I put my head in my hands. Too much, I could barely breathe.
“You’ll write the list for me?” McCarthy wasn’t one for flakiness. His tone remained insistent.
I often look back and think about the conversation with McCarthy; searching for names and motives. We focused on the usual suspects–drugs, debt, feuds, former patients. And somehow, incredibly, in the midst of all the chaos and questions, well, we overlooked love.
Chapter Seventeen
Hello, Cardiovascular Hell
Harrison didn’t talk much about his patients besides the generic operating-room anecdotes of a cardiac surgeon. I would hear about the exuberant behaviour of his colleagues; colourful antics of people in high-stressed jobs letting off steam. Prolific gossip, relationships and affairs. The medical profession made drink-downing journalists look second rate. An achievement.
Vivienne Roberts was the exception. I knew more about her than any other patient. There were other names, babies mostly. Success stories about hole-in-the-heart patients. Harrison would talk about them. He never ceased to be amazed at the tenacity and strength of the tiniest of bodies. Sliced from top to bottom and their heart plucked out, patched up, and popped back in the chest cavity again, how they would recover. Bandaged and brave. He remembered all their names.
But he talked in depth about Vivienne Roberts. Gutsy, he said. No matter what medical misfortune was thrown at her, she would buckle up and floor the accelerator.
Just 28 years old, she had suffered a second stroke and Harrison was determined to fix her without the need to go down the transplant route. He was convinced he could perform some kind of miracle.
I’ll never be sure why Harrison wanted to save Vivienne Roberts so much. He wanted to save all his patients but he especially wanted to save her. It was a connection; a bond. He admired her feistiness and she trusted him implicitly. He was the wizard in disposable scrubs. She got under his skin.
“Survivor,” he said.
And on another occasion, “Hosting dinners and raising a shitload of cash,” he said. “This is someone who wants to make a difference.”
I did feel a fierce stab of inadequacy during such conversations–not regarding Vivienne Roberts’ charitable efforts, but Harrison’s work. Hard not to compare job descriptions at times; him positioning a new heart inside someone while I worked in a wardrobe world surrounded by designer clothes. Worse still, I loved it.
Vivienne had type 1 diabetes and needed a new heart. “Diabetes does things to the lining of blood vessels; next thing, hello, cardiovascular hell,” Harrison explained.
Things come back to me. Conversations we had. “She’s not catching a break,” he said, frustrated over drinks one night. We had managed to meet for dinner, which was an incredible achievement considering our schedules.
“Who?”
His expression said it all: how could I possibly not know whom he was talking about? “Vivienne Roberts. She’s a fighter but…” an edge to his voice, “there are complications.”
“Her parents are supportive?”
“She’s their world.”
Another time, I remember him repeating to himself. “She has started to retreat.”
When I asked him to explain, he snapped, continuing with the war analogy. “It’s a battlefield and you can’t put down your rifle–not for a second.” He rallied. “It’ll be a hellish ride but she’s not a quitter.”
One week later Vivienne Roberts was dead.
I felt Harrison’s frustration. He didn’t lack the skill or tenacity to fix Vivienne–but was no match for her troubled heart. Transplant was out of the question, apparently, for reasons I didn’t ask. When she died, Harrison disintegrated, shouldering blame. Thinking about it now, she was the one who got away.
Harrison’s over-attention didn’t surprise me because my father would sometimes let someone cut through the medical armour veneer. He could be incredibly detached, mostly, and then turn wretched when he couldn’t save a certain someone, even though he had an almost faultless track record. It didn’t happen often but when it did, it triggered a profound reaction–an outpouring of sorrow on a scale of national mourning. He would lock the door to his home office; we would leave him to come round. He would, eventually. Our mother reminded us that he was a man first and a father (joint first, she added after a beat), and a doctor second. He was a man of emotions, not just decisions, she said. No mention of husband in the line-up, I see now.
From what I can gather, when Vivienne said she wanted to die, Harrison did an abrupt u-turn on his medical assessment. Despite initial reservations, he wanted to push on with a heart transplant.
“I think we’ll give the transplant a shot,” he said.
I didn’t hear a word more until news of her death and a fraught internal enquiry thereafter. Harrison shut down personally but cooperated with the hospital. It was an exhaustive process but I never doubted him: he was passionate about the job. As a doctor, better to care than be indifferent. As a lover, better to fall head over heels than throw a love-retardant substance over one’s heart.
Now I was faced with an altogether different scenario: did Harrison stop being a doctor and start playing God? Was he able to resist the charms of a beautiful woman; damsel in distress? Player, I hear my sister whisper.
The truth wants to show its face but I’m reluctant to uncover it. Call it what you like, but I’ve a sixth sense when it comes to trouble and don’t want to get involved. I used to be hard-nosed and thick-skinned but now I’m losing my edge. I reckon I’m going through the recovery process and feel pathetically weak; the slightest bump could probably break bones.
Suck it up, says Gee when the going gets tough. She would make the textbook move and rescue no one from a burning house when the seriousness of the situation increased, whereas I’d attempt to save everyone and end up burned. Just like my father would, even though he was risk adverse. Avoid activities with increased risk of head injuries, he used to tell Gee and me. He used to embarrass us by shouting at cyclists who weren’t wearing helmets. “Organ donors,” he would roar.
