‘When was this?’ I ask.
‘When did he meet her, or when did I find out?’
‘Both.’
‘Twenty eleven. He’d met her early in the year – February, maybe March? He’d been paying her off for months by the time I found out. That was definitely the end of October. I know because he was in hospital again and the boys were trick or treating on the ward. He told me that night – he had to. He’d missed a payment and she was threatening all sorts. That’s when I took over. He didn’t need the stress.’
‘What did she have on him that was so bad?’
‘That was worth killing for?’ adds Steele.
‘The photos, the sex stuff, that was bad enough – S&M stuff, dark S&M . . .’ She shudders, not wanting to go any further. ‘I know for a fact he wasn’t into that sort of thing, but whatever she’d given him, he was out of it. He didn’t know what he was doing and he didn’t remember any of it. Nothing. My guess is she slipped him Rohypnol, maybe GHB. With all the medication he was taking, it’s pure luck she didn’t kill him.’
Her rage is still raw, even six years later.
‘But what was worse was that she told him afterwards – when she was demanding money, laying out the rules – that she was a prostitute. She had a web page and she’d brought it up on his phone while he was comatose and taken photos – proof he’d been looking at her page, I suppose. Then she’d sent texts from his phone to her number, and taken photos of those too – more proof.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘The drugs were the worst bit though, the cocaine. Paul had never taken drugs in his life – he hardly would with his heart issues – but there were a few photos where you could see residue around his nose, wraps of coke in the background, rolled-up notes. I honestly don’t believe he took any; it was staged. But it’s the appearance, isn’t it? He was a chief press officer for the Ministry of Justice. The tabloids would have had a field day. He’d have been sacked, shamed, held up as a hypocrite and a deviant in front of everyone who loved him. There was no way I was risking the boys seeing their father like that. That wasn’t going to be their lasting memory of him.’ That proud tilt of her chin again. ‘And it wasn’t. Paul’s last six months were peaceful, at least, because of me, because of what I did. But more importantly, he died with our boys still believing he was the best man in the world. Preserving that memory for them was all that mattered.’
‘God, you really don’t regret anything,’ I say, appalled but kind of fascinated by her absolute belief that she did the right thing.
‘Oh, I do, Cat. I might not have shed any tears over that two-bit con woman, but I regret dragging Olly into all this, asking him to lie for me. It wasn’t fair.’ She slopes forward, hands tucked between her knees. ‘Mainly though, I regret ever asking Simon to go anywhere near Holly Kemp. He had me over a barrel then, you see – before that, it had been more or less an equal partnership; both of us getting what we want most of the time, both of us saying no to the other very occasionally, if the price felt too high. Worse than that, though, Holly had me over a barrel once she clapped eyes on Simon. She could link me, a senior police officer to him, a serious criminal. I couldn’t believe I’d made such a stupid mistake, but then I’d underestimated her. I honestly didn’t think she’d do her homework on him, but she did, and then she turned around and threatened me with it. Threatened to finish my career too.’
‘So you were protecting yourself, not Paul’s memory, when you killed her?’
‘No,’ she jumps straight in, setting the record straight – her own warped record, anyway. ‘No, I was protecting my sons. They were going to lose their father soon enough. They couldn’t lose me too.
‘And to be quite honest with you, Cat, some people really do deserve to die.’
33
One week later
I’ve visited worse hospitals. I’ve stayed in worse hotel rooms, to be perfectly frank. Even the name itself, The Earl Shilton, calls to mind Egyptian cotton bed sheets, pristine, fluffy bathrobes and extensive room service options, and this medical mecca has all three. You can even request a pedicure, although I don’t want to dwell too much on Oliver Cairns’ feet.
‘Are you going to use these?’ I call from the en suite; aka My Dream Bathroom, complete with enormous heated towel-rail and an overhead shower fitting the size of Wales. ‘Seriously, I’m not joking, this is top-brand stuff.’
Cairns rasps, ‘Knock yourself out,’ and Steele’s in faster than a freight train.
‘Bugger off,’ I say, laughing, quickly scooping the spoils into my bag. ‘You can afford to buy the proper stuff. I’m still at the pay-grade where I have to steal from hospital bathrooms.’
‘Dear God, Katie, love, are you trying to finish me off altogether . . .?’
Cairns’ voice pulls us back into the room. He’s sitting up in bed, a hollow-cheeked stick-man, his skin the same colour as the plump white pillows that are keeping him upright. On his bony lap there’s a carrier bag. He’s not enamoured with the contents.
‘Christ, death can’t come quick enough if this is all I’ve got to look forward to. Have you never heard of crisps or chocolate biscuits?’ He holds a packet up to the light, squinting over the rim of his glasses. ‘What in God’s name is a hemp seed, anyway?’
‘They’re high in iron,’ Steele says.
‘And low on flavour.’ Cairns tosses them back in the bag, throwing me a wink in the process. ‘Would you be a love, Cat, and pass me those Jaffa Cakes. ’T’was far from hemp seeds I was raised, and it’ll be far from hemp seeds that I die.’
For a man supposedly dying, Oliver Cairns is on mighty form this morning. Cracking jokes, demanding biscuits, waxing lyrical about the thickness of the curtains.
‘Hands down, that’s the worst thing about most hospitals: they scrimp on the curtains. You’d think it’d be the food, or the boredom, or well, the bloody sickness every-where you turn, but it isn’t. It’s the fact the sunlight’s streaming in before you’ve even got to the end of your bedtime prayers.’ He points towards the window. ‘Now those, they’re those blackout yokes. You’d swear it was the dead of night at half nine in the morning. They’re worth the cost alone, I’m telling you.’
I don’t want to ask what the cost is, but I really want to ask what the cost is. Steele saves me from my inherent nosiness.
‘Bedtime prayers, eh?’ She sits down on the leather sofa, throwing her arm along the top, brochure-ready. ‘So you’ve found God again?’
‘Never lost him, Katie, love. You don’t have to go to mass every Sunday to have a hotline to the big fella. And, trust me, there’s nothing like facing death to make you hedge your bets.’
She casts him a stern look. ‘Can we dial down the death talk, please? You’re getting your pain managed, Olly, and about time too. But you’ll be back home in no time.’
‘And to what?’ he says, without a shred of self-pity. ‘Sure, I’m better off in here. I’ve company. The mattress is a damn sight better than the one I have at home. And I get to eat . . .’ He turns slowly, very slowly, picking a fancy embossed menu off the nightstand. ‘Cajun-spiced chicken with corn and pumpkin hash, instead of something-on-toast every night. Only benefit of being at home is I can have a smoke without a nurse giving out shite.’