Kate assessed the damage. “He wasn’t struck off?”
I filled in the blanks the best I could. “He was cleared with the full support of the hospital but the whole incident was a huge knock to his reputation. He wanted to start over–somewhere else. The hospital killed the story although there was an internal enquiry, which dragged on for, like, forever. Then he was officially cleared and went back to work.”
“It didn’t go to court?” asked Kate.
I shook my head.
“The family didn’t pursue it? Go for a settlement?”
“No, it was over.”
But is it ever over? Anyone who has ever loved and lost someone in suspicious circumstances would know it was never about the money, it was about revenge.
Cece was back up to speed, determined to get to the bottom of this. “What else did this detective tell you?”
“We didn’t talk at length. I fainted.”
“You fainted?” gasped Suzanne.
The girls edged closer to me.
“Yes.” I blushed. “Messy on the street.”
“Did you hurt yourself?” asked Kate.
“I’m okay, really. Embarrassed, majorly.”
“When do you meet him again?” asked Cece.
“He is waiting for me to call him.”
“Do you want me to call him? Let me call him. We can get to the bottom of this.” Cece persisted.
“Cece,” warned Kate. “Lori’s got this.”
I know this much is true. Secrets don’t like to be suffocated. Secrets claw to the top, crawl over people and break hearts, escape and hiss free into the atmosphere, returning to earth without breaking up.
I will tell anyone now, my one piece of advice to the world: never ever attempt to entomb a secret. Let it out and be free. No matter what the fallout might be; otherwise you remain stuck in a moment forever, looking over your shoulder, while the rest of the world moves on.
Love told me to defend my husband for better or worse while my head hammered home the importance of truth. Talking to Cece, Suzanne and Kate about Vivienne Roberts seemed to breathe oxygen into the incident. It became alive again. And vengeful. Tell the truth or else.
When we left London behind Harrison promised that the scandal was in the past. Fresh start. Clean slate. Did he really believe he was allowed to forget? I’m guessing he received the anonymous letters before we moved to Edinburgh but never mentioned this to me. What terrible words had he read–and did he think he deserved this? Did he deserve this?
Chapter Sixteen
Back to Black
The detective’s name was Eddie McCarthy. He tried to contact me at work first, so he said. This was two days ago. I found him leaning against the tenement-building wall outside my main front door just after 7.30am.
First impression, he was wearing a white shirt and jeans, no sign of a police helmet or baton or epaulettes with decorative badges. Plain-clothes cop.
“Mrs Lorien Warner?”
I froze, seized by panic, remembering the hand cupped over a cigarette, a silent stare.
While I stood gaping at him, he showed me identification and introduced himself. He also pointed out a colleague who was doing paperwork in an air-con car across the street.
I blurted. “Your uniform?”
“I’m a detective inspector. Special sartorial privileges.” There was a rough texture to his voice, sanded down with a smile.
“Detective?”
“Yes and you are Mrs Lorien Warner?”
“Walker,” I snapped, more aggressive than intended.
“David Warner’s wife?”
“Widow. Can I help you?”
He cut to the chase. “I’m here to talk about your husband, Ms Walker.”
At that moment, I had what I can only describe as a “pop-up” moment in my head: news-flash information. He isn’t dead. Harrison’s alive. There had been a monstrous mistake. It is known for identities to be mixed up after fatal car crashes. That’s what dental records are for. This man was here to explain everything.
“Harrison?” I whispered, hopeful.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Then for some inexplicable reason I wanted to run; bolt down the street and leave him stranded on a cobbled street.
I hesitated. “I need to be at work.”
His eyes narrowed fractionally. “Call someone.” Said like someone used to getting what he wanted.
I nodded and pointed at the coffee shop across the street. “We can talk over there.”
We both looked across to the tables and chairs clustered on the pavement, metal surfaces reflecting in the sunshine throwing silver spears across the pavement.
I walked carefully and wondered if this was a good idea. I should have invited him up to the flat to prove that I had nothing to hide. I was feeling nervous and was quite sure McCarthy could detect pulse waves of panic.
“Coffee?” he asked, heading inside. I nodded, noting he didn’t ask what I wanted.
There was no shade but I’d made up my mind to risk surface burns from a metal chair than go inside and be in a confined space with someone so seemingly omnipotent and knowing as Eddie McCarthy.
I watched him queue for coffee and guessed him to be in his mid-forties; shipshape, shaven and taller than average. Broad, too–time doing pull-ups on a beam (check out the Bruce Springsteen biceps, my sister would have said). His dark brown hair was flecked with white, but he was an attractive older man albeit with a battered face that had seen some action. The sharp dent at the top of his nose suggested it had been broken once or thrice. Fighter and survivor, I figured.
I was quick to assess and no doubt he did the same. What did he think the moment I opened the door and starting spinning away from him down the street, panicked? Me dressed in Rag & Bone. Skin and bone. Rake-thin fatigued and fashionable. Widow or murderer?
Moments passed. The familiar feeling of being watched returned. I could see my home directly across the street and fixed my eyes on the front door as someone would do when watching me entering and exiting the building.