Skiing, we never went skiing, horse riding at a push. Hell, don’t even mention mobile phones; my father classified phone signals as carcinogenic to humans and causes of fatal forms of brain cancer. He missed a trick when it came to relationships though and overlooked dangerous liaisons with scandalous men: it doesn’t get much worse than this.
Chapter Eighteen
Post-traumatic Attraction
Back at the office, Jim whistled when I updated him about the visit from a member of the Midlothian police. An inspector detective or detective sergeant, detective something, I explained.
“Shit, your world is weird.”
That’s the twentysomething’s take on the situation.
I also avoided phoning McCarthy for 35 hours straight. He finally chased me and I deliberately abandoned him to voice mail.
Jim’s immediate answer to the problem was distraction. “Look, the city is jumping right now–it’s a full-on festival out there. We need to cut loose.”
“Cut loose?”
“Tickets to any show you want. Perks of the job.”
“I don’t know.”
“The Murkin Vixens?” He looked hopeful,
“Said the man who went to St Anne’s College for three years.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ma’am. It goes from bad to worse.” I was eight years older and, holy Christ, at times did I feel it. It didn’t help that Jim still lived at home with his mother, who asked to speak to “Jimmy” whenever she called the office.
Jim edged his chair closer until I caught the faintest scent of Bleu de Chanel. “Come with me.”
I rubbed knuckles into my eyes. “I think I’m losing it.”
“Take a moment. Let the police come back to you with more information.”
“I’m not holding my breath.”
“I’ll pick you up at 8pm.”
He took my silence as a re
sounding yes and turned his attention back to his work.
What am I doing? I wondered, needing a drink like you wouldn’t believe. What the hell am I doing?
I feel a familiar tightness turn the screws on my chest and wish for a breathing machine; respirator to deliver oxygen. Need a portable ventilator to help me. Save me.
McCarthy returned sooner than expected. It was another early morning call in uncharacteristically warm sunshine for Scotland. I wasn’t off the hook.
I was wearing a white silk wraparound Chloé dress and nude heels and instantly panicked about my personal appearance: should look more distressed. Whereas, he came over attractive without trying in another soft-cotton shirt, unbuttoned at the top, untucked at the bottom, tieless and jeans. The plainclothes look worked.
I pictured his poor wife ageing beside him, having her work cut out: hair appointments every three weeks to cover the roots, expensive facials, counting calories, a bit of Botox on the side, while he remained the same; mellow, attractive, not gathering dust.
“Ms Walker,” he said. “A word?”
He walked across the cobblestone street to the cafe with me ragtagging behind, sludgingly slow in the humidity. Cold sweat broke up my shoulder blades.
No drinks to soften the blow this time, we sat at the stainless steel bistro table; a barrier between me and McCarthy in our makeshift interview room. Question time. I jumped the gun before he berated me for not taking his calls. “I think I’m being followed.”
His chin lifted, interested. “Any idea who?”
I shook my head emphatically and rushed to explain. “I thought… it was like I was imagining things at first but I could feel someone. I still do.” I met his gaze.
“When were you first aware of this?”
“Walking home one night. I’d been at a restaurant.”
“A man?”
I nodded.
“Did you report it?”
I shook my head.
“Why not?”
I sighed, exasperated. “Because I thought I was seeing ghosts.”
It isn’t strictly a lie. I see Harrison everywhere, feel his presence. Not haunting but watchful, under my skin. How could I explain that this city made you believe in ghosts?
I confessed. “I can’t be sure that he… Harrison died. I saw him laid out in a morgue at the hospital but–”
To his credit, McCarthy didn’t suggest immediate psychiatric treatment but wasn’t overly sympathetic either, considering I’d told him someone might be following me. He had other concerns.
“When were you going to tell me about Vivienne Roberts?”
I swallowed and realised I’d made a crucial mistake: one who withholds information cannot be trusted.
“I’m here to find out who killed your husband.” He had to squint into the sunshine, which meant I couldn’t read his expression. “I need you to help me.”
“Do you think I killed my husband?”
He hesitated long enough to make me feel horribly uncomfortable. “I’m not paid to speculate. I’m paid to find out who killed your husband.”
This time there was quietness in his voice that belied the rough, beaten face; a person existed behind the inspector detective exterior. His eyes softened fractionally and I held his gaze. Two seconds too long.
In a rush I wanted to convince him that I wasn’t a lost cause. The real me had been flattened by Harrison’s death but I was still in here somewhere. Rewind and McCarthy would discover a carefree someone; lighthearted, droll even. Listen, I used to swing my handbag when I walked. There is more to me than this, I wanted to whisper.
Just at that second I felt a sudden rush of blood to the heart. Like being resuscitated or even more aggressive–defibrillator forcefulness. In an instant, I remember my father explain the chemical cocktail of physical attraction: endorphins and hormones vasopressin and oxytocin shaken vigorously and served.
