It was though we had been taken to another place. The cemetery, surrounded by dense foliage, threw a hush about the place, soundproofing the hum of traffic as it zipped into town. The sky, designer-bedspread blue, was pulled tight at the corners, no creases or pillows of clouds evident at this moment.
I started to edge back to the car, now regretting intruding on Kate’s deeply personal moment. I shivered as though sensing the atmosphere had changed.
Ever since I was first followed home, I was looking over my shoulder more than ever. Even now I had the feeling that someone’s eyes were on me; watching me watching Kate.
I was about to turn on my heel when Kate stood up abruptly and opened her purse, startling me with the suddenness of the action.
Forget coffee, we needed to head to the nearest bar. “Time for a proper drink,” I muttered under my breath. This was another noticeable change that had come about since Harrison died–I’d started talking to myself.
Medieval mourners, I’m told, used to hold wakes; speaking to the deceased in the belief that their conversations could be heard. I was running with this tradition and would stand in the bedroom and confront my dead husband and demand to know what the hell he was thinking, getting behind the wheel of his car while under the influence. I would rant at him, scream obscenities at such a brainless act: driving over the limit.
I grumbled under my breath and hunted in my bag for some gum, hoping to take the edge off my thirst. People in Paris talk to themselves all the time, my mother told me briskly when I confessed about the talking thing.
When I looked up, Kate was standing there with a gun in her hand.
Gunshots ripped holes in the silence; fireworks during sleep, sending birds screaming for cover in trees. It was an enormous noise, so unexpected and savage in the serene surroundings I pictured it puncturing the ozone; one final fatal blow. There would be a hole big enough to suck out continents and oceans–and me, a forgettable speck in chaos. Shoes left behind on the gravel.
Time lingered in the heat, and I remember looking up and seeing a white line from a plane scratch its destiny across the blue, pilot protected in ten thousand tonnes of steel, airborne through a tug of war between aerodynamic forces. Swap, I thought. You here. Me there. Above the clouds.
I guess you could call it my first outer-body experience (and, Christ, hopefully my last), or at least that’s what it felt like. I had the distinct feeling of hovering, suspended above the world; no one could see me but I could see the entire universe mapped out beneath me.
It didn’t last; I crashed back to earth, smashing into sharp-shingled stones. Fallen, or, rather, thrown to the ground with the same mind-set as birds who had fled for cover: save yourself. The noise vibrated through me. So much so, I could have been tied to the central reservation as a train thundered over; safe as you could ever hope to be stuck in the middle of this.
You wouldn’t think to look at me that not so long ago I had a practically perfect life. Not perfect perhaps but perfectly normal for a young thirtysomething; hectic, vibrant and very much in love. Then came the seismic change when I threw my world into suitcases and moved from London to Edinburgh in six hours 30 minutes flat although, obviously, it took longer for me to get there in other ways. And the tremors never quite subsided as I adjusted from an ordinary life and successful career to this. Whatever “this” was.
In the moments following the shooting, I thought about my father and his fondness for ice cream in cones. How he bought a newspaper third from the top, never the second, absolutely never the first. Useless information whirred through my head; a computer running randomly through files–sure sign that the brain’s logic board is about to blow.
Eventually, like three centuries later, Kate put her gun back in her purse and stood, pale but composed, almost serene. Certainly not disturbed, which is more than I can say for the dead husband who lay beneath her feet with a few more bullet holes in him.
Chapter Twenty One
Shoot Shadows, Ghosts, Anyone
After I’d picked myself up off the ground, I approached Kate with extreme caution and said I would follow her to Cece’s house. She barely acknowledged me—not even a flicker of surprise. I didn’t question the gun and she obviously didn’t feel the need to explain. Instead, she drifted to the car like a sleepwalker being put back to bed. I wasn’t even sure she should be driving but stuck to her back bumper possessed, even running a red light to keep up.
