(2013) Four Widows

by Helen MacArthur

  “… she’s Cece.”

  “Yeah.” Kate laughed. “And some.”

  “I’ll call her later.”

  “Financially, it was a bitch, y’know?”

  I didn’t follow.

  Kate continued. “I sold the house at a loss. The life insurance suicide clause kinda scuppered me.”

  I tensed, wondering how to go about unchartered conversation ahead.

  “Cece helped out?”

  “She saved me from going under. She’d sell the shirt off her back to help someone.”

  “Silk Escada,” we said at the same time and laughed.

  “You would do the same for her,” I reasoned.

  “Nah, she’s a much nicer person than I am. I’ve almost repaid what I owe but will be forever indebted to her in other ways.”

  “Christ, don’t tell her that.”

  “Aha, you’re right. She’ll have me washing dishes.”

  “Worse. Scaling fish.”

  She laughed some more at that. “Her heart is in the right place. She just wants to help Suzanne.”

  “I know she does. So what do we do?”

  “We wait.”

  More waiting, I thought, swallowing a sigh. We wait and we wait some more. That’s all I seemed to ever do and, like I said, the waiting was killing me.

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Remembering Everything Syndrome

  McCarthy had no breakthroughs. “We wait. We work. Then we catch a break,” he said.

  I got the message: there is no chronological order or queuing system when it comes to murder and crime. Urgent cases continue to roll in and demand immediate attention while paperwork piles up. Harrison’s death was dated: old case soon-to-be cold case.

  Meanwhile, there had been no contact from Suzanne. Texts and calls went unanswered. As a result, we more or less buried ourselves in work. Kate had her hands full with work and Ella and Jack, while Cece made the most of an upturn in business, churning out more frangipani fillings than a Parisienne patisserie.

  “She’s still in a carbohydrate tailspin,” said Kate, when I called to check up on our friend. “But I’m pretty confident she’ll come through it.”

  It is not to say that we didn’t miss Suzanne. We fell into the habit of talking about her as though she were on holiday–keeping a note of all the things we had to tell her; show her; the anecdotes. We couldn’t accept that she might never return. I thought back to one of the last times we met for lunch: Suzanne in a full-length Chantilly lace gown and nude gossamer shawl despite the mid-day heat.

  In truth, we were preoccupied with our own lives; our own mysteries. McCarthy didn’t give up–the waiting was endless but, true to his word, he kept me informed.

  “I’m going over toxology reports again,” he said. We met in the Holyrood office foyer. He’d been pumping scalding vendor-machine coffee down his throat while he waited for me to descend 22 floors.

  “Again?”

  “To be sure.”

  “To be sure he was drunk?”

  “To rule out drugs–”

  I let out a breath that could power a steam train. We’d gone over and over this and I stuck to the same mantra as before: he was clean. Yes, I know my sister misused meds but Harrison was different.

  “Drugs?”

  “To be sure–”

  “Will this ever be over?”

  McCarthy stared. “Your husband was moved from the car. It wasn’t an accident.”

  The persistence in his voice startled me. Made me want to call in the defence team. I wanted to take the heat off me. “Do you really believe that the person who emailed the police–he was with Harrison in the car?”

  “I think so. Unless you know otherwise.”

  This rattled me but I pushed on with another question. “Harrison must have known who it was?”

  “Yes.”

  I hooked change out of my pocket for the drinks machine. “More coffee?” I’m guessing McCarthy could read me like a book but I had no idea what was going on in his head.

  He shook his head. “But I’ll have one of those.”

  “Coke?”

  “Yeah, whatever–beat the heat.”

  I rolled out another question to break up the silence between us. “You’ve spoken to his colleagues in Dundee?”

  “We’ve gone through the names. We’ll go over them again.”

  I pressed the iced drink to the inside of my wrists.

  This time it was McCarthy with a question. “No one in your family has been followed?”

