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Authors: Simon Hall
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worry about that later. Sometimes it was better to win one battle at a time.
Claire sat down on the same dining chair Adam had the night before and felt no more welcome. Detective Constable Jack Roffey stood beside her, notebook in hand. Yvonne Freedman and Alex sat side by side on the sofa. Both had their hands folded in their laps, just like they were preparing to face a firing squad.
‘I’m sorry to bother you again, but I know you’ll appreciate we have to ask certain questions,’ Claire began. They both nodded, but didn’t speak. ‘It’s important I get a full picture of Mr Freedman’s movements and behaviour in recent days.’
They nodded again in unison, the movement dislodging a tear from Mrs Freedman’s eye. She was wearing a black skirt and jacket, patent black shoes and a white blouse. Alex wore jeans and a T-shirt. She had to split the two of them up, Claire thought, couldn’t ask the important questions with Mum here.
She tried to put on a sympathetic smile and began. ‘Was there anything at all you found unusual in Mr Freedman’s behaviour in recent days?’
Yvonne shook her head again, another tear rolling down her cheek, chasing the first towards her chin. Alex managed a low ‘No.’
‘Was he spending a lot of time away? Working?’
Alex jumped up from the sofa. ‘Jesus, I told you that last night. He was always bloody working. That was all he did.’
She stalked out of the living room, slamming the door behind her. An expensive looking blue vase rattled on the mantelpiece. Jack made to follow, but Claire held out an arm to stop him. Her limited experience of teenagers suggested being followed was exactly what was wanted, and all that was required to justify another outburst against adult persecution. Let her calm a while.
‘Mrs Freedman?’ Claire asked. ‘Was there anything unusual about your husband lately?’
‘No,’ said the woman softly, dabbing at her face with a handkerchief. ‘It was a complete shock. Everything was normal. Our lives were all normal until …’
Her voice tailed off, but her mouth remained half open, glossed lips quivering. Claire sensed she wanted to say something else.
‘Go on,’ she prompted gently.
‘Until he started with all the party thing – the politics.’
Her cheeks coloured, the anger starting to show through the pain, the words coming more easily now. ‘Climbing the greasy bloody pole! He got caught up in it. That was when we lost him. When all these toadies told him how talented he was – how far he could go. When he started to think he could be prime-bloody-minister! We stopped being his family … started just becoming the decorations a bloody MP needs to help in his career!’
Claire hid her surprise, raised a calming hand, but the tirade hadn’t finished. Nowhere close. Yvonne Freedman’s face creased with lines of misery and anger.
‘Do you know what happens to wives and daughters of so-called special men? We’re not people in our own right any more. I stopped being Yvonne and started being “Will Freedman’s Wife”. And Alex – well, it was the same for her. “That MP’s daughter” they called her. How do you think that feels? So what are we now he’s gone, eh? And left us with the legacy of shagging some teenage – bloody – tart!’
Yvonne buried her head in her hands and began to sob. Claire nodded to Jack to sit with her and walked out into the hallway. From upstairs roared a thumping beat and howling electric guitar. She climbed the stairs and knocked on the vibrating door. There was no answer.
She pushed at the door and it swung open. A pointedly unmade bed, the duvet in a pile, posters of tanned, muscled young men grinning down from the walls. She must be getting old, Claire thought, they looked adolescent. The music was overwhelming, an instant headache. But then, every generation thought that of the anthems of the new young. Her parents had said the same to her. Claire reached across to the stereo and
Claire sat down on the same dining chair Adam had the night before and felt no more welcome. Detective Constable Jack Roffey stood beside her, notebook in hand. Yvonne Freedman and Alex sat side by side on the sofa. Both had their hands folded in their laps, just like they were preparing to face a firing squad.
‘I’m sorry to bother you again, but I know you’ll appreciate we have to ask certain questions,’ Claire began. They both nodded, but didn’t speak. ‘It’s important I get a full picture of Mr Freedman’s movements and behaviour in recent days.’
They nodded again in unison, the movement dislodging a tear from Mrs Freedman’s eye. She was wearing a black skirt and jacket, patent black shoes and a white blouse. Alex wore jeans and a T-shirt. She had to split the two of them up, Claire thought, couldn’t ask the important questions with Mum here.
She tried to put on a sympathetic smile and began. ‘Was there anything at all you found unusual in Mr Freedman’s behaviour in recent days?’
Yvonne shook her head again, another tear rolling down her cheek, chasing the first towards her chin. Alex managed a low ‘No.’
‘Was he spending a lot of time away? Working?’
Alex jumped up from the sofa. ‘Jesus, I told you that last night. He was always bloody working. That was all he did.’
She stalked out of the living room, slamming the door behind her. An expensive looking blue vase rattled on the mantelpiece. Jack made to follow, but Claire held out an arm to stop him. Her limited experience of teenagers suggested being followed was exactly what was wanted, and all that was required to justify another outburst against adult persecution. Let her calm a while.
‘Mrs Freedman?’ Claire asked. ‘Was there anything unusual about your husband lately?’
‘No,’ said the woman softly, dabbing at her face with a handkerchief. ‘It was a complete shock. Everything was normal. Our lives were all normal until …’
Her voice tailed off, but her mouth remained half open, glossed lips quivering. Claire sensed she wanted to say something else.
‘Go on,’ she prompted gently.
‘Until he started with all the party thing – the politics.’
Her cheeks coloured, the anger starting to show through the pain, the words coming more easily now. ‘Climbing the greasy bloody pole! He got caught up in it. That was when we lost him. When all these toadies told him how talented he was – how far he could go. When he started to think he could be prime-bloody-minister! We stopped being his family … started just becoming the decorations a bloody MP needs to help in his career!’
Claire hid her surprise, raised a calming hand, but the tirade hadn’t finished. Nowhere close. Yvonne Freedman’s face creased with lines of misery and anger.
‘Do you know what happens to wives and daughters of so-called special men? We’re not people in our own right any more. I stopped being Yvonne and started being “Will Freedman’s Wife”. And Alex – well, it was the same for her. “That MP’s daughter” they called her. How do you think that feels? So what are we now he’s gone, eh? And left us with the legacy of shagging some teenage – bloody – tart!’
Yvonne buried her head in her hands and began to sob. Claire nodded to Jack to sit with her and walked out into the hallway. From upstairs roared a thumping beat and howling electric guitar. She climbed the stairs and knocked on the vibrating door. There was no answer.
She pushed at the door and it swung open. A pointedly unmade bed, the duvet in a pile, posters of tanned, muscled young men grinning down from the walls. She must be getting old, Claire thought, they looked adolescent. The music was overwhelming, an instant headache. But then, every generation thought that of the anthems of the new young. Her parents had said the same to her. Claire reached across to the stereo and
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