Hold Still – Tim Adler #3: A Psychological Thriller

by Tim Adler

  Paul was stretched out on the gurney. Her husband was just sleeping, that was all.

  A paper doily covered his face, and the reality of his death hit her for the first time. Until now she hadn't really believed he was dead. Somehow she had imagined that Paul would walk in, leading the clapping, and she would feign astonishment as the reality TV hoax was revealed. Except that this was no hoax: this was her life.

  Another man was waiting for her in the anteroom. He was small and nearly bald, with glasses that comically magnified his eyes. His spectacles were old-fashioned Seventies frames and his eyes, large and strange, seemed to float behind the lenses. "Mrs Julia? My name is Inspector Poda from the Albania State Police. I am the officer assigned to you. I am sorry about what has happened." His English was good, tinged with an Italian accent. "Before we go any further, I need you to identify the body. Are you okay with that?" Kate swallowed and nodded. She was determined to get through this, no matter how painful it would be. "Your husband was run over by a car," Poda continued. "There was a lot of damage to his face after he hit the pavement." That explained the oddly dainty touch with the doily. He rapped on the glass and nodded.

  Neither of the two mortuary attendants moved. One was big with a round, grave face and a greasy ponytail – he reminded Kate of the butler in those Addams Family movies she had watched as a kid – while the other was barely more than a child. He had that sullen, pasty-faced look of somebody brought up on a tough estate, and he made her think of a white rat with red eyes. Neither man seemed willing to make the first move. They both kept gesturing, as if urging the other to take the first step. Finally, the kid who looked like a white rat came forward and lifted Paul's wrist. "Do you recognise this tattoo?" the detective inspector asked. On the back of Paul's hand was the faded grey tattoo he had got as a teenager, a crude Z. A certain disintegration was occurring in Kate's chest, an increasing shakiness. She nodded. The inspector nodded back and the attendant stepped forward to close the blinds.

  Her husband was lying dead in front of her, and the only question now was how to make funeral arrangements. She felt defeated. "What happens now?" she asked, lifting her face. She was a child needing to be looked after, this was so overwhelming. The detective looked at Kate sympathetically.

  "I need to ask you some questions," he said.

  "Why? Am I under arrest?"

  Poda shrugged. "No. Do you think you should be?"

  "Of course not."

  "I need you to tell me what happened. So we can eliminate you from our enquiry." He gestured for her to sit down. "Do you have any idea why your husband killed himself?"

  Even the words he was using made her want to giggle, the idea of Paul killing himself was so ridiculous.

  "None whatsoever. We flew into Tirana yesterday for his uncle's funeral. It was this afternoon. Paul seemed fine when we got back to the hotel. We watched the fireworks and then…"

  "This uncle. Who was he?"

  "A farmer who lived in what Paul called the Highlands. He took over Paul's family farm when he was a boy, after his father died. I don't know his name."

  "But you have family in Tirana, yes?"

  "Yes, Paul's mother lives in the city. We went to her flat after the funeral."

  "I need the name and address of your mother-in-law. I also want to speak to other witnesses, people at the hotel."

  The policeman nodded as he wrote in his notebook. "You get back to the hotel and your husband does this thing." The inspector stopped writing and looked up. "So this was completely unexpected? You had no argument, there was no fighting?"

  "We did argue. Paul had been having money problems at work. He runs an internet business in London. Business hasn't been so good. I knew he was worried."

  "So money worries were the reason he killed himself?"

  Kate sighed. Suddenly she felt absolutely drained. The detective inspector was going too fast, trying to make her say things she didn't mean. He was attempting to get things wrapped up quickly, pushing for a simple explanation instead of the truth.

  "There's something else you should know. Just before Paul jumped, he got a text message. He read it, and the next thing I knew he was dead."

  The inspector looked surprised. "Where is this text message? Do you have his mobile phone? I need to look at it."

  "It's back at the hotel. I left it there. In the confusion."

  The inspector stood up. "We'd better get going. The National, yes?"

  The first thing Kate noticed when she got back to their room was the silence. The French windows were still open and the net curtains were moving about. She closed the windows and only then did she pick up Paul's mobile. The detective inspector stood there awkwardly, probably wondering whether to interrupt this private moment. She turned her back to him. For some reason, what the Irishman said came back to her – about all Albanians being thieves – and she forwarded the text to herself. Just for safekeeping. "Here," she said. "Look for yourself." Both of them stood over the mobile. There was no message, just a photo attachment: it looked like a CCTV screen-shot of Paul standing next to a young Asian woman. Paul had his arms raised as if he was shouting. The black-and-white image was grainy, but it looked as if they were indoors.

  "Have you ever seen this photo before?"

  Kate shook her head. "No, never."

  "You don't know who this woman is? Or who sent the photograph?" She shook her head again. "Try phoning the number."

