“That’s correct. As far as the judicial process is concerned, no further action is required at this time.” The detective is still studying his notepad and I want to snatch it out of his hands and throw it across the room.
“No further action. You mean that the gunman . . . ? Isn’t he in prison?” I practically yell the word and wonder if Carol and the other nurses outside my room are hearing all this and looking at each other in shock and curiosity.
“Prison? No, Mrs. Castle,” DCI Watkins says, finally looking up from his notepad. “Your brother-in-law took the cowardly way out. He fired a second shot. Turned the gun on himself.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
DCI Watkins would indeed have made a perfect civil servant—or a politician, I think, my mind looping wildly. He has obviously perfected the art of delivering bad news while making it sound like he’s just relaying a weather forecast: his voice is so devoid of emphasis that to begin with I can’t quite grasp what he’s telling me.
“Brother-in-law?” My voice sounds breathy. I feel lightheaded. “Max.”
“Yes, Max Castle. The weapon was an ex-army-issue firearm; according to your husband it belonged to his late father. A Smith & Wesson Victory Model, to be precise. Six-shot, double-action military revolver with a four-inch barrel.” He checks his notepad yet again for confirmation. “Misfired it the first time but was bang on target with his second bullet. Clean shot to the head.”
“He was pronounced dead at the scene, Maddie,” Michelle says more gently, taking hold of my left hand and gently squeezing it.
“Max?” I say faintly. Max?
“I’m sorry. This must be a dreadful shock,” Michelle continues, “but we were wondering . . . well, hoping you might be able to cast some light on what might have led Max to do this. We’re still trying to get a handle on the immediate aftermath, too. Your husband helped us with our inquiries to begin with, but we have all we need from him now, and he’s been in such a dreadful state . . .”
“My husband?”
“Yes, Dominic Castle. Your husband.” She’s still holding my hand and lifts it slightly, as if to show me the indentation where my platinum wedding band used to be.
Did I take it off weeks ago? I wonder. Or is Professor Hernandez keeping it safe for me until I’m well enough to go home . . . I become fixated on the whereabouts of my wedding ring rather than thinking about the implications of what they’ve just told me.
“I think we can assume Mrs. Castle has no memory or knowledge of events subsequent to being shot in the head, Michelle,” the detective says wryly.
“Yes, of course, sorry, I just meant to say that if there’s anything from before then, anything she might be able to tell us about . . .” She breaks off, blushing.
“Dominic—your husband,” DCI Watkins goes on, cutting across her, “returned home from the golf club to discover the crime scene shortly after the occurrence of the shooting. He was the one who placed the emergency call, and I think it’s fair to say he was in an extremely distressed state, and my understanding from colleagues”—he dips his head at Michelle in acknowledgment—“is that he has remained so.”
“You could say he’s a broken man,” Michelle chips in. “He was frantic with worry for you, and then what with the shock of it being his brother—”
“His brother did this. Max?” I repeat, in a stunned daze.
My eyes glaze over as I think back to that day, trying to recall any signs that it was Max beneath the army fatigues, the balaclava. The shock is devastating, although a voice inside my head reminds me that I had wondered about Max, back in the bright-dark— before I woke up and realized that I might have been dreaming, but my nightmare was only just beginning.
“There must be some mistake,” I say, even while acknowledging it’s unlikely to be a case of mistaken identity if they found Max lying shot in our back garden. A shiver runs up my spine as phrases like “dental records” and “blood groups” float across my memory. There is a metallic taste in my mouth and I reach blindly for the glass of water on my bedside table, then hold it in front of me, forgetting to drink it.
Max. The twins’ big, loud, quick-talking crazy uncle . . . It’s not that the idea hasn’t crossed my mind before; it’s just that the reality of the confirmation is so . . . catastrophic. Because if he shot Annabel, the gun misfiring as the detective said, so the bullet hit me too, that surely means Max’s guilt goes even deeper than the police know . . .
