The Actuary's Wife

by K T Bowes

  “But I wanna come too!” The whine in Nicky’s voice penetrated Emma’s nerve endings and she gritted her teeth and huffed.

  “You just said the police dogs scared Farrell! Why would you want to take him back there again? Poor dog. Take him into the kitchen and give him breakfast. There’s a new sack of biscuits in the pantry but only one scoopful! I don’t want him having health problems.”

  “Ah, yeya! Fazzy I can feed you today. Come on, then.” Nicky patted the side of his leg and the dog smiled and let his tongue loll out the side of his lips. They trotted up the steps into the reception hall, leaving the front door wide open.

  Emma closed it, stepped over the temporarily discarded skateboard and set off down the driveway at a brisk walk. The air was icy, moisture hanging in it and bathing Emma in tiny, uncomfortable droplets. By the time she reached the gates, her hair hung limply down her back, her fringe swathing her face in glittering curls. The police dogs in the back of the van set up a racket and Emma hung back from the entrance, waiting.

  A man in a suit approached the ornate filigree rods and peered through. “Hello, madam. My name’s Detective Paul Barker.” He held up a pocket sized, black folder and flipped it open, revealing a replica of his face on a police warrant card. Emma peered at the picture and then back at its owner.

  “How can I help you?” She kept her tone formal, as though merely interested and not desperately frightened. “My son came down for the post and said you wanted to see me.”

  “That’s right. I’d like to come in.”

  Emma eyed the barking Alsatians with obvious fear and then looked back at the detective. “I don’t want them in.” She pointed a cursory finger in their direction. “They frightened my dog.”

  “It’s fine. Just me.” The detective smiled, revealing perfectly aligned white teeth and a handsome smile. He was dark haired and shaped like an athlete, his tight suit fitting snugly over one of nature’s better male bodies. Emma nodded and pressed the release for the gate, situated a few metres inside the driveway. The gates moved inwards with a faint mechanical whine and the detective stepped into the gap.

  Paul Barker walked up to Emma and offered his hand. Hers felt tiny and cold in comparison and he frowned. “You’re freezing. I’ll walk you back up to the house.” He touched Emma lightly on the shoulder and she tensed as a reflex. Panic bit at her heart and the urge to spew everything out to this man was overwhelming. His persona was kindly, but Emma detected shrewdness beneath the gentle veneer.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, hearing her teeth chatter. “My son said it was a practice for something.”

  “Mmnn,” the man tutted and turned stunning green eyes on Emma. “I told him that because he appeared just as my colleagues were erecting that white tent over the body. I didn’t want him to have nightmares.”

  “Body?” Emma’s voice sounded flat and she stopped abruptly on the gravel. Damn you, Christopher Dolan. A dreadful thought snaked terror into her heart as it occurred to her that the victim might be Rohan. “Who is it?” she asked, her fingers rising to cover her lips. “Was it someone coming to see me?” A hitch caught in her chest and her other hand sought the tiny mound forming underneath her waistband.

  Concerned, the detective reached out and clasped her wrist in strong fingers. “Steady, madam.” He eyed the unoccupied ring finger and changed his address. “Do you need to sit down, miss?”

  “Who’s the body?” Emma persisted, her voice emerging with a strangled undertone. “Is it a woman or...a man? Please tell me?”

  “It’s male.” The detective watched Emma carefully as she bent double, trying to control the light-headedness. “Were you expecting anyone last night? Someone who didn’t turn up, perhaps?”

  Emma shook her head. “No. Nicky and I were both home, but we went to bed early. It’s been a hard week and we were both tired. We chilled out and watched TV and he went to his room about nine o’clock. He’s only across the hallway. What did the dead person look like?”

  “Chinese.” The detective watched her carefully and seeing no recognition, relaxed.

  Emma stood up and moved slowly, trying to control the rising bile in her gullet. The detective stopped at the sight of her new red car parked haphazardly in front of the front steps. “This your car, miss?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I bought it from a friend yesterday. We did the documentation online and posted hard copies of everything. It probably won’t be processed until Monday but it’s definitely mine.” Emma rested her palm against the solid, wet metal, using the vehicle to steady herself.

  “Would your friend be a policeman, by any chance?” The detective smirked.

  Emma nodded. “Yes, Will. And I know this is, ‘The Girly Car.’ Now it actually belongs to a girl, so I guess that’s ok.”

  Paul Barker laughed openly. “So he caved in and sold it! Some people just can’t take a joke, can they?”

  “Bullying isn’t funny!” Emma eyed the detective primly, succeeding in wrong footing him enough to cover her own difficulties. They reached the steps and she climbed them slowly, buying time and hoping Christopher was back in hiding, wherever that was. The thought he might have been in the house the whole time filled Emma with a sense of sickness. Her physical relationship with Rohan was exciting and not always confined to the bedroom and it made her stomach churn until she remembered it was not likely to be repeated.

  The front door flew open and Nicky stood behind it, wide eyed. He clutched a tub of chocolate spread in his streaky fingers and a large, brown grin began at his mouth and covered most of his face. Farrell stood next to him, licking his lips. Emma exhaled loudly. “What are you doing? You know that’s naughty!”

  “It’s breakfast.” The child’s voice sounded foggy and the brown stuff swilled around in his mouth, making Emma want to throw up. She swallowed and kicked off her wellies, stuffing them into the shoe cupboard without looking.

  “If you’ve given that to the dog, it could kill him.” Emma looked at her son with a sternness which caused him to wither before her.

  “He licked up a splash of it, but not much. He won’t die, will he?” Nicky looked from the police officer to Emma and back again. “Will he, Mummy? Will it be my fault?”

  Emma pointed behind him to the corridor and the kitchen. “Chocolate can kill dogs, Nicky. Hopefully he’s not had enough. Go and put that on the table, wash your hands and put the dog outside. If he pukes, you’re cleaning it. Then get upstairs and have a proper shower and if I find chocolate marks on any of the walls, you’re in big trouble!”

  Nicky sloped off and Emma relaxed. “I can make you coffee?” she offered and the detective bit his lip and then declined.

  “No, thanks. I’ve got a few questions but I might need to come back another time. Maybe the offer will extend to then?” He smiled again, a blaze of elegance in a handsome wrapper. Emