Every morning I gazed at myself in the mirror, hardly recognising the wan features staring back at me. Concerned at my physical deterioration, Nick insisted I see the doctor, and I was too worn out to resist his exhortations. First I had seen a psychiatrist, now I was consulting the GP, but no one could cure me of my guilt at having hounded an innocent woman to her death. It was hard to believe, but if Rosie was honestly denying my allegations, then I must have been mistaken, or deluded, or dreaming, and Sue hadn’t been having an affair with my husband. All I wanted to do was apologise to her, but of course that was never going to happen. Death was absolute. There was no going back. Somehow I had to live with the truth that there had been no grounds for the jealousy that had driven me to send those emails. In short, it had been insane of me to send them.
The psychiatrist’s report arrived after a couple of days, and I read it with growing disbelief. Dr Scott didn’t think I was suffering from schizophrenia. On the contrary, she judged me to be self-aware and in touch with reality, and in no way mentally disturbed. According to her report, I had experienced a temporary fit of jealousy brought on by a misunderstanding, the kind of upset that could happen to anyone at a difficult time of their life. She concluded that such an episode was unlikely to happen again, but my husband should keep a watchful eye out for any signs of a recurrence, and I should avoid stressful situations as far as possible.
She suggested my belief in my husband’s affair had more to do with my insecurity about his job causing him to lose interest in me than with any genuine suspicion that he was being unfaithful with another woman, along with some mention of unresolved abandonment issues that had never been addressed when my mother died. Everything in the report made sense, in a clever analytical kind of way, but I felt Dr Scott had missed the mark in finding me blameless.
In a way, the psychiatric report placed me a worse situation than before. Ingrid, my solicitor, came over to visit me and, while I was in the kitchen making tea, I overheard her talking to Nick. She sounded grave.
‘We could try another mental health specialist. This report is worse than useless.’
‘She’s an eminent psychiatrist,’ Nick replied, as though he felt the need to defend his choice.
‘Oh, I don’t doubt that,’ Ingrid said, ‘but you understand the difficulty. If the police decide to charge Louise, we can hardly plead temporary insanity, with a report like that. And if the prosecution get hold of it, they’ll go to town with it.’
‘She’s really thrown us a curve ball, hasn’t she? But surely they’re going to have to stop regarding her as a suspect. It’s not as if they have any evidence.’
They carried on talking and plotting while I prepared the tea, absorbed in my own thoughts. Despite Ingrid’s dismay, to my mind the report seemed really positive, because an expert psychiatrist judged me to be sane. Reading that one, fairly brief, report made me feel like a completely different person. Energy flowed through my veins, like a drug, and I set about considering my situation with rediscovered optimism. Only someone who has been led to believe they are mad and then learns they are sane after all, could appreciate my elation. My mind seemed to swell with joy.
‘So what do you suggest now?’ I heard Nick say. ‘Where do we go from here, after this disappointing report?’
‘How was it disappointing?’ I blurted out as I joined them. ‘Dr Scott thinks I’m not crazy. Surely that’s a good thing?’
‘Was sending those emails the action of a sane person?’ he replied, with a trace of irritation in his voice. ‘How on earth are we supposed to put up a defence, once everyone knows what you did? We can’t hide it forever.’
I frowned. ‘Look, what I did was stupid, I admit that. I ought never to have sent those emails. But that’s all I did, and no one can prove anything else, because I didn’t do anything else.’
‘Sending those emails establishes you had a motive,’ Ingrid said.
‘A motive for what, exactly?’
She didn’t answer, but we all knew what she meant.
‘I know it was stupid to send those emails. It was a ridiculous thing to do and I regret it, sincerely. I’ll regret it to the day I die. But that’s all I did. I sent three stupid emails. It’s hardly a crime. If a pupil had admitted doing it, he wouldn’t even have been expelled. David said if the culprit owned up he’d be suspended. If Sue were still alive, I’d confess to her and apologise, and do whatever I could to make it up to her, but I wouldn’t be in trouble with the police.’
‘But she’s not alive,’ Ingrid replied. ‘Someone murdered her after you sent those emails and, as far as we can tell, the police have no other suspects.’
‘That doesn’t mean I killed her! And it doesn’t mean her death was my fault.’
Ingrid sighed. ‘Of course it doesn’t. But if you end up being charged, is a jury going to take your word for it?’
Gazing from her solemn face to Nick’s anxious eyes, I understood that my relief had been premature. My troubles were not yet over.
Chapter 25
Lying in bed that night, unable to sleep, I reviewed my conversation with Ingrid and Nick. Both of them had expressed bitter disappointment at the psychiatrist’s conclusion that I was sane. Even though I appreciated their reasoning was to keep me out of jail, their attitude was disconcerting, to say the least. I was more interested in proving my innocence than in finding a way to reduce my sentence. Working out how to get myself put away in a mental institution rather than a conventional prison didn’t interest me. But if I wasn’t mad, then it all came back to the same problem: either Rosie had lied to Nick, or else he had lied to me. With that in mind, I resolved to go and confront Rosie in the morning and try to get to the truth. Having reached that decision, I slept through the night for the first time in weeks.