  “No–and I’ve tried to spare my mother most of the details. She lives alone.”

  “Your sister?”

  “She knows.”

  “She…?”

  “Gwendoline.”

  “Gwendoline Walker–like you?”

  “Correct. You don’t take notes?”

  McCarthy finished his drink and crushed the can, which seemed to signal that the conversation was over. “No need to. I seem to remember everything–can’t switch off.”

  He smiled but I was on the level–more in control, less likely to lean over and lick the side of his face or do something equally mortifying on the back of an impulse.

  “Which can be a curse, I guess.”

  “There’s good stuff and bad. Like there is with everything.”

  I returned his smile. “Hyperthymestic syndrome.”

  “Hyperwhat?”

  “Remembering everything–over and above the norm.”

  He grinned and offered a handshake. “It had to happen–I finally have a syndrome!”

  I felt his iron-strong hands and, as I released myself from his grip, said lightly, “Well, I wouldn’t get too excited, I’m no expert–my father was the brain surgeon.”

  Chaos shows its face once more. Out of the blue, I had, shall we say, a run-in with Daisy at Ribbons. Everything was coming to a head and I took my frustration out on her.

  It happened late one afternoon when I headed to the restaurant to see if I could catch Cece before the supper rush. Daisy made brief eye contact from across the room before turning her attention back to online reservations or whatever was captivating her on the computer.

  I bristled. No, I would say I seethed. Lack of sleep is lethal. I made a beeline for her, hips like shovels, knocking a chair sideways from the table.

  She looked up, startled. The noise had thrown her; the sight of me powering on jet engines in her direction alarmed her more. Close up, she had slight smudges of shadows under her eyes but it didn’t make her look less beautiful, more vulnerable perhaps. She looked older.

  “Cece isn’t here,” she said, attempting one of her fake room-illuminating smiles.

  “Don’t,” I snapped.

  Her eyes narrowed. “What is this about?”

  “The attitude–whenever I’m around. Whenever Kate and Suzanne are with me. Cece might not notice but we do.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do.”

  “I have work to do.”

  Looking round the empty restaurant, I continued. “Do we offend you that much?”

  She reared back, nostrils flaring.

  I steamed on. “Not everyone gets the perfect life.”

  “Lori—”

  I cut her off. “This must be hard to understand when all you have think about is whether this lipstick matches last season’s Monsoon dress, but it’s different for us–”

  “Wait—”

  “You wait. And, don’t think for a single minute we’re freeloading each time we come here. We all pay our way. We’re keeping you in a job.”

  I stopped to draw breath, waiting for her to explode furiously. She looked as though she could give it back in buckets and I was spoiling for a fight.

  Angry, I was so angry with everyone and everything–it bubbled inside me at such an excessively high temperature I could have surfaced roads with the rage. I’d reached boiling point, Daisy, however, wasn’t set to do
battle, anything but; shocked and speechless more like.

  We stared at each other, eyes locked, mouths set, mirroring each other’s hostile expression.

  Eventually, she spoke. “Sit down.”

  I did what I was told feeling faintly ridiculous, short changed on a screaming match.

  She went to the bar and poured a whisky for me, vodka lemonade for her, leaving her purse on the till. “Just so you know, I’m not freeloading either.”

  I took the drink and mumbled. “I’m sorry. Lack of sleep makes me a bitch.”

  “You think?”

  She had every right to sound defensive. I nodded, chastened. “I’m really sorry.”

  “Whatever.” Daisy shrugged, letting me suffer in silence for a decent amount of time before continuing. And I sensed a secret–another one that never sleeps. “I do have attitude, you’re right. But it has nothing to do with you being a widow. Hell, what kind of person do you think I am? I’m genuinely sorry for your loss–”

  His name was Robbie. I swear I’d never heard Cece talk about him, which was weird considering that Ribbons’ volume of staff wasn’t up there with The Savoy. What’s more. Cece liked to talk about everyone—good and bad regardless.

