over the country, but I couldn't. Dawn got an injunction to stop me. We made an application to the court, but the judge agreed with the psychiatrist that it would be too much for me.

I was still there, though.

Bella knew I was there, and that's all that matters.

Sister Ursula IBVM, for turning on the light.

And those who helped replace the bulb: my parents, David and Jeanne Thurlow; my sister, Jo West; and Rachael Bletchly, Carol Maloney, Jennifer Sherwood, Wendy Turner, Rick Lee and Jane McGuinn.

The experts: former DCI Colin Sutton, for putting me right on police matters, and John Carr, the fount of all knowledge on online child safety.

My wonderful agent, Madeleine Milburn; editors Danielle Perez and Frankie Gray, and all at Transworld and NAL/Penguin Random House for their encouragement, patience and determination to put
The Widow
on the page.

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First published in Great Britain by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Fiona Barton 2016

Fiona Barton has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473526860
ISBNs 9780593076217 (hb)
9780593076224 (tpb)

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