Was Kate even aware of what she’d done? The sereneness was unnerving. I called the girls from the car, telling them what had just happened and that we needed to meet now, not later for drinks as planned. Cece was waiting for us on the street outside her house. Suzanne arrived soon after on her bike, taffeta skirt billowing behind her like a parachute.
“OH! SUGAR, HONEY, ICED TEA!!! You did what?” cried Cece, thrusting her hands into new salon-styled hair, clacking back and forth the kitchen in Marni-high clogs.
“I shot him,” said Kate, sitting at Cece’s kitchen table, looking remarkably unruffled. Hands clasped in front of her, Anya Hindmarch tote anchored at her feet.
Cece skidded on her heels, astonished. “YOU SHOT HIM?” As though this was the first time she had heard the news even though I had filled her in en route.
She looked at me to confirm this and I nodded, not wanting to look at Kate.
“You’re lucky someone didn’t call the police.” Cece’s voice pitched higher. Soprano.
“We didn’t linger,” I said quietly.
“No different from the One O’Clock Gun,” said Kate, seeming not to register that I had been there. “Just a few more booms.”
Cece erupted. “That’s a traditional canon shot. That’s not puttin’ a bullet in someone.”
Suzanne finally found her voice. “You shot Neil?”
I figured this could go back and forth for some time so I cut to the chase. “Yes, she shot him. Four times.”
The restrictive silence wound round us, cobra-tight as we all looked at Kate, who studied her shoes. Jesus, someone say something, I thought, desperate to breathe.
Cece walked across the room like she was dragging heavy machinery; the weight of the world on her shoulders. She reached the fridge and grabbed a bottle of wine. “This ain’t good.”
Suzanne gave Kate’s hand a squeeze. “He’s dead, sweetie. Neil’s gone.”
“Yes, I had noticed,” replied Kate with a cracked smile as she swilled her drink round the bottom of her glass.
I downed the wine like fruit juice and looked at Cece to say something. Kate had taken a gun–a proper Goddamn gun out of her purse and shot her dead husband four times through the grass and straight through the heart, too, judging by her aim. I didn’t even know how to hold a gun, let alone load and fire it.
Cece sat down and knocked back her wine too. “Sweet Mother of Georgia.”
Suzanne threw her a look and turned to Kate. “You okay?”
Kate nodded and smiled. She looked more than okay; she looked younger than her 36 years. She turned to me. “Sorry, darling. I didn’t know you were there. I gave you a fright?”
I drained my glass and chose my words carefully. “It was a… little unexpected.”
This broke the ice and we started laughing like drains, alcohol and shock ignited a mini hysterical explosion.
When the laughter died down, the silence was uncomfortable again. It was a silence that needed to be broken with questions but even I balked at bringing them up. Asking if someone is okay is not good enough: it’s a cop-out. You need the pull-no-punches approach to get inside someone’s head. How did it feel when you pulled the trigger? Or one of my father’s favourites: tell me where it hurts.
Kate studied her wine, as though the legs draining down the side of the glass were future-telling tea leaves. Not one word was uttered in case we broke her concentration. Even Cece, remarkably, was quiet.
“He shot himself with it,” said Kate eventually. Her eyes travelled towards the bag at her
feet.
We swallowed. Suzanne nodded as if this information was enough to close the conversation. Judging by her expression, she hoped we would move on; not open old wounds, so to speak. Cece and I disagreed.
“Wait a minute, you kept the gun?” asked Cece, mouth flapping. “The same gun. Is that… is that allowed?”
“It’s a muzzle-loading pistol, actually,” Kate corrected. “The police returned it to me.”
“How do you get hold of a… p-pistol in the first place?” stuttered Cece, picking up pace. “Isn’t it easier to sell a kidney than own a gun in this country? Don’t you need a licence?” She looked as though the police were about to break down the door and arrest Kate.
“I have a firearms certificate through active involvement at gun clubs. We both do–did. And names and addresses of two referees.”
Suzanne looked nauseous and threw me a glance as if to say: “Stop this, now.”