This hormone whoosh could burn down a tree on first strike and I seriously wondered if I had some kind of syndrome; post-traumatic shock or survivor guilt–something that skewed emotions and triggered inappropriate behaviour. I attempted to gulp air.
McCarthy leaned towards me concerned, not surprising considering my brief history of fainting fits. “You okay?”
I couldn’t look at him. I had one notion and that was to walk and never look back. What if he could read me; practised from years of questioning criminals. What then?
“Ms Walker?”
I mumbled and pressed a hand to my forehead. Using Harrison’s death as a cover for blatant wantonness. I was shameless.
He leaned towards me, so close to me I could feel the warmth pulse out from him–four bars on an electric fire, strong as a physical touch. With that, I had a violent urge to put my hands over his face, trace my fingers over his eyebrows, his broken nose, his lips. I wanted to reach out and pull him across the table as fast as a firefighter would haul a person from a burning building. I needed forceful and thorough contact to fight off a loneliness that was turning me into a ghost trapped between this world and another. How could he not notice this shift in me? Not notice I wanted so much.
He sensed change. His subconscious did because he switched from addressing me as Ms Warner to calling me Lori.
“Look, Lori,” he said. “You haven’t been straight with me. You should have told me about Vivienne Roberts. That you were being followed.”
I nodded, waiting for him to go on.
“Let’s take it back to the start. I’ll ask questions that should have been put to you six months ago.”
I forced myself to focus on his words. Talking about the horror of Harrison’s death hosed down my hormones until the heat of lust went out with a hiss.
“Questions?” I whispered.
“As I’ve said, procedure wasn’t followed to the rule at the time of your husband’s death.”
“Continue.” I had turned monosyllabic.
“Failure to close the road following the accident; failure to use appeal boards and trace further witnesses to the incident. No prizes for identifying the key word here.”
“Now?”
He shrugged. “I’m being honest with you–we can think about damage control later.”
“You think I’m going to sue the police?”
“Actually, I was hoping you could help us.”
Rush of hormones truly dampened down, we trawled over the accident details and I was never more grateful for a distraction. The post mortem, as expected, revealed excessively high levels of alcohol in Harrison’s blood.
McCarthy probed. “Did he take recreational drugs?”
I shook my head emphatically. Then thought of my sister and moderated my answer.
“I don’t think so. I’m not sure what I know any more.”
“I’m surprised he could find his car, never mind drive it as far as he did. He’s had drink-driving convictions in the past?”
“No, never–out of character. He’s a doctor.” Free pass to perfection.
“Tell me more about being followed.”
He leaned forward. I had to stop myself from leaning back.
I told him as much as I knew, which wasn’t much. McCarthy said he wanted to build a profile. I didn’t argue but how can you profile someone’s shadow or the feeling of being watched?
“Has anyone else in your family reported suspicious behaviour?”
“No, nothing but…God, do you think my mother and sister and could be at risk?”
“It’s possible.”
“Should I… warn them?”
“Don’t spook them. Until we know more.”
“I’ll give my sister the heads up–she’s not easily spooked.”
He stood up, signalling our chat was over. “Call me if something comes up.”
This second visit from McCarthy seriously rattled me. I took a detour through the park, collapsing onto the nearest bench, not wanting to wait until I reached the office before phoning Gee. I fixed my breathing first. Hyp
erventilating during conversation wouldn’t wash with my sister, who had no time for “psychoneurotic hysteria”–her label for anything remotely emotional.
She picked up on the second ring, surprising us both.
“It’s me.” I cut to the chase. “I’ve had a visit from the police.”
There was absolutely no reaction apart from a slight intake of breath. Jesus, I cursed silently. I could tell when she was gone–there was a dumb-down numbness to her, which was a trillion miles from her scalpel-sharp brain.
“Did you hear me?” I barked. “The police.”
“The police?” This time you would think I’d given her an injection of adrenaline and I felt immediately guilty about the abruptness of the call. You don’t open a conversation like this to mothers with young children.
“Listen, don’t panic. I don’t want you to tell Mum. I’m being followed and the police think it might be someone who is connected with Vivienne Roberts.”
“Vivienne who?”
“Christ, Gee. The girl who died of an overdose?”
“Uh huh, okay…okay, calm down.”
I told her in detail what McCarthy had told me and she gave me the impression she was listening.
“Be aware, that’s all. Anything or anyone out of the ordinary, tell me. Or the police. It’s probably nothing but I wanted you to know.”
“Yeah, alright. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it to Mum.”
“I won’t.”
“You should call her,” I warned. “Otherwise she’s on the next plane to Aberdeen.”
“Is this what it’s really about?”
The self-centredness never ceased to amaze me. “No, Gee. This is not about you. This time it is about me.”
She sighed, exasperated. “Yes, Lori, I know that.”
Cece, Suzanne and Kate closed ranks around me and questioned me senseless; desperate to uncover clues. Cece was adamant I should stay with her in case Harrison’s murderer came after me. We were at Ribbons and she stuck to her theme. “I don’t know why you insist on returning home alone each night. I have the room. Hell, take over a whole floor.”
(2013) Four Widows Page 9