I looked around for the best vantage point. Several cars passed, dropping speed over the cobbled street. There were more cars parked further up the street, some with tinted windows. I couldn’t see inside.
There were no obvious signs of someone else, but I knew I wasn’t on my own. Sitting up straighter, I scanned the street and shops empty of people at this early hour except for the occasional person pressing onwards to work. The mailman dropped off deliveries. It could be normal but instinct told me otherwise.
I turned my attentions back to this McCarthy man. There were a few people inside the café, including a couple talking intently over pastries, another man sat with his back to me, head stuck in a newspaper, hand clutched around cup. I stared but he didn’t look round. Why didn’t he look round?
Outside, a younger couple lingered over empty drinks, looking in the direction of their phones. Their voices seemed to return the world to normal. I swallowed hard and tried not to think about how frightened I felt.
Detective inspector returned through a shimmer of sunshine that filled the doorframe, brightness forcing him to squint. He set down large black coffees, plus espressos in paper cups. No froth or frills. Not a drop of milk either. I watched him tip espresso into the larger coffee and, when I said I didn’t want mine, he sloshed it into his.
This was a man who didn’t cushion the blow. “I’m part of the criminal investigation department. We’re looking into your husband’s death.”
I gaped at him. Fish out of water.
“You alright?” He took a swallow of coffee, sounded concerned not sympathetic; the gravelly voice rumbling under my skin. His accent was strong. Awright.
“I’m fine.”
“You were looking for someone?” He glanced over his shoulder.
This caught me up short. “I… no… just… deadlines.” I studied my watch feeling quite ridiculous.
“So. Th
e car accident.”
“Is he still alive?” I quickly whispered. This was one of my favourite theories: Harrison had faked his own death to escape his troubles. Or returned true to form as a ghost. Swayze style.
McCarthy looked up from his coffee cup, an intense stare of someone wearing eye-tracking goggles. He was sizing me up: the opponent.
“Ms Walker, your husband is definitely dead. What makes you think otherwise?”
“Then why are you here? Harrison died six months ago. You’ve returned to tell me he is still dead?” I didn’t like the sound of my own voice.
There was a silence while he picked up his cup and looked straight at me as if I was the prime suspect: the spouse. I avoided his gaze and focused on his strong hands that could tear down brick walls, the well-worn wedding ring and nails brutally short but not bitten.
Abruptly, he scraped his chair backwards over the cobblestones, making room to stretch out his legs. The grating reverberated down my spine and threatened to leave hairline cracks across each rib. How fragile I felt.
“I’m just going over some details.”
“I know how he died. He was killed in a car crash.” It was still sickening for me to admit that he had been driving while drunk.
“We know he was involved in a road traffic accident. We can’t, however, rule out unusual circumstances.”
I could feel myself being sucked back into the seat, gripping the metal armrests to stop me turning upside down in turbulence. McCarthy sat back also but with much more grace than me while sipping his volcanic caffeine concoction, watching me.
I babbled. “He crashed his car. The police showed me the blood alcohol results. He’d been drinking and then for some godforsaken reason decided to drive home.”
Suddenly, I felt vulnerable and dropped in the dark; like the only person in the world to witness the eclipse. “Are you saying he wasn’t drunk?”
“He was definitely over the limit. We have no reason to think otherwise.”
“Then? I don’t understand.”
“I’m just here to tell you what I know.”
“What you don’t know.” The words sounded sharp and stretched as I delivered them.
“We may have missed some information at the time of the accident. Proper investigative procedure wasn’t followed.”
“Procedure?”
“Stop signs at an accident, appeal information–I’m embarrassed to say… a string of things.” He leaned forward and I could smell soap, leathery aftershave with sharper base notes of lemon and rosemary. It complemented the hint of hot coffee on his breath.
“Is everything okay, Ms Walker?”
“You tell me,” I whispered, needing deep-sea apparatus such as a carbon-fibre helmet to protect my head from extreme pressure.
“I saw you looking around earlier. You seemed a little… off kilter.”
Back to that.
“Just give me a moment,” I said. “To process this.”
He nodded while I focused on the table, hearing his words drill through my ears, painfully so.
A moment passed. “We received an anonymous email,” he said.
Not following, I returned his stare over cup and saucer and said nothing.
“It’s regarding your husband. Do you want to read it?” he added, when I didn’t respond.
I attempted a nod.
He abruptly softened his tone, tip from crime school I guessed. “Do you have any idea who would want to harm your husband–did he receive any threats?”
Time ticked while my sleep-deprived brain attempted an answer. Yes, I had an idea but I wasn’t going to share it. Another secret.
I wanted to put further conversation into a holding pattern, circling Eddie McCarthy until it ran out of fuel. Give me more time. What was to follow wasn’t going to be good.
He unfolded a sheet of paper and slid it across the table to me. I stared at the type, blurred until I forced the words into focus:
Harrison Warner is dead because he deserved it. Death was too quick but he is gone, as he should be. The world thinks it was a car accident, but I tell you it was justice. Justice is done.
No sign-off but Harrison’s car registration number, make and model were included, as were time and date of accident followed by latitude/longitude details.
Stupefied, I pointed at the numbers.
“Accident location–dead accurate.”
Speech restored, I blurted, “I don’t understand.”
“Someone is suggesting they know more than we do.”
“No one else was involved. The car was a write-off.”
“Doesn’t mean no one else was involved.”
“You’ve no idea who sent this?”
“The message was encrypted–not hard to do. Send it through a chain of remailers that remove all traces of the original sender. Done.”
Truly baffled, I reread the email over and over until I sensed I was being scrutinised. “Wait a minute. Do you think I sent the email?”
He paused and considered this, surprised almost. He didn’t fool me.
“Did you?”
“Do I need a lawyer?”
“Listen, I’m not interviewing you—”
I cut in, “I didn’t send a message to anyone anonymously; I have nothing to hide. My husband was killed in a car accident. That’s the truth.”
“I think your husband was murdered,” he said without sugaring the blow.
The words bounced over the table and smashed into me at full force. I put my hand over my mouth, thinking teeth will fall out. Your husband was murdered.
My coffee cup hit the metal table top with such a sharp crack, a woman sitting near us bounced in her seat. The look she threw at me said it all: too early in the morning for the dramatics, lady.
Murdered. The word formed a pointed tip–spear sharp and hit my windpipe at full force.
My husband was murdered.
With considerable effort I manage to gasp, “Who? Who would want to murder my husband?”
One in two people are killed by someone they know.
That wasn’t all I remembered. Lamb To The Slaughter–Cece cooking the murder weapon for police officers to eat. In that second, a grotesque giggle caught in my throat. I was one breath away from folding myself in fits of laughter. Pull it back, I told myself, furiously. Get yourself under control.
Eddie McCarthy’s eyes drilled into me; signature stare that could break up rocks. It was as though he had grouped pixels together to create a clearer image of me. Did he see the giggle?
If he did, he continued, unfazed. “Can you think of anyone who had a grudge against your husband? Even a minor falling out?”
I shook my head and stood up too fast, scraping the chair across the pavement with a whine. Upright, I tottered backwards to put distance between this news and myself.
McCarthy’s eyes locked on target, looking through me, inside my head, leaving no place to duck under. I knew that he knew I wasn’t telling him the truth.
As the dizziness set in, I thought about my mother, heard her voice: “You’ve fallen in love with a scandalous man.”
I concentrated on the blackness drifting from the outer corner of my eye towards my nose; ink sinking through water. Then the audio went down–the buzz from traffic on the street turned to a hush and pure quietness descended upon me, peaceful and calm. I knew I was fainting and could feel myself sink, although still in control. This wasn’t rushed, it was a leisurely slide past stainless steel tables and chairs shining in front of me like fallen stars on the street.
Eddie McCarthy caught me before I hit the cobbled street, sitting back on his heels to let me lean me back into his chest, a solid defence wall from the world. When I opened my eyes I saw a hitched-up skirt almost indecent, legs spangled out at angles and I’d kicked off a shoe. It wasn’t a good look.
“You okay?”
I attempted to nod but there was worse to come. I managed to scramble onto my knees before retching over the high kerb
onto the street. Someone picked up a drink and purposefully marched inside.
I wretched until I managed to catch a breath. Unflappable Eddie McCarthy handed me a fistful of paper napkins from the coffee shop and hoisted me onto my feet like a rag doll before leading me across the street towards the main front door of my flat–back where we had started.
I had an urge to explain myself. “Detective inspector… Mr… McCarthy, I’ve never fainted before,” I whispered weakly, undoing myself from his strong hands to lean against the wall in the shade. “This isn’t like me. This isn’t me at all.”
He looked at me, unreadable but not unkind. Something softened in his eyes, and I knew he felt sorry for me. Perhaps pitied me–gut instinct based on what was to come.
“Please, Eddie. Or McCarthy.”
I thought about a devoted wife whispering Eddie in his ear and decided McCarthy would work for me.
“I’ll come back later and we’ll talk it through. Are you sure you are okay?”
When I didn’t answer he said, “Let me get you a glass of water.
As I watched him stride back across the street I wanted to chase after him and shout, “It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.”
“I need you to make a list,” instructed McCarthy on his return. “Write down names of people you think might want to hurt your husband. Think every scenario: debt, drugs, malpractice at work. Feuds. Think seriously.”
I was taken aback. It seemed preposterous what I was about to do: make a list of names of people who could take a life. It was more appealing to stick with the original diagnosis, distasteful as it was: fatal car accident through excessive consumption of alcohol.
“This person who emailed–he or she could be time wasting?” I said, pathetically hopeful. “There are weirdos out there.” I didn’t add that I should know: The Watcher.
“Your husband was a senior surgeon at a leading hospital–it’s possible that his death could be linked to a former patient; someone who questioned his abilities as a doctor.” He lowered his voice as though someone might be eavesdropping. “Emotional people can act, well, irrationally. We have every reason to take the email seriously.”
(2013) Four Widows Page 8