Cece deliberately avoided eye contact with Suzanne and ploughed on. She made me look like an amateur when it came to questioning people.
“Gun club? Wasn’t Neil… he… depressed? Are depressed people allowed fire arms?”
Kate pressed fingers to her temples, tired under interrogation. “Children under 10 can get shotgun certificates here. Not as strict as you think.”
I hurriedly resorted to a standard cop-out question to get us back onto safe ground. “Are you okay? “
She shrugged. “I’m fine. I just wanted to… feel better.”
“Sacred cow, Kate,” Cece exclaimed, incredulous. “That’s what eating cookie dough’s for. And,” she collapsed heavily onto the nearest chair, making an o-shape with finger and thumb, “…zero risk of arrest.”
“I need closure. Anyone would say I’m not good at handling the anniversary of his death, but it’s not that…”
“Then what?” interrupted Cece, fanning herself.
“The date doesn’t make a difference. I just want to know why. Why did he leave us? Why didn’t he talk to me?” She looked at our anxious faces and gave us a small smile. “Don’t worry, I’m not losing it–seriously, I’m not.”
Suzanne reached across the table for her hand. “It’s fine. You don’t have to talk about it.”
“Whoa, there. Yes, she bloody does,” spluttered Cece. “It’s not a spaghetti western out there–you can’t go around just shootin’ folks.”
“He was dead the last time I looked,” said Kate dryly.
“Tell us about it.”
“Cece,” Suzanne reprimanded. “That is enough.”
“No, it ain’t. We need to talk about this. We need to talk about the fact that Kate is walking around with a muzzle-whatsit PISTOL in her purse.”
Kate pulled her hair away from her face, taking a moment to tie it back. “I’m fine. To answer your question, Cece, I have no idea if he was depressed or not–he didn’t talk about it. That’s how he managed to hold on to his licence and fool everyone.” She repeated herself. “I’m fine.”
Ah, fine. You’ll be fine. I’m fine. For future reference, I would take this as the waving flag for rescue me. Grab the fire extinguisher and put me out.
This time even Suzanne couldn’t let a burning question lie. “But you loved him? Didn’t you?”
Meanwhile, I unwrapped a stick of gum and flattened the silver foil between my fingers and thumbs, tapping the serrated edges. I tried to see my reflection but it was blurred.
Kate took another big swallow of wine.
“Why didn’t you talk to us?” asked Cece. “I thought things were better.”
“I hate him more than I ever loved him,” said Kate, answering Suzanne’s question. “And I loved him so very much.”
I dug my fingernails into the palm of my hand.
Her mood changed, however, and she forced a smile, which transformed her face.
C’mon, Lori. You promised me martinis.” She held up her hands. “Look, unarmed.” I saw someone who couldn’t be further from forgiveness.
I would soon be able to relate to that.
“I’ll take the gun…pistol,” I said on impulse, with confidence, giving the impression I knew how to dispose of it legally.
“EXCELLENT IDEA,” thundered Cece. “Let Lori get rid of it. Please.”
Kate handed it over almost with a sense of relief. It looked old fashioned; like a prop from a Clint Eastwood movie. I expected it to be shinier. Shorter.
“It’s not loaded?”
Kate shook her head, digging further in her bag for bullets.
This season’s Balenciaga bag can hide a multitude of sins–I shoved the pistol to the bottom. It was for my own protection, I told myself. I had no intention of handing it over and would use it to shoot shadows, ghosts or anyone who tried to hurt me.
Later that night, after Kate’s gun episode, let’s call it that, I thought about the time my father operated on a woman who had been shot through the head.
It had been a lovers’ argument gone wrong. The boyfriend ended the dispute with a .22 calibre revolver and shot his girlfriend at close range. The bullet hit her right between the eyes and left an exit wound at the back of the head.
The occiput, my father said.