  Daisy talked fast. Like the world was falling through a colander. “Oh, Robbie’s great to look at–no question. Not so great to work with. He ends up restaurant manager with no experience whatsoever. How the hell?”

  “He…who…restaurant manager? It does sound rather…impulsive,” I said still trying to work out why I hadn’t heard about Robbie until now.

  “It’s bloody bad for business. You’ve no idea how frustrating it is to see someone not do their job properly.”

  I wasn’t sure if she was talking about Cece or Robbie so resorted to a generic response. “You’re right.”

  “The position should have been mine. Cece knows she can count on me. It’s no secret that I want to learn everything there is to know about the restaurant business. I’ve seen the mistakes he’s made.”

  “Why didn’t you put yourself forward?”

  “I draw the line at sleeping with the boss.”

  “Ah–” Now I sensed Cece’s need for secrecy.

  “You mean you didn’t know?”

  I shook my head.

  “I thought you all knew. Approved.”

  “We didn’t. Believe me.”

  “That’s what I couldn’t understand: why four intelligent women would think it’s okay to let an overconfident undergraduate take over the running of a restaurant? It’s been driving me nuts. And, yeah, I’ve been a bitch about it.” She rubbed her temples, tired.

  “We wouldn’t think it was okay. I just thought…”

  “…I was the restaurant’s eye candy?”

  I apologised and explained that I’d been so caught up in my own world that everything and everyone had been blotted out,

  We talked some more. And it made me realise that everyone has stuff going on, whether it is emotional, financial or both. Daisy had two young children to support, which meant a job at Ribbons was a big deal to her. “I want to learn the ropes and I work hard. I admired Cece,” she said.

  Past tense. Ouch.

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Hurricane Sunset

  Red and orange beguile me. The alternative is the horror-movie darkness I have become accustomed to. I’m an expert at sunsets and sunrises. Edinburgh had a summer of spectacular ones.

  “You’re no expert until your first hurricane sunset,” Jim pointed out.

  “Is that so?” Someone had opened a bottle of wine at the office and unfathomably failed to finish it. Jim and I obliged.

  “To think we used to get a box of Champagne shipped into the office every Friday afternoon,” said Jim, sighing. “Until the financial fiasco felled us.” He raised his glass. “To freebies.”

  “I can detect a smidgen of less light.” I swivelled my chair until I had a panoramic view of the city.

  “About time–like living in an Alaskan town.”

  “You get used to it.”

  “Like I said.” Jim headed across the office in search of more alcohol. “Hurricane sunsets; so captivatingly beautiful no one notices the shipwrecks on the horizon.”

  “I think I always knew… something wasn’t right. Y’know…Harrison’s death.”

  “Yeah?”

  “See…he wasn’t that person. Someone who would drink and drive.”

  “Time to face the music?”

  “I guess I so.”

  “Good call.”

  “Where do I start?”

  “Where we always start; by asking questions.”

  I drained my drink. “The truth scares the shit out of me.”

  Jim came over and hauled me onto my feet. “So it should. No place to run, no place to hide.”

  He pushed me in the direction of the lift. “C’mon, let’s go to the pub. This place is dry.”

  “Jim.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you know that Cece is seeing someone?”

  “Waiter boy or whatever he is?”

  “You knew?”

  Jim grinned. “You didn’t?”

  “I do now.”

  “Yeah, Cece got it bad.”

  “Why didn’t she say something?”

  “Why do you think?”

  It was Jim’s idea. He said I should phone Harrison’s colleagues at the college hospital in London; dig around before the police ploughed in. Even offered to do it for me but I resisted.

  Doctors don’t remember dead patients or, at least, this is the impression they give.

  Marcus Wilson, senior anaesthetist and Harrison’s drinking partner, seemed like a good start. I got straight to the point and asked whom should I talk to regarding Vivienne Roberts.

