The Wife and the Widow

by Christian White

  Is that an arse?

  She pulled the kit out into the light and took it back over to her workbench. She unclipped the latch, flipped open the lid, and froze.

  Abby’s first thought was that this kit didn’t have what she needed. Instead of bandages, gauze swabs and stop-itch cream, there was a stack of magazines, facedown. The splash of pink skin on the top back cover gave Abby her second thought: I’ve found Ray’s stash of porn.

  She knew most men got off on pornography and couldn’t fault Ray his urges, but it was a terrible place to keep his magazines: one of the kids could easily have found them.

  She flipped the top magazine over to get a better look at what her husband might be into. Was it cheerleaders, girl-on-girl action, mature women, or—

  ‘Mountain Stud?’

  On the cover, a shirtless blond man stared lustfully back at her. His chest was toned and hairless, his lips pouting. He had one hand behind his head, while the other was unzipping the fly of his jeans.

  Confused, Abby turned each magazine over and spread them out on the bench, a jarring clarity taking hold. Y-Mag, Boyz, Truck Stop, Man O Man. Her mouth opened slowly like a wound, the real wound on her left thumb forgotten and gathering blood. Panic drifted in like smoke as her eyes danced wildly over naked men. Some were flexing for the camera, others were locked in each other’s arms, kissing passionately. On another, four black men with their faces cropped out stood over a young white man, whose hands were pressed together, as if he was begging or praying.

  Later, as she revisited the moment over and over in her mind, she’d think there was something almost laughable about it. She’d picture herself frozen in a strange tableau: a woman in a dark-green apron, a blood-soaked surgical glove wrapped around one hand, the half-skinned corpse of a possum on the work bench, and a copy of Stud-Fucker open before her, a perfect thumbprint of blood in the bottom left-hand corner of the centrefold.

  But now, she wanted to undo the past five minutes of her life. She shoved the magazines back into the first-aid kit, taking no care to put them in the same order as she’d found them. That didn’t matter. She just wanted them gone. She slammed the lid shut, returned the kit to the space between Ray’s bench and the wall, and went inside to find a bandaid.

  13

  THE WIDOW

  ‘This is what we know,’ Detective Eckman said. ‘This morning we got a call from Ben Norbo, who owns the bait stall down on the promenade. He told us he’d found what he thought was an abandoned car at Beech Tree Landing.’

  Kate and Fisher sat across from her, on the other side of a coffee-ringed desk in a back room of the Belport Police Station. There was a small window that gave an obstructed view into a damp concrete lane running between the station and the house next door. It was raining again. It had hardly stopped since they arrived in Belport.

  ‘The car was submerged at the bottom of one of the boat ramps, as if someone parked it at the top, slipped it into neutral and watched it roll in,’ Eckman continued. ‘Ben was launching his Riva Aquarama and nearly tore up the hull before he noticed the car in the water.’

  ‘Riva Aquarama?’ Kate asked.

  ‘A kind of boat,’ she said. ‘At first Ben assumed, as we did, that the car had been dumped by some kids after stealing it and taking it for a joy ride. It happens more than you might think. They hot-wire a car from the mainland, scrape enough money together to bring it over on the ferry and then cut lose. Sometimes they dump it, sometimes they burn it out. We thought that’s what this was.’

  ‘But it wasn’t,’ Fisher said. He had brought a small notepad with him and was taking notes.

  ‘I’m afraid not. A constable was despatched to check it out, and a tow truck was called to get the car out of the water.’ She grimaced. ‘Your husband was discovered in the front seat.’

  Kate felt hot and itchy all of a sudden. She felt alone and unreal. She was, in that moment, an old boat clinging to the side of a pier. The urge to let go and allow herself to drift out to sea was strong. If not for Mia, she just might have.

  ‘The car was a rental, hired in your husband’s name,’ Eckman said. ‘We’re not sure how long it was there before it was discovered, but based on the decomposition, we think at least forty-eight hours.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Kate asked. ‘The alarm company called me last night. Someone tripped the security system. If John was already…’

  Eckman didn’t make her finish that sentence. ‘It’s possible the alarm malfunctioned or was triggered by some curious wildlife, but there’s also a chance that someone else went into the house last night. Crime Scene Services are on their way there now to take a look around. You’ll both need to provide us with your fingerprints before you leave the station today,’ Eckman said.