I remember my fierce conviction that the man who murdered Annabel must also have been the one grooming her—killing her to ensure her silence. It still seems the most logical explanation, but in the cold light of day, neither crime seems to fit with the Max I knew.
The detective seems certain, though: Max fired the fatal shot and then turned the gun on himself. Which means I need to accept the terrible likelihood that Dom’s brother—the man I willingly welcomed into our home, to play with and care for my children—was also a . . . a pedophile. The word sends shudders of anger and revulsion through me, and I become aware that tears are running down my face when I see Michelle reach for the tissues on my bedside table. She hands one to me, but then noticing how tightly my white-knuckled fingers are still clasping the glass of water, she leans over instead and dabs gently at my cheeks.
“But if Max . . . If Max was the gunman, does that also mean . . .” I break off, my mind a tornado of confusion as I try to grasp this repellent scenario.
I remember the way Annabel had started to avoid taking lifts from Uncle Max, and how upset she was when he, not her dad, came to watch her in the drama club show. I remember her complaining that he was always at our house, and hiding the playing cards so he couldn’t suggest yet another game of poker with her. But they were such small, innocent, childish things. Were they really indicators of something far more toxic?
I open my mouth to voice the question, but then I look at the machines next to my bed, the whiteboard at the end of the room, and I hesitate. I’m no longer certain how much I can trust my own memories: I thought I was awake, watching my son and husband struggle with their grief, yet all the time I was here, unconscious. I was wrong about that—what if I was also completely wrong to believe that Annabel’s stalker and her killer were one and the same?
I think of Dom. A broken man. He would never recover from the shame of such a revelation. His brother a pedophile; our daughter the object of Max’s perverted desires. I think of Annabel lying dead and cold, murdered by her uncle . . . Nothing will bring her back. Slandering Max won’t help her now, no matter how much I loathe him and want his name to be publicly denounced for the evil crime he’s committed. No, I can’t speculate about such a terrible thing without being more certain . . .
But if it wasn’t Max grooming Annabel, who was it? And if Max’s intention wasn’t to silence her, why else would he want to kill my daughter? Was it all just about punishing me—forcing me to choose? If so, what possible reason could my brother-in-law have had for bearing such malevolence towards me? I was never anything but kind to him. Too kind, in Dom’s eyes.
Nothing adds up. The detectives have presented me with the missing pieces of information I craved, but I still can’t shape them into a meaningful picture.
“It must be a mistake,” I repeat. “Surely Max . . .” My mind freezes, my voice dies; I sink back against the pillows and slide into emotional shutdown.
“There’s no mistake. I’m sorry,” the detective adds, when I finally manage to meet his eyes. “But you were about to say something else. Can you remember?” he prompts, pen poised over his notepad. “Do you have any idea why your brother-in-law might have done this?”
DCI Watkins’ steady gaze locks with mine. I have a sense that he’s waiting for something specific from me. But what? I’m not the one on trial here. Am I?
“As I said, no further action is required,” he continues, “so effectively it’s a moot point. Max is dead and the weapon was found in his hand. Your husband is the only other witnes
s to the aftermath, and he has an alibi at Fulwell Golf Club. No one else saw anything.” He flips his notebook shut, as if the matter is settled.
Run!
Hide!
Don’t look back!
“It isn’t unusual for the perpetrator of a crime to be so close to the victim’s family, of course,” DCI Watkins says, almost conversationally.
They’re always right under your nose . . .
“But we’d still like to pull together as complete a picture as possible. Anything you can remember about Max Castle that may give us an insight into his state of mind, his attitude towards your family, would be very helpful.” He checks his watch and stands up, clearly impatient to leave now he’s not getting anything useful from me. “Michelle?”
“I’ll leave all our cards with the nurse, in case you think of anything,” Michelle says, casting me one last sympathetic smile before she hurries out after her boss, patting her jacket pockets. I wonder if she’s looking for her business card or her cigarettes.
As the door closes behind them, I feel a surge of fear so powerful I’m convinced I’m going to black out. I think of Dom returning to our home after our terrible row that morning, only to find that his whole world had been blown apart—our son traumatized, his precious girl slaughtered, his wife accidentally shot and his brother dead.
Murderer.
The detective has at last given me a name, but he said nothing about me having been forced to choose; he made no mention of Aidan saying what his mummy did. No one else saw; no one knows . . .
My heart beats faster and my gut clenches in horror as realization hits me: I’m going to have to tell Dom that although, for some reason I cannot begin to grasp, his brother pulled the trigger, it’s as much my fault that Annabel is dead. That I chose her.
TWENTY-NINE
The hand on my forehead is gentle, reassuring, lightly brushing to and fro before trailing down to my chin. I hear the wind chimes and think of home, sighing as I turn my face into the palm now cupping my cheek. It feels rough, warm . . .
I frown. The doctor’s hands are smooth, cool; they smell of antiseptic.
I smell citrus cologne and then suddenly I can’t breathe, my throat closing up as my nostrils begin to burn, and I gag against the hand smothering my mouth, forcing my tongue back down my throat until I start to suffocate. My chest feels like it’s being compressed under a heavy weight. I’m drowning; I’m going to pass out . . .
“Stop! Help! Please!” The strained, muffled sound of my voice is shocking. Even now, on my fourth day awake, I can’t get used to being able to speak, to the idea that others will hear me—and respond.
“Maddie, what is it? What’s wrong?”
I open my eyes to see my husband perched on the edge of the chair next to my bed where the family liaison officer was sitting surely only moments ago. He leaps to his feet, rushing to my side.
“Dom!” I croak breathlessly. Then, in the next breath: “Aidan?” I look frantically round the room.
“It’s just me, sweetheart. Aidan’s fine; it’s you I’m worried about. You gave me a fright there. Tossing and turning like you were trying to escape the hounds of hell. Must have been having a nightmare, hey? Last time I saw you it was like you were in a deep freeze. Now you look . . . Are you OK?” he asks anxiously, his face close to mine, his blue eyes wide and fearful.
I blink rapidly, battling confusion and panic. “You’re really here. Where have you been?” I ask frantically. “The police—”
“Yeah, I know. I saw them drive off as I was coming in. So you’ve heard the grisly truth.” He rubs a hand over his face; his voice is a flat line.
“I can’t believe it, Dom. I just can’t believe that . . .” I shake my head, feeling disoriented and tearful. A tight ball of stress seems to be lodged in my chest, constricting my breathing. I must have crashed out after the detectives left; stress exhausts me, as the doctor warned me it would, but sleep hasn’t lessened any of the shock and I’ve woken up feeling like the world has tilted sharply on its axis.
“Seriously, don’t even mention that man’s name to me.” He straightens up and turns away from me. “I can’t—I’m sorry I haven’t come before now. It’s been . . . I’ve been . . .”
“No, I’m sorry,” I say, and tears slide down my face and it feels like they’ll never stop. All my fear of Dom, my anger towards him for not being here, disintegrates beneath the bombshell of Max’s guilt.
“Hey, don’t cry. It’s OK. It’s not your fault,” Dom says in a soothing voice, turning again to crouch at my bedside, taking hold of my hand. “All my life he’s been a thorn in my side. I just didn’t have a clue he was capable of being such a . . . monster. He’s always tried to take everything off me. Jealousy. Entitlement. Who knows? You’re the one with the psychology degree; you tell me. The big brother who felt he deserved it all. Including my family. And if he couldn’t have it, he was going to destroy it. Destroy me.” His face is gaunt and his eyes are shadowed.
“I know. I can hardly believe it. It’s impossible to take in,” I say, squeezing his hand. “But I meant—I didn’t mean . . . I wanted to say that I’m sorry for . . . for—”
“Hush, sweetheart. I’m here now,” he cuts in, and he leans over and scoops his hands beneath my shoulders, crushing me to him so I feel the warmth of his strong chest and the smoothness of his freshly shaven jaw.