  “Who?” he asked, sounding shattered. He told me he’d just finished a 14-hour shift. Seven days doing 14-hour night shifts. I got the message.

  “Vivienne Roberts,” I repeated.

  “Doctors don’t remember dead patients, Lori. You know the rules.”

  “I do, I know, but, please, this is important. I just need the name of someone.”

  “What for?”

  “I … I need to go over some details.”

  His sigh whooshed down the phone. “Harrison didn’t do anything to her. We’re breaking our balls in this place and shit like this doesn’t help.”

  “Then what do you think happened?”

  “Lori, let it go.”

  “I can’t. I need to find out what happened.”

  “Harrison was cleared. No blame.” He spoke with exaggerated conviction. “That’s the truth.”

  “Why did he leave the hospital then? Did he have something to hide?”

  He laughed at this. “We all have something to hide.”

  “Please. I’m trying to finish this.”

  “It is finished. I can’t give you more.”

  “Then who can?”

  Reluctantly, he gave me a name and contact number of a senior consultant at the hospital and the conversation ran out of steam after that. He did, however, take a moment to ask how I was doing.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “Let it go, Lori.”

  “I’m fine. Take care, Marcus.” I put down the phone, hands shaking.

  I wrote down the name. Mr Akshay Kotharo, senior surgeon at the hospital, and one-time mentor to Harrison. He took my call even though his secretary sounded seriously suspicious.

  “May I ask what it is regarding?” she asked, unfriendly.

  “It is a personal matter.”

  “A personal matter,” she repeated, voice sounding as though she was wading through weeds.

  “Please. It is important. Hello?”

  She’d pitched me into a cavernous silence, leaving me to guess whether I was on hold or unceremoniously cut off.

  Then suddenly: “Kotharo,” boomed a voice.

  “Oh, yes, hello, it is Lori Walker here.”

&
nbsp; “Lori who?”

  “I’m Harrison Warner’s wife.”

  “Right, yes. Go on.”

  I looked down at the list of questions scribbled in a notebook and took the plunge even though Kotharo’s manner made me ridiculously nervous. Stick to the questions, I told myself.

  “I wanted to ask you about Harrison and his patient Vivienne Roberts. She…”

  “I am well aware of the case.” Again, voice clipped.

  I rushed out the words, looking at my notes and sounding stilted. “Harrison’s death might not have been an accident. There’s evidence to suggest that someone else might have wanted to harm him. I need to find out what happened.”

  There was a slight pause. “This must be difficult for you. I’m not sure how I can help.”

  “I don’t think Harrison recovered from Vivienne Roberts’ death. He carried the blame. I’m trying to work out what happened–and whether someone close to Vivienne would want to hurt Harrison.”

  “If I remember correctly, Vivienne Roberts’ prospects weren’t good without a heart transplant and she was in a great deal of pain. Dr Warner was very attentive to her case and did the best he could.”

  “I think she asked for his help. To end the pain.”

  “She probably did.”

  “Then how can you be so sure he didn’t…” I couldn’t bring myself to go further.

  “I can be sure, Ms Walker,” he reprimanded me, “Because one doesn’t need that much morphine to kill someone. This is exactly what I told the investigating committee.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course.”

  “Dr Warner would have been mindful of hospital resources.”

  I thought he was joking but, no, deadly serious. “The excessiveness surrounding her death didn’t point to a skilled professional such as your husband. It was an emotional act, that I’m sure. Unfortunately, we were dragged into a situation.”

  “I don’t understand why he wanted to leave the hospital. He had support here. No one blamed him.”

  There was stillness before Kotharo answered. “I personally wanted him to continue his work here. But… we are not just surgeons–”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  He pulled back, brusqueness restored, as though he had said too much. “Ms Walker, I know you want answers. You want to find out what happened to your husband but have decided to focus on his death, which, in my opinion, is like starting at the end and working backwards. Think ab ovo. Go back to the start.”