  Fisher looked up from his notepad. ‘Why? Are we suspects?’

  ‘We just need to compare them to any we might find at the house, that’s all.’

  Fisher scribbled something down in his notepad.

  ‘How did it happen?’ Kate asked. ‘How was John … how was he killed?’

  Fisher glanced at Kate, then waited for Eckman to answer.

  ‘Spending a couple of days under water destroyed a lot of forensic evidence,’ she said flatly. ‘But we know his carotid artery was severed.’

  ‘What does that mean, exactly?’ Kate asked.

  ‘His throat was slit,’ Fisher said. The words sounded sharp and snake-like.

  ‘Yes,’ Eckman agreed. ‘So far we’ve been unable to locate the murder weapon.’

  ‘It wasn’t in the car, with John?’ Fisher asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you searched the surrounding area?’

  ‘We’re in the middle of all that now, but so far we’ve had no luck.’

  Fisher seemed relieved. ‘If the weapon wasn’t with John, there’s no way he could have…’

  ‘Could have what?’

  ‘There’s no way John could have done this to himself.’

  Kate flinched, as if someone had just clapped a pair of meaty hands over her shoulders and screamed, boo!

  ‘Of course not,’ Kate said. ‘Why would you even say that?’

  Fisher said nothing. He just jotted something down in his notepad.

  ‘There were very few signs of a struggle,’ Eckman said. ‘He didn’t even have time to unfasten his seatbelt. So, we believe John knew the person who attacked him. He might have even been lured out there. We’re going through his phone records and emails now. Is there anyone John knew in Belport? Anyone he might have talked to or visited?’

  ‘Not that we know about,’ Kate said. ‘We didn’t even know he had come here.’

  ‘Speaking of that.’ Eckman unzipped a black leather document folder and removed three photos. ‘John arrived on the island two weeks ago, on the day he told you he left for London.’ She placed the first photo on the desk and slid it across for them to see. ‘We pulled this from the ferry’s CCTV. That old boat is in desperate need of a security upgrade, but I think you’ll agree that this is him.’

  The photo was grainy, low quality and showed a high-angle view of the island ferry’s front deck. There was a lot of negative space in the photo – the clean white deck, the steel railing, the ocean beyond – but there was a lone man in the corner of the shot. He was looking out over the water, hands stuffed into the pockets of a heavy parka, overnight bag wedged firmly between his feet. His face was angled slightly towards the camera, as if something to the ferry’s right had caught his attention. A barge ship, maybe, or a pod of dolphins. The man was tall, lean and unmistakably, indisputably, John.

  Kate had never imagined that her husband had been dragged to Belport against his will – locked in the boot of some crazed kidnapper’s car, or at gunpoint in a dingy, crossing the wild waters. But seeing him now, freely making his way to the island, hurt.

  ‘I’ve got a couple of constables trawling through the ferry’s security footage from every day since then, but so far he’s not been
spotted. We assume this was his first and only trip to the island. He paid with cash, and purchased a return ticket for the day after his murder, which tells me he likely intended to come home when he told you he would.’

  The news was comforting, in its own way. It suggested that in another reality, one in which John wasn’t killed, he would have returned home and kept his secret trip hidden from her, maybe forever. She wouldn’t have known, and it wouldn’t have mattered. She would have lived the rest of her life in blissful ignorance. It also confirmed, at least in Kate’s mind, that John hadn’t gone to Belport to kill himself, as Fisher had suspected. Why would anyone buy a return ticket from someplace they knew they wouldn’t be returning from?

  Eckman showed them the second photo.

  ‘This was taken from a camera mounted above the entrance of the Uniting Church on Bay Street,’ she said. ‘They had it installed to catch whoever was letting their dog take its evening dump on their entranceway. It’s mounted on a weird angle but gives a clear view across the street to the car park outside the Buy & Bye.’

  ‘That supermarket’s still there?’ Fisher asked.