I try to inhale without him realizing that I’m sniffing his aftershave, to see if it’s the same unfamiliar citrus smell that woke me from my dream, but my face is squashed so tightly against his cheek that I can’t be sure. I can feel my body starting to tremble at the shock of being this close to him again, after all this time. It hits me with force that I’m alone with my husband for the first time not only since I emerged from my coma, but also since our violent row on the morning of the twins’ birthday. I thought I’d been right next to him, watching him, for three months, but it was only from within the confines of my unconscious mind.
“It’s so good to have you back, babe. I thought you were completely gone.”
His gentleness puzzles me, contradicting everything I expected of him. I’d been anticipating anger, blame and harsh words. I thought his first visit to me would be full of recrimination and accusing questions: why did I fight with him and make him storm out the house, leaving his family unprotected? Why did I let someone murder our daughter instead of throwing myself in front of her, giving my life to save hers? Instead, he is conciliatory, concerned.
But something feels odd. Dom has always been so highly charged; brash and quick to fly off the handle. He’s a high achiever and works tirelessly to keep himself fit. He has no patience for weakness and has always been intolerant of sickness. I was the one to nurse the twins through chickenpox, while Dom was irritated by their whininess; on the few occasions I’ve been poorly myself, he’s given me a wide berth, allowing Lucy to take over and keep me stocked up on hot lemon drinks and cool, clean sheets. I’m struggling to recognize this man who is being so . . . nice to me.
He has the same handsome face, the same stylish clothes—yet something doesn’t fit. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been remembering him from all the different stages of our relationship, from our first date to our final row. Now I’m firmly back in the present day, I can’t quite get a handle on where we sit between those two extremes. The last thing I remember is Dom’s hammer punch to my face before he slammed furiously out of the house, and since then our lives have been ripped apart. No matter how hard he’s trying to act like everything is normal, I can’t simply pretend that didn’t happen.
I take a deep breath as he moves to sit back in his chair. I sit up straight and decide it’s time to be brave. “Dom, I need to ask you something.”
“Course. Anything.”
His attentiveness surprises me. I can’t remember the last time Dom really listened to me. But he seems to be all ears now. There’s nothing like a bullet in the head to finally get someone’s attention.
<
br /> My head is buzzing with so many things, but it’s Annabel’s diary I keep coming back to, kicking myself for not mentioning it to DCI Watkins. It was such a shock hearing about Max, though; my head was all over the place. But I realize that I should have told the detective about the things my daughter wrote. I can’t let her death be shrouded in mystery; she died in violence but she deserves to rest in peace. I must get in touch with them; I must remember to ask Carol for their business cards. I need to give the police every bit of information I can, I decide. I’m tired of secrets; they eroded our marriage, our family, and I won’t live with them any more.
“Sweetheart,” Dom says, sitting patiently, watching as I work through my panicky thoughts, unable to find the right words or even know where to start. “Max is gone, you’re out of your coma . . . We need to get our family back on track, hey? Let’s not agonize about the whys and wherefores. It’s pointless. Dead men tell no tales, hey? Leave the detectives to do their stuff. The case has been closed and we just need to concentrate on getting you well and bringing you home.” He stands up and leans over to give me another tight squeeze before planting a kiss on my head. I flinch and he apologizes. “Sorry, did that hurt? I forget my own strength sometimes.”
But it wasn’t the pain that made me flinch; it was . . . memories. Those last terrible nine months or more. All these weeks I’ve been locked inside my head, remembering hostile silence, violent rows . . . They were real memories; I know they were. Dom may not be a killer as I once feared while tunneling through my unconscious mind, but I was afraid of him. And I’m not sure we have it in us to be one of those heroic couples that turn to each other in grief, supporting each other through hard times. We’ve experienced too many hard times already—and they tore us apart.
I remember the three train tickets. I remember my packed suitcase. Does Dom know about them? I push gently at his chest, urging him to take a step back. Eventually he sits down again, and I flick my ponytail over my shoulder and look him straight in the eye, steeling myself to ask him the question I know will crack things open to reveal what’s really left between us.
The Perfect Family Page 16