The offices of the Hertfordshire Style magazine were located in the town of Watford. The following morning I drove out there and cruised up and down looking for the building where Rosie worked. It was impossible to spot it from the car, so I drove to a car park and walked back along the street, checking for numbers and names on the buildings. Just as I was on the point of asking a passer-by, the name: “Hertfordshire Style” appeared in front of me, displayed in elaborate gold lettering above a large window. It was hard to see how I could have missed it. The foyer was less imposing than the frontage of the building and looked surprisingly rundown. I went straight up to the receptionist and asked to see Rosie. The girl behind the desk gave me an appraising glance and asked for my name.
‘Is she expecting you?’
‘Probably,’ I lied, determined to do everything I could to make sure the meeting took place. ‘Yes, she should be. Can you call her for me please? I– I may have a story for her,’ I added lamely.
‘Just one moment, please,’ the girl replied, checking a list on her screen. ‘What did you say your name was?’
She picked up her phone and muttered to someone at the other end. After listening for a moment, she hung up.
‘I’m sorry, Rosie’s busy right now. You can email your story to the news desk, or call and make an appointment to speak to someone.’ She handed me a card. ‘Here you are. It’s best if you send us an email and someone will get back to you if we’re interested in your story. There’s a form on the website that tells you all you need to know.’
Clearly I was getting nowhere. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said haughtily. ‘I’ll take my story elsewhere.’
The receptionist was already looking at her screen and didn’t even glance up as I made my way to the door.
There was a café along the road from the office on the opposite side of the street. I bought a drink and a pastry and took a seat in the window, looking out. Nursing my mug of coffee, I munched on my pastry and waited for Rosie to take her lunch break, but one o’clock passed and there was no sign of her. With nothing else to do I stayed, waiting, never taking my eyes from the building where Rosie worked. After a while, I grew hungry and ordered a sandwich. Each time
I ordered, I kept my eyes on the window and resumed my seat as quickly as I could, afraid of missing Rosie if she left her office.
At last I saw her emerge from the building on the opposite side of the street. I still hadn’t made up my mind whether to accost her or follow her and find out where she lived, but I knew I didn’t want to lose her. Abandoning my half-eaten sandwich, I ran out into the street. Before I had reached a decision about what to do, she turned and caught sight of me dashing across the road to join her on the pavement.
‘You!’ she said, looking surprised.
‘Hello.’ I smiled. ‘Yes, it’s me. How are you?’
I still had no idea how I was going to play this, or what I was going to say to her.
‘Was it you asking for me at reception earlier today?’
‘What? No. I’m just on my way home.’
Somehow I seemed to have developed a habit of lying, but only in response to the deception other people were practising against me.
‘I’ve been shopping,’ I explained, adding, ‘I take it you’ve been at work today.’
She grunted.
‘So, how are you?’ I asked again.
She frowned and I thought she looked unsettled by my cheery greeting, although it was difficult to be sure. She was wearing a grey beret that pushed her fringe downwards so that her eyes were half hidden, their expression inscrutable through a veil of fine dark hair.
‘Me? I’m fine,’ she replied.
‘That’s good. Do you fancy going for a coffee?’ I suggested, as though the idea had only just occurred to me.
She hesitated.
‘There’s a café over the road,’ I went on quickly, before she could turn me down. ‘It’s not far, a minute’s walk. You can see it from here.’
‘I know it.’
‘Come on then, and I’ll tell you what’s been happening.’
She took a step away from me.
‘Or we could go for a drink, if you prefer,’ I went on. ‘There’s a pub round the corner. It’s very nice inside, and I’m buying. I may have an interesting story for you,’ I added.
Actually, I had never been inside that pub, but had noticed it earlier, a large red brick building that looked as though it had stood there for a century or more. I hoped she would be unable to resist the lure of a story, or perhaps the offer of a free drink would entice her, but she shook her head.
‘Just the one?’ I wheedled, kicking myself for sounding desperate.
As a reporter, she should have been eager to interview me, a suspected murderer, but instead she was backing away from me.
‘So, what’s this about?’ she asked.
I took a step towards her, encouraged by her faint flicker of interest. ‘I think you know better than anyone what this is about,’ I murmured. ‘It’s time for you to give me some answers.’
Her eyes widened, but not in fear or surprise. On the contrary, her red lips stretched in a sudden grin.
‘You want answers from me? That’s a bit rich, coming from you. And what are you doing here anyway? This is no coincidence, our meeting like this.’
‘I told you, I’ve been shopping.’
‘Shopping? Shouldn’t you be in custody somewhere?’
To my dismay, she turned to leave. The conversation was rapidly going downhill and unless I could salvage it quickly, the opportunity to question her would slip away from me.
Aware that I might never have another chance to quiz her about Nick and Sue, I reached out and grabbed her by the elbow. ‘Wait! Please! You have to talk to me.’
‘Let go of my arm right this minute or I’ll scream!’ she hissed, glaring viciously at me.
I believed she would do it. Her eyes narrowed, calculating. This would be a story for her. I could just imagine the headline: Reporter Assaulted by Murder Suspect, or some equally sensational caption. A couple of women were approaching us from different directions, and a van drove by.