  ‘Yeah, it is.’ Kate said. Kate knew the Buy & Bye well. It was quaint and overpriced, with a small toy section that Mia loved to browse. The pair of them would do all the family shopping there during the summer, a good excuse to get out of the house so John could enjoy some quiet reading.

  She leaned forward to look at the picture. It showed an unsealed car park and the brick wall of the church. Beyond that, John could once again be seen. This time he was leaving the supermarket, two stuffed shopping bags in his hands. In this photo, John’s face was directly in line with the camera. His brow didn’t look heavy with worry or etched with concern. His face was blank, his expression unreadable.

  ‘There are no cameras inside the store, but we’re almost certain he only went there twice. The first was the day he arrived, to purchase…’ She paused, reached into the document folder, and produced a photocopied receipt. Reading from it, she continued, ‘Bread, milk, some canned meats and vegetables, some bottled water, extension cord, two power boards, batteries, a wind-up torch and some chocolate.’

  ‘Sounds like he was stocking up,’ Kate said.

  Nodding, Eckman continued. ‘He visited the store again on what we believe is the day he died, where he bought the groceries you found at the house.’

  Fisher, who had helped himself to the third photo Eckman had left on the desk, asked, ‘Who is this man?’

  He passed the picture to Kate. It was of two men standing on a dilapidated old verandah, taken from what must have been a home security camera. The first man in the photo was John. In this one he was smiling, which filled Kate with hot rage. Even in the midst of all his deception, he had the nerve to smile. Smile. His face was suddenly unfamiliar, she realised. Fisher could just as easily have been talking about John when he asked, Who is this man?

  The other man in the picture – the one Fisher was jamming a finger at – was barrel-chested with short, meaty arms. His back was partially to the camera, revealing a prominent bald spot in a nest of thick hair. The men stood on an unkempt lawn scattered with old car parts, a rusted-out barbecue and a couple of overturned oil drums.

  ‘That’s Russ Graves,’ Eckman said. ‘He’s lived on the island all his life and is a bit of a local eccentric. He gets by working odd jobs, buying and selling used goods, stuff like that. When we were looking through John’s emails we found a reply to an ad Russ Graves had run on Gumtree.’

  Fisher scribbled the name Russ Graves into his notepad.

  ‘What was the ad for?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Bug zappers,’ Eckman said.

  ‘At this time of year? Why on earth would John need a bug zapper?’

  ‘Bug zappers,’ Eckman said.

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Russ Graves had eleven bug zappers for sale. John bought them all.’

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ Fisher said. ‘And when something doesn’t make sense it probably isn’t true.’

  Eckman visibly struggled to hide her frustration. ‘I understand, Mr Keddie but please just let’s stay on track here. I wanted to ask you about the mock hotel room John had set up.’

  ‘He set it up to make it look like he was Skyping from London,’ Kate said.

  ‘That’s a lot of trouble to go to, to maintain a lie,’ Eckman said. ‘Why wouldn’t he tell you he was coming to Belport?’

  Kate shook her head. She was getting tired of people asking her that question. Every time she heard it, it felt like she knew John less and less. She reached into her pocket and gripped the notebook with John’s drawings. Eckman would probably need to see it. ‘I don’t know. There’s something else. A couple of things, actually. There was a fresh coat of paint on the living room wall. I don’t know what that means, or if it means anything, but—’

  ‘Yes, I know about the painted wall,’ Eckman said ‘but that’s not really our concern right now, Mrs Keddie. I need to understand this hotel room.’

  Kate paused, then let go of the notebook and placed her hands back in her lap.

  ‘Can we get back to this Graves guy?’ Fisher said. ‘Does he have a record? He has a security camera mounted on his verandah; that’s a red flag right there.’

  Eckman took a deep breath. ‘Mr Graves is still being checked and vetted, but he has an alibi and, so far, it looks pretty solid.’

  ‘Do you have any other suspects?’ Fisher hissed. ‘Any actual evidence? Do you have anything tangible?’

  Eckman hesitated. Her tongue slipped in and out of her mouth twice, like a tortoise peeking nervously from its shell. ‘We’re working on it, Mr Keddie. For what it’s worth. I can promise you that.’

  ‘Right now,’ Fisher said. ‘It’s not worth fucking much.’

  ‘Fisher, please,’ Kate said.

  He shook his head and flipped through his notepad. Kate turned back to Eckman and asked, ‘What’s next?’

  ‘We still have a number of leads to follow up on,’ she said. ‘The advantage of this happening in such a small community is that people tend to notice if anything is unusual. If you’ll excuse the French, we have a saying on the island: you can’t take a shit today without someone smelling it tomorrow.’

  14

  THE WIFE

  The Belly pub, nestled at the corner of Bay and Bramwell streets, glowed warm and orange against the drizzly night. Wrapped in floral green wallpaper, its main lounge was lined with rows of wooden bench seats. The walls were cluttered with framed black-and-white photos of Belport in the 1930s and ’40s. A fire crackled in a large stone fireplace set below a mantelpiece carved from driftwood.

  When Abby got good enough with her taxidermy, the Belly’s owner, Sheila Gosnell, promised to mount her prize piece above that mantelpiece. Sheila had likely envisioned a proud buck with wide, twisting antlers. Abby wondered what she might say if she presented her with Trevor the ringtail.

  Abby and Bobbi sat in a booth by the fire; Abby was on red, Bobbi on white. It was Bobbi’s idea to go out for a drink, but it was Abby who really needed one. She wondered if her best friend had picked up some sort of psychic SOS signal she’d put out after finding what was inside the first-aid kit.

  ‘It’s been too long since we did this,’ Abby said, clinking glasses. ‘I thought you were off drinking – in public, anyway – until Maggie popped that baby out and could join you.’

  ‘I thought I owed you after unloading on you in the car the other night,’ Bobbi said with a shrug. ‘But there’s something I need to talk to you about. What happened to your thumb?’

  Abby looked down at the fresh bandaid she’d wrapped around the neat slice made by the X-Acto knife. After washing off the blood, she’d found only a nick barely wider than a paper cut, but like a paper cut, it hurt like a motherfucker.

  ‘Taxidermy mishap,’ she said. ‘Speaking of, there’s something I need to talk to you about too.’

  Bobbi leaned back
in the booth and rested a hand behind her head. She tipped her glass and said, ‘Ladies first.’

  Abby took a gulp of wine, then started to talk. She told Bobbi about Mountain Stud and the blond man unzipping his jeans. Bobbi listened with her lips tightly drawn, her expression giving nothing away. The only time she spoke was to send away Jim Biggins, a Belly regular who’d wandered drunkenly over to ask Bobbi about the murder. Although, after a few too many Woodstock and Cokes, it came out murra.

  When Jim got the hint and left, and Abby finished her story, Bobbi hunched forward on her elbows and drank. There was something in her eyes that made Abby nervous; it looked as if she was making some sort of complicated calculation. She was silent for a long time, and then said, ‘Shit.’

  ‘Yeah, shit,’ Abby agreed.

  ‘Have you asked him about it?

  ‘I don’t think I’d know how,’ Abby said.

  ‘Okay, well, first up, just because he’s looking at those kinds of magazines doesn’t mean he’s gay. As someone who can speak with authority on this subject, sexuality is not black and white. Why do you think they have all those colours on the rainbow flag?’

  ‘Logically, I know that. Emotionally, I can’t help wondering if he pictures Brad Pitt while he fucks me.’

  Bobbi cracked a smile and sipped her chardonnay. ‘Nah, I reckon Ray’s more of a Richard Gere type.’

  ‘You’re not helping.’

  ‘But you said it yourself, it’s not like you and Ray don’t have sex. Eddie and Lori prove you’ve done it at least twice, and don’t think I’ve forgotten all those late-night sex talks we had at the Buy & Bye. He’s hot for your lady parts, is my point. So if I had to guess, I’d say he might just be a little … curious.’

  A flash of something dark sprang into Abby’s mind like a jump scare in a midnight horror movie. The old ferry terminal was a gay beat. That was the rumour, anyway. Just how curious was Ray? Was he curious enough to—