  Kate tapped the call button and listened to the single dial tone. Whoever had sent the message was obviously abroad. The automated voicemail cut in and she ended the call. Voicemail, she said. The inspector dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag. Carefully, he took the mobile from her hand, reversing the bag over it. Evidence, he replied. Kate went through Paul's jacket and handed over his wallet and notebook, and then went to the safe for his passport. The inspector said she could have them back in a couple of days, once his investigation was complete. "So what happens now?" she asked. Poda blinked behind his funny magnified spectacles. "You make funeral arrangements," he said flatly.

  Silence reasserted itself once she was left alone in the room. Kate felt like a small child again. Who would look after her now? She wanted her husband to hold her, to tell her everything was going to be okay. But, of course, nothing was going to be okay. The one person she needed was gone. A tsunami of things she needed to do was bearing down on her. Being practical, yes, that was the only way she would get through this. "That's one of the things I love about you most," Paul had told her. "You're so down to earth." But what would happen once she ran out of things to do, what then? Her chest felt tight, so tight. Don't leave me, my darling, I love you so much. Finally the tears came. Sitting there on the bed, she was wracked with great heaving sobs. Kate had never felt more abandoned or alone.

  Saturday

  Chapter Six

  A heavy weight was pressing down on her, making even the thought of getting up impossible. What was the point of leaving the bed? Everything seemed hopeless. She felt for Paul's side of the mattress, but of course it was cold and empty. Grief was building like a wave about to break, and she knew she had to fight it, otherwise Paul might as well have grabbed her, too, and they would both have toppled over together, their brains dashed on the pavement.

  Paul wouldn't have wanted her to feel this way. "If anything ever happens to me, I want you to remarry," he had told her only a few weeks ago. She remembered looking up from her Macintosh, wondering what had brought that on. Perhaps he had already made up his mind. Guilt weighed down on her. Kate gazed up at the hotel ceiling, trying to remember if Paul had given her any other clues about what he'd planned to do. Was there anything she could have done to stop him? Some indication of his state of mind?

  What a way to go. She tried to imagine what it must have been like, standing on the edge of the balcony and then tipping over, seeing the square rush up to meet you. She screwed her eyes shut, trying to block out the image.

  A
nd who was the woman in the text message? Why was Paul arguing with her? What had that to do with Paul's decision to jump?

  Thoughts about how her husband had killed himself, and who the woman in the photograph was, twisted round each other. The fact was, however, that Kate had unknowingly failed her husband in some way, and now he was lying dead on a hospital gurney.

  What she needed to do was tell people, let them know her pain and shock. This was the first time she had felt compelled to play to the gallery. She must testify to the calamity that had befallen her, and this urge would grow stronger over the coming days. She would tell taxi drivers, shopkeepers and anybody else she came across what her husband had done. Like a character in a Greek tragedy, she wanted to tear her clothes, wail and beat her breasts.

  The telephone cut through her thoughts.

  "Hello?"

  "Kate, this is Marina. I heard on the news this morning. Somebody at the hotel threw themselves off roof. Are you both all right?"

  It was painful to swallow. How do you tell a mother that her son is dead? "Marina – I'm very sorry. There's been some bad news. Paul–"

  "Oh, God. Don't tell me that. Please don't tell me it was Paul."

  "There was an accident. He fell off the balcony."

  Silence. Paul's mother began crying on the other end of the line. It was a horrible, keening moan, and Kate could imagine the black O of her mother-in-law's mouth. She couldn't think of anything worse than a mother outliving her son. It was so unnatural.

  A memory. Her classics teacher budged up next to her at a school desk, translating the Greek together: What greater grief can there be for mortals than to see their children dead?

  "He must have lost his balance and toppled over the edge," Kate told her, parroting what the policeman had said. In her heart, though, she knew this wasn't true. She thought about the man on the balcony, the face looming through the net curtains. "Please. I want to come and see you."

  "My son, my son. I loved him so much. You can't–"

  Half an hour later, she was in a taxi heading towards her mother-in-law's. The taxi driver was the same man who'd driven her and Paul back to the hotel. Her husband had been alive less than twelve hours ago. It felt like a different life. They passed by a dingy clothes shop calling itself Harrrods, and she made a mental note to remember to tell Paul because he would find it funny – only to realise that she would never tell him anything again. That was hard. She screwed up her eyes to stop herself from tearing up as they lurched over another pothole. Soon they were back in the rundown side street with black wire spewing out of the apartment-block wall. She handed over two thousand lek and told the driver he would get the other half on her return. No problem, he said. Kids stopped playing football as she got out of the car, as if they had never seen a taxi before.

  Her mother-in-law seemed to have aged even since yesterday. She took the chain off the door and shuffled back down the hall to her sitting room. A hideous Communist-era shelving unit dominated one wall and Kate noticed the apartment's smell for the first time, a curious mixture of mustiness and linseed oil she would come to associate with Albania. Marina sat down heavily in her overstuffed leather armchair and lit a cigarette. "Tell me what happened," she said dully. Kate went through the whole story from beginning to end. How she knew Paul was under pressure at work, their row in the taxi and Paul jumping from their seventh-floor balcony. She left out the part about the text message.

  "Whatever had been on his mind about work, we could have talked it through. We would have found a solution," Kate said.

  "Paul was not happy. He tell me."

