Death of a Butterfly

by Simon Brown

  “In all the time I knew Mathew, he appeared completely normal. This seems so out of character.”

  Pride washed a mouthful of cake down with a swig of hot tea. She swallowed and distractedly asked me another question as she teed up another mouthful of cake.

  “What do you know of his past?”

  Pride loaded her mouth and an image of a washing machine with flour, eggs, sugar, tea, milk and saliva churning around her tongue flashed through my mind.

  “Only what he told me. He grew up in Barcelona, studied European History and worked in a clothing store as a buyer. Then he moved to Potters Bar when he was thirty-six. He worked for John Lewis as a manager.”

  “That’s all?” Pride mumbled through the yellow sponge. She held her hand by her mouth in case any crumbs spilled out.

  “He was quite secretive. He just said the past was behind him, when I asked him.”

  I swallowed and bit my lower lips as I thought that perhaps he had previously been a criminal.

  “Mathew Blake is not a typical name for a Spanish man.”

  “He said he changed his name by deed poll to fit in.”

  “Quite the man of mystery. Can you get me his passport, marriage certificate, deed poll papers, citizenship documents, national insurance, photographs, laptop, phone bills and anything else about him. I think I will do a little research of my own,” Pride stated, brushing the crumbs off her fingers.

  Being so neat and predictable, I found Mathew’s documents in a maroon box file in his cupboard. Below, there was an envelope full of photographs. One, taken five years ago, was of him dressed in a blue suit and wearing black-framed sunglasses. He went through a phase of slicking his dark hair back. We laughed about his Italian look only last month.

  I found a photograph of both of us from about two years ago. It was taken in Green Park in London. A Japanese tourist had enthusiastically taken several photographs of us standing under a large tree. In this one, Mathew stood behind me with his arms around my waist with his hands locked together over my navel. He was leaning forward so that his cheek touched my fair, wavy hair. I was about half a head shorter. I had my hands over his and my head tipped back slightly as though I was about to turn and kiss him. It was taken in the late summer and my cheeks looked a little flushed with freckles dotted across them.

  I remember feeling particularly happy that day. I felt very much in love and our relationship felt secure. I had just started my new job teaching art at Sir Fredrick Osborn’s comprehensive school and we had come up to London to celebrate. Mathew was in his light fawn trousers with a beige jacket and I had dressed up in a brown skirt and cream blouse. We looked stylish together, colour coordinated with a kind of 1950s fashion identity.

  Oh Mathew, I just don’t get it. I held my head in my hands, gripping my hair between my tense fingers. We were fine, weren’t we? How could we go from this to you forging my signature? I just don’t understand.

  I felt a longing for the feeling I experienced in Green Park. I wanted Mathew to walk through the door and hold me again. I wanted to feel his face against mine, I wanted to smell him, I wanted him to hold me tight.

  I collapsed on the bed holding the photograph to my heart and wept. I had lost the man I loved and now I did not even know if he really loved me.

  Pride came in and sat on the bed. I felt myself roll down the dip towards her. I tried to compose myself. She gently rubbed my shoulder.

  “It’s just that it is bad enough that Mathew was murdered, but now it seems he was ruining me. I wonder if he ever loved me.”

  Pride smiled sympathetically.

  “It is also possible that he was in some kind of mess and wanted to protect you from it. Maybe he was involved in some kind of illegal activity. It does not mean he wasn’t in love with you.”

  I dried my eyes, gave Pride the documents and followed her downstairs. As she stood by the front door she turned to me, looking concerned.

  “I’ll organise some counselling for you with a friend of mine, if you like, and I’ll let you know when I find out more about Mathew. Meanwhile we are trying to find someone who saw you in the park.”

  Pride walked down the path and then, as I started to close the door, she turned.

  “I nearly forgot. When did you first become aware of the mortgages and cash withdrawals?”

  “When I went to the bank to transfer the money from Mathew’s accounts.”

  “It just occurred to me that if you found out earlier, it would give you a motive. I imagine I would feel enraged if someone forged my signature and stole the value of my house.”

  “I did not kill Mathew,” I stated resolutely. Yes, I was sure that was the truth.

  CHAPTER 4

  Monday was the day of the inquest. I hardly listened to the sombre, monotonous tones of the pathologist, inspector and judge. The verdict, not surprisingly, was that Mathew was unlawfully killed by a person or persons unknown. I left feeling flat.

  After some deliberation I willed myself to phone the school and request more leave. I felt too vulnerable to expose myself to thirty teenagers. I was not in the mood to have my boundaries pulled, stretched and tested.

  On Tuesday I went to visit Pride’s friend Steven Holmes at his clinic in Hertford. He started by asking me about my childhood. I wanted to say that I was here because the man I loved had been brutally murdered, borrowed so much against the house I would probably lose it and that he had deceived me.

  Instead I explained how I was an only child. My mother had a miscarriage two years before I was born. Just after my third birthday she became pregnant, but my younger brother died during birth. Yes, I did feel a sense of loss. My mother had taken me out to choose his clothes and I persuaded her to buy him a mobile with bright profiles of cars, trains and aeroplanes. After his death, my mother became withdrawn and I spent more time with my father. Yes, I think I must have felt a sense of rejection. I don’t know if they were similar to my current feelings. I found the mobile after my mother died.

  We discussed my first day at school. I remember not being able to fasten my new yellow sandals and another girl, Anna, did them up for me. She became my best friend for the next six years. Yes, I do tend to have a few close friends rather than lots of acquaintances.

  At secondary school I was one of the quieter children. I did all my homework but would typically be in the lower half of the class when our test results were handed out.

  My first serious romantic relationship was with Paul when I was seventeen. We met in art class. He wore glasses and read books on Greek philosophy. We worked together on a sculpture. I liked his gentle touch. After a few weeks he took me out to a pub on his moped. When he took me home there was an awkward moment when I felt he wanted to kiss me but could not find the courage. I wanted to tell him I would welcome him, but in the end he left with a stiff wave of his hand.

  On our second date we went to the Victoria and Albert museum. We stood in front of the sculpture of Neptune and Titon. I let my hand touch his. He turned and returned my gaze. As if in slow motion we moved towards each other and kissed. I was glad we waited; the setting felt perfect for my first romantic embrace. We became boyfriend and girlfriend. It was very innocent for the first few months. Then Paul became more insistent about making love and I gave in. No, I did not enjoy it. It was only my love for him that resolved me to try again a few weeks later. Yes, after a while I enjoyed our lovemaking.

  It ended when I went to art school and he went to read history at university. We promised to continue but after the Christmas holidays, he made less effort to return my messages. Yes, I did feel abandoned. For many nights I put my head under my pillow and cried myself to sleep. I lost a lot of weight and took tranquilisers. No, I blamed myself. I felt as though I was not intelligent enough to keep his attention.

  Yes, I did have similar feelings about my husband. Yes, my father was an academic. He taught art history at University College London. No, my mother was not academic and went back to working as a
PA when I was about nine. I was not aware of my father finding either of us boring. Yes, I did try to impress him with things I learnt at school. Sometimes he would discuss them with me and sometimes he would just laugh and give me a hug. Yes, it is possible that my main motivation for my studies was to please him. I think I did choose art because he taught art history but it was also because of all the school subjects, it was the one I was best at.

  By the summer I replaced tranquilisers with recreational drugs. During this phase I had a number a casual relationships. Yes, I became promiscuous. With the help of alcohol and drugs, I bloomed in full colour, centre stage.

  No, I was not aware of feeling I had let my father down but I may have felt that, deeper inside. Yes, part of me does feel guilty about some of my sexual experiences at college. No, I never told Mathew about them. No, I am not in contact with any of my friends from college.

  Steven brought our first session to a close.

  He had hardly said anything, which didn’t help with my current situation but I liked being able to talk uninterrupted. He listened, made notes and, when he did not understand something, asked for clarification. He was interested in how I felt and I appreciated that. I noticed a pattern emerging of not feeling clever enough, when around academic people, whilst at the same time being fatally attracted to them.

  When I got home, I started making a salad for lunch. My phone interrupted me. It was Edward. He offered to take me out for lunch and I accepted. A few minutes later Edward was at my front door.

  “I’m working from home today. So, I thought I would pop out for lunch and it occurred to me that you might like to get out.”

  I grabbed my coat and bag and climbed into his car. Edward was set on eating at an expensive French restaurant. He insisted we share a bottle of wine and displayed great insights into the various choices. I felt he was putting on a bit of a show, but it was nice to be entertained and taken care of. After a while Edward steered the conversation to Edwina.

  “I’m still struggling to tell Edwina it’s over. Do you have any suggestions? I’ve never done this before.”

  “How does she feel about your relationship?”

  “Business as usual. Edwina has the rest of our lives mapped out. A long boring road to nowhere, devoid of romance and adventure.”

  “You sound resolved.”

  Edward nodded and looked glum for a moment. He took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses. I let him wrestle with whatever thoughts he had about his marriage. Then he looked up.

  “So, what shall I do?”

  “I suppose if it was me, I would like you to be honest, explain your feelings and give me a chance to change.”

  “My heart just isn’t in it anymore.”

  “Well, you need to talk about it.”

  “Yes, it really is time to grasp the nettle.”

  Our conversation moved onto the food and wine. When we came to our coffees Edward looked into my eyes.

  “Amanda, there is something important I want to tell you.”

  My hands were lying on the cream tablecloth, and Edward reached across to hold them. I felt awkward.

  “I know this is a difficult time for you, but I wanted to say it now. You know, strike whilst the iron’s hot, I thought rather than wait, I would see if you felt the same.”

  Edward looked into my eyes.

  “I have developed strong feelings for you over the last year. It started at the New Year’s Eve party and kept growing ever since. I kept persuading Edwina to invite you guys for dinner or to include you in social events, just to be close to you. Now I want to be with you. I have even fantasised about living with you.”

  He smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Well, there, I have said it. I’ve outed myself.”

  Edward looked proud of himself. I was stunned. Why on earth would he think I would want to talk about a new relationship when I had not even buried my husband? Mathew may have done a terrible thing, but I still had many, many happy memories with him. I did love him for all those years. Edward took off his glasses. He breathed onto them, misting the lenses before wiping them on his napkin. As he looked up, he smiled at me expectantly.

  “Edward, how could you imagine I would even be thinking of a new relationship? And do you really think I would even consider it whilst you are still married to Edwina? I could never treat a friend like that. I am sorry, but I really am astonished.”

  I shook my head and looked away. The silence became unbearable.

  “Even if you were single, I would want to get to know you properly and let my feelings emerge naturally. I can’t believe you would be so selfish at a time like this.”

  Edward sighed. He became terse and abrupt.

  “Fine, you’ve made yourself clear. I’m sorry I troubled you.”

  He stretched his arm out and looked at his watch.

  “Well, it is time I went back to work. Do you want a lift home?”

  I couldn’t bear the thought of being in the car with Edward.

  “No, I think I will do some shopping now I am here, and get a taxi home later. Thank you for lunch.”

  Edward stood and summoned the waiter for the bill. He turned and curtly shook my hand.

  “I’ll say goodbye, and let you go.”

  The fresh air felt good on my flushed cheeks. I felt angry as I walked down the high street. How could he expect me to be complicit in hurting Edwina? After all I was going through, I was looking for sympathy and support, not to be hit on. Did he imagine we would go back for a romp in Mathew and my bed?

  I distracted myself by browsing through the new books table in the local bookshop. Then I wandered over to the self-help section and bought a book about dealing with grief.

  CHAPTER 5

  Wednesday, I woke to find my front doormat covered in letters. I had already received a few condolence cards but today there was a torrent. I scooped up the envelopes and took them through to the living room. I sat on the sofa and started cutting the envelopes open. Once I had read the card I put them on the living room table with the others. I could see I would soon run out of room.

  Most of the cards included standard preprinted notes of sympathy with a signature below. Some of the signatures were indecipherable. One envelope stood out as being different. It was brown, long and my address was hand written in a scribbled style. I opened it and pulled out a tightly folded piece of plain A4 paper. I opened it out and just stared. To the right of the paper was a black and white photocopied picture of me. It had been cut out and stuck onto the sheet of paper. To the left was a picture of a man in a mask. He looked like a terrorist and must have been cut out of a newspaper. The sender had drawn a speech bubble from the mouth of the man with the words u turn to die hore scratched into the bubble with a thin biro. The picture of me had a bubble from my lips with plees dont hurt me I give you good time written inside. I groaned inwardly and said, “Oh no,” to myself.

  I recognised the picture from a trip Mathew and I took to Bath. It was part of one of Mathew’s discover Roman Britain, historical excursions. We stayed in a room with a four-poster bed. For fun I made a sexy, flirtatious pose against one of the posts whilst Mathew took pictures of me. I was wearing a thin cotton cream dress with a pattern of pink flowers. On this shot I had pulled the left side of the dress up my leg slightly whilst cupping my right breast with my other hand. My head was tilted to one side and I pouted seductively. As part of our photograph album it looked amusing and the sort of composition you might smile at, but when cut out from a black and white photocopy and stuck onto the letter, I looked grotesque.

  I felt cold and shivered. I looked up at the windows and door. I froze. It took some time before I could get up and phone Inspector Pride. Sergeant Smiley answered. Pride was not there. I tried to explain what had happened, but had to make several attempt to express myself clearly before he understood. He told me not to touch the letter or envelope. Almost as an afterthought, he instructed me to lock all the doors and windows jus
t to be safe. He would come round within an hour.

  Smiley rang the bell and for dramatic effect pressed his police ID against the glass. I opened the door and took him through to the living room. He smelt of stale cigarettes. Smiley did not attempt to make conversation. He took some cream plastic gloves and clear plastic bag from his case. Smiley put on the gloves and gingerly held up the letter by its edges.

  “Do you know where this picture of you came from?”

  The yellowing on his front teeth was darker today.

  “Yes, from the photograph album that was stolen when Mathew was murdered.”

  “And did you make any copies?”

  “No.”

  “Has this photograph been published anywhere?”

  “No.”

  Smiley edged the letter into the bag with the envelope.

  “Under the circumstances, I am going to request a PC stays with you.”

  Smiley left leaving me to a few hours of anxiety before the doorbell rang and I let in a uniformed PC, Jennie Peters.

  PC Peters looked as though she was in her late twenties. She was slim and athletic looking but I could not imagine what she could do if we were attacked by an armed killer. She made a risk assessment of our home. Later a man came round and fitted locks on the windows.

  Living with Jennie felt awkward. Although she insisted I carry on as though she was not there, I felt obliged to offer her food and drinks. I felt obliged to make conversation. Jennie became my quiet shadow. We went shopping together, took walks together and once went out to a Thai restaurant.

  I found the photographs that made up my anniversary present in a folder marked Love in my computer. I wanted to test out Pride’s blackmail theory. Was there something in the pictures? I made a careful study of each looking for anything in the background that could include something incriminating. Some outdoor photographs had other people in the background. I zoomed in to see if there was anything illuminating. I felt like the David Hemmings character in my favourite sixties film Blow Up. Having something to focus on distracted me from my inner turmoil. I turned it into a project, filing the photographs with anyone else in them into a new album and then making a description of the people caught in the background.