She was unconscious but not dead, delivered to the hospital in a roar of sirens and screams (the boyfriend’s). Flashing lights. By the time my father had been summoned to her bedside, gunshot woman had woken up and was chatting. She told my father that her boyfriend had been drinking whisky, which makes him go crazy. They had a row and lover boy lost his temper. Got so angry, he shot her.
The CT scan showed that the bullet had whizzed over the skull, which was shielding her brain, and blasted out the other side. Not a medical miracle but a surprisingly thick skull that had formed like so after the woman had suffered a head injury as a child, my father established.
We were later told that the couple had been reconciled. “She took him back?” I could not believe it.
“Lost a few brain cells after all,” remarked my father without looking up from his paper.
My sister and I focused on this tale for entirely different reasons. Gee became fixated on gunshot wounds to the head, fascinated by brains swelling, excessive bleeding, burst blood vessels; the grisly details. She was disappointed, almost, that our father’s miracle woman had lived. Whereas I wanted to know what the hell the couple had been arguing about. What does it take to point a gun at someone’s head–and go boom? Motive.
Chapter Twenty Two
Dead People Don’t Answer Questions
I checked out McCarthy online. More than once, more than decent. He was who he said he was. Cases included financial fraud, theft, murder. I also found links to anti-terrorism work, including an incident at Glasgow International Airport.
When we next spoke on the phone I echoed Cece’s concerns. “Can you lead an investigation based on an email?”
“An email’s more than just a hunch,” McCarthy said, his no-nonsense response shooting me down.
“But…”
“This email tells me your husband was as good as murdered. Want me to wait for a talk-show confession?”
Chastened by the brusque response, I backtracked. “I’m in denial. It’s so hard to accept that someone would w-want to… you know…” I failed to finish.
He softened his tone. “Edinburgh isn’t Miami. We’re driving down the levels of violent crime and will get to the bottom of what happened to your husband. It’s not a straightforward case and there are no witnesses but we don’t give up.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to question…”
He cut short the apology. “We’ve wasted six months on this. I feel responsible.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I still feel responsible.”
Edinburgh’s not Miami. McCarthy didn’t know I was walking around with a real-life firearm. I took it with me everywhere: to work, to Ribbons, to Costa. It terrified me. I couldn’t hold it without breaking out in a sweat, finger on the tr
igger. This fear corroded my stomach lining worse than mountains of anti-inflammatory drugs ever did. You see, guns and bullets aren’t dangerous; people are.
Cece, with her distinctive Southern twang, which hadn’t been diluted crossing state lines and countries over the years, was telling us earnestly how a curse works.
“It’s remote influencing,” she said. “People can generate malicious energy to make bad stuff happen.”
Kate scoffed. “Spare us the voodoo talk.”
“Laugh all you like but it’s true. Look at you. Look at me. Lori too.”
She had a good point. The Watcher was still out there and I’d shown Cece, Suzanne and Kate the envelopes filled with photographs and personal paperwork. These anonymous deliveries continued: addressed to Harrison, redirected to me. There was no set routine–sometimes weeks with nothing through the post. Ominous silence.
I would handle the photographs of Vivienne Roberts with extreme care and pour over them with an intensity usually reserved for our cover models as we flagged up stray hairs, wrinkles or pigmentation. In this situation, though, instead of looking for physical flaws I searched for answers, obsessing over the life of someone I had never met. Hoping, I guess, this bewitching woman would lead to clues about how I lost my husband.
Then the tone changed–and content. I received a mailed package containing a newspaper cutting folded precisely into four. Vivienne was dressed in a spectacular red evening dress surrounded by six or seven other people smiling at the camera. The caption underneath read: Vivienne Roberts, 28, organised and helped raise £225,000 at the annual London Diabetes Society charity ball. I didn’t read this at the time though because someone had scrawled a bespoke caption in red pen: Vivienne Roberts. Murdered.
Other photographs were similarly defaced with reddish ink that looked suspiciously like blood. Some looked scratched; fingernail frenzied.
(2013) Four Widows Page 11