  "I know he wasn't happy. It had been building for weeks. If only he had seen a doctor–"

  "He tell me he has big debts. He feel trapped. He say everything on his shoulders, how he can't see any way out. I am sorry, Kate, I should have told you."

  "When did he tell you?"

  "The night you arrive. At his uncle's wake. I can see he is unhappy. A mother knows."

  "You should have said something. Depression is an illness. It can be treated."

  "Kate, you are good woman. I do not want to hurt you. What Paul tell me–" Marina shrugged.

  "Hurt me? What did Paul tell you?"

  "At the wake. He talk about everything, his life–"

  "Yes? And what did he say?"

  "He say he feel trapped. He want new life."

  "Yes, he told me he felt responsible for everything."

  Marina twisted the tissue in her lap harder. "With you, I mean. He was unhappy with you."

  "I don't understand."

  "He tell me he do not love you anymore."

  Kate's brain pulsed with shock the moment she said it. Her lips felt thick, and it took a moment before she could think of what to say. "The thing is, Marina," she said, recovering, "I don't believe Paul's death was an accident. I think he was murdered."

  Marina shifted in her seat. "What make you say that?"

  She reached into her handbag and pulled out her iPhone, swiping through photographs with her finger. Handing the mobile across, she showed Marina the photo of Paul in their bedroom, naked and vulnerable.

  Now it was Marina's turn not to understand.

  "Look closer. Behind Paul on the balcony. There's a man standing outside. Waiting for him. You can see his face where the net curtains have blown onto him."

  Marina studied the phone before handing it back. "I don't see anything."

  "Don't tell me you can't see it."

  "It was just wind. You see things that are no there. Kate, listen. I am sorry for you, I am sorry for my son. I don't know how long I can go on knowing that he's dead. It is the one thing I feared most in the world. But you have to accept truth–"

  Anger heated through her, and there was fire in Kate's belly. She could not believe Paul's own mother was so quick to dismiss her. Goddammit, she would prove that her husband was murdered. Somebody had pushed Paul off that balcony, and she was determined to find out who. She slipped her mobile back in her bag. "Fine," she said acidly. "If you don't believe me, I'll find somebody who does."

  "Kate, wait–"

  "Don't bother getting up. I'll see myself out."

  Tears stung her eyes as she weaved down the corridor. She didn't really know where she was going. How could this woman say such a vile thing? Of course Paul loved her. What had happened was an aberration, a thin streak of the irrational that runs through everything.

  Back outside, Kate felt as if she couldn't get enough air into her lungs. Her thoughts turned to the man lurking on the balcony, the one who had pushed her husband to his death. The problem was that she knew only one other person in Tirana who might believe her.

  The taxi driver was standing beside his car waiting. He dropped his cigarette when he saw Kate and looked faintly alarmed when she told him where they were going. She was a woman possessed. Like a Fury, she would pursue whoever had done this to her husband to the ends of the Earth.

  Chapter Seven

  Another corridor. Canary-yellow walls and a powder-blue, mica-flecked floor. Notices in Albanian. Police headquarters was located on the outskirts of the city centre. Policemen walking past looked down at Kate curiously as she sat in the corridor gathering her thoughts. A man had been lurking outside ready to push her husband off their balcony, she was convinced of it. A burglar surprised in the act when they arrived back so unexpectedly. But what if Marina was right and it was all just a trick of the light? Vast edifices of conspiracy had been erected around the Moon landings because of the way light had fallen in a photograph. Maybe this was all in her mind: she'd invented it because she couldn't cope with the truth. These two voices vied in her head until Inspector Poda came downstairs to greet her. The funny-looking detective looked worried.

  "Mrs Julia? We're not ready to release your husband's body yet. Our investigation is ongoing. We need to do a post-mortem first and then issue a death certificate."

  "Have you found anything?" she said, standing up.


  "It is still early in the investigation. We will get witness statements, talk to people. You can take your husband home once the post-mortem is finished."

  "I haven't come about that. I need to show you something. Another photograph," she said, realising how lame this sounded.

  "Another photograph? We're still trying to find the person who sent your husband the text."

  "Please. Can we talk somewhere in private?"

  The inspector signed her in and escorted her through the turnstile before they went upstairs. In the bad old days, there had been a secret police as well, its headquarters up the road from her hotel. Poda gestured for the two detectives in the room to leave. Looking round at the grubby beige computers, desks and whiteboards, Kate thought they could have been in any sales office.

  "So, how can I help you?" the inspector said, leaning forward. Kate showed him her iPhone and they went through the same routine again, with Poda looking quizzically at the photo. Except this time he nodded.

  "What am I looking at?"

  "This was the last photograph I took of my husband. You can see somebody else on the balcony behind him."

  "Yes, I can see his face in the curtain."

  "You believe me?"

  "There's definitely somebody there."

  "I thought I was going mad." Kate tried to keep the excitement out of her voice. "I thought it must be a burglar."

  Poda turned serious. "We need to show this to the hotel. Perhaps they know who it is. Often these people have friends on the inside, people who work as cleaners."

  "Thank God. I can't tell you what a relief this is."