Free Simeon's Bride by Alison G. Taylor

be done.’ He touched her hand. ‘They’ve gotto sort out their own problems.’
    ‘I know … I know,’ Emma said. ‘But I can’t just leave her in the lurch. She’ll be relying on me.’
    ‘To hold her hand, I suppose,’ Jack observed. ‘And agree that her husband’s a rotten miserable bastard!’
    ‘Please!’ Emma cried. ‘Michael’s been a bit brutal. You can’t deny that.’
    He stood up. ‘I’m going to work, Em. God knows what state McKenna’ll be in,’ he said. ‘And if you want my opinion, I think Denise is up the wall because it wasn’t her decision.’
    ‘What d’you mean?’
    ‘Oh, use your brains, Em. She wanted to leave him , have a big drama,’ Jack said. ‘Be centre stage in the big dramatic role of the wronged wife. He’s really taken the wind out of her sails, hasn’t he? Cut her right down to size …’ he added. ‘Well, she could still have her starring part; all she needs to do is change the words a bit, become the abandoned wife. Serves her right, if you ask me!’
    ‘I wasn’t asking you!’ Emma snapped. ‘You’re getting to be as cruel and nasty as he is!’
    Dewi Prys hunched over the computer in the CID office.
    ‘What’re you doing?’ Jack asked.
    Dewi looked up. ‘Morning, sir. Mr McKenna had one of his brainwaves. He’s like a dog with two tails this morning.’ Dewi grinned. ‘You remember we had the name of a bloke who lived at the address where this Ms Cheney was supposed to be? Well anyway, Mr McKenna’s told me to put that name – it’s Allsopp – through all the missing persons on the list to see if it matches.’
    ‘And does it?’ Jack wondered how McKenna could possibly be in a good mood.
    ‘Dunno yet, but I haven’t been at it long. Keep our fingers crossed, eh, sir?’ He punched more keys, and gazed at the screen. Jack decided to leave him to it.
    ‘Sir!’ Dewi called out. ‘Sir, Mr McKenna said to remind you the Press conference is at half ten.’
    ‘Where is the chief inspector, Prys?’
    ‘Don’t know, sir. He was talking to the superintendent last time I saw him.’
    ‘This is sad news, Michael,’ Owen Griffiths said. ‘Are you sure there’s no other way?’
    ‘No point in prolonging the agony, is there?’
    ‘I suppose not….’ The superintendent sighed. ‘I don’t know, Michael … the number of times I hear of policemen’s marriages going down thedrain, and often, there’s no reason you can lay a finger on.’
    ‘Not much point in looking for reasons,’ McKenna said crisply. ‘These things happen. I told Denise I’d move out as soon as possible.’
    ‘Then why not take the day off to look for somewhere? Jack can deal with the Press. Nothing much to tell them, anyway.’
    Questions, McKenna realized: Jack would ask questions, would want to know why routines were disrupted, set plans thrown to the winds. There would be intrusions into his privacy, and gossip; others would know of this most private thing, and speculate. Denise would talk to her friends and family and Emma Turtle; her family would whisper and make judgements and spread their mischief through the chapel grapevine, and Emma would talk to Jack.
    ‘Michael?’
    ‘Yes, Owen?’
    ‘People are bound to talk. But it’ll be nothing more than a nine days’ wonder…. What’re you going to do about Jack? He’s bound to know from your Denise telling his Emma.’
    McKenna sat on a wooden bench in the Bible Garden, under a huge horse-chestnut tree, its candles still green among brilliant emerald leaves tossing in the wind. Gorgeous weather, blustery and warm, promised enough to lift the dourest of spirits. Waiting to meet an estate agent to view a house to let, he felt light-headed, detached, as if making a decision had taken away an intolerable burden. Still anaesthetized, he knew pain and doubt would come later.
    The garden, laid out, according to the plaque by its wrought-iron gates, ‘For Your Pleasure’ by one Tatham Whitehead, nestled below the