Rosie knew as well as I did that I couldn’t afford to cause a scene in public. With a curse, I released her arm and she hurried away, glancing over her shoulder several times to check whether I was following her. But I was neither that desperate, nor that stupid.
Defeated, I made my way back to my car and drove home, wondering what to do next.
Chapter 26
‘I came as soon as I heard,’ Jen said as she leapt out of the taxi.
She flung her arms around me and gripped so tightly, I squealed in mock alarm. Breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo, I was fleetingly transported back to the comfort of a childhood embrace and began to relax, in spite of myself.
She released her hold and took a step back to stare at me. ‘Now, I want to know everything. And I mean everything. And this time, don’t leave anything out.’
Her words reminded me of Ingrid’s first instructions, and I shivered. Leaning towards me, Jen held my face in her hands and peered at me, as though she was trying to decipher an intricate code written in my eyes. She had been like a mother to me, only closer, since we were virtually the same generation, and she had always been there for me, a comforting presence in my life for as long as I could remember. In addition to that, she was fiercely intelligent and I had learned there was little point in trying to pull the wool over her eyes. She had always been able to see right through my childhood fibs and in any case, as we grew up, too much trust had built up between us for any deceit.
This was the first time I could remember contemplating deliberately lying to her about something more serious than a surprise birthday party or a Christmas gift. I had to conceal from her not only that I had been to Sue’s house, but that I had actually seen her dead body sprawled on her bed. The secret blazed inside my brain, bursting to explode into words, but I had to keep it to myself. Doing my best to sound nonchalant, I asked Jen what she had heard that had brought her hurrying to see me in such a panic.
‘Only that you’ve been in trouble with the police,’ she replied, answering my clumsy endeavour to sound casual with an equally crass attempt of her own. ‘Nick was incredibly circumspect in what he was prepared to tell me over the phone and refused to answer any of my questions. He kept saying I had to ask you. Now I’m here, and I’m asking you. I want to know all about it. Tell me what’s going on.’
Avoiding looking directly at her anxious face, I put the kettle on and bustled around, arranging biscuits on a plate.
‘If I’d known you were coming I would have made a cake.’
‘I’m not here for cake.’
Over a cup of tea, I explained to Jen that there had been a rumour Nick was having an affair with his secretary. It was difficult to talk about, partly because it was upsetting, but there was also the practical problem that I didn’t want to mention the photos Rosie had shown me.
‘I don’t understand what made you believe the rumour,’ Jen said. ‘Had you seen anything to convince you it was true?’
It was a fair enough question. I would have asked her the same thing had our positions been reversed.
‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. She seemed so certain.’
‘She? Who’s “she”?’
‘The reporter I told you about. She was the one who told me about Nick’s alleged affair, and there was no reason for her to invent a story like that, but she must have been mistaken, or crazy. Anyway, she was so certain he was being unfaithful, she managed to convince me and so–’ I broke off. ‘This is so hard, and don’t ask me why I did it because I can’t explain. It was incredibly stupid. All I can say is that I really regret it now.’
In a trembling voice, I told my sister about the three emails I had sent. To my surprise, she burst out laughing.
‘You never,’ she spluttered, putting down her teacup. ‘Really, Louise, how could you? My God, you’re not ten!’ She giggled.
‘I know,’ I said, shamefaced but enormously relieved that she wasn’t appalled at my behaviour. ‘I know it was daft. It was worse than daft, it was stupid. Really stupid. I don’t kno
w why I did it. But anyway, after that all sorts of shit kicked off.’
When I told her that Nick’s secretary had committed suicide, Jen replied without hesitation that my emails couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with Sue’s death.
‘At most, the emails you sent might have been a tiny contributory factor,’ she said. ‘But the woman must already have been depressed. No one tops themselves because of a few offensive emails. And what you wrote wasn’t that bad, anyway, was it. I’m guessing you were trying to sound like a kid when you composed your elegant messages.’ She sniggered, clearly amused. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh,’ she went on, controlling her amusement. ‘The poor woman killed herself and that’s terribly sad. I’m sorry. But it’s not your fault. God, Lou, the woman was unhinged. Surely Nick wasn’t really seeing her on the side. I’d have credited him with better judgement than that. I didn’t have him down as a complete moron.’
I was surprised and pleased that Jen was taking this all so lightly, but of course she didn’t yet know that Sue had been murdered.
‘That’s not all,’ I muttered.
‘There’s more?’ Jen raised her eyebrows. ‘Tell me. What else?’
When I explained that the police had subsequently established that Sue hadn’t actually taken her own life but had been murdered, Jen’s expression grew serious.
‘Surely they don’t think you had anything to do with it. Louise? Do they?’
I shrugged miserably. ‘They say I have a motive.’
‘A motive for emailing a few insults, perhaps, but that’s hardly the same as committing murder, is it?’
‘No, of course it isn’t. But try telling the police that. They suspect I was involved in what happened.’
‘You didn’t do it, so they can’t possibly find any proof that you did.’
‘They don’t have any other suspects.’
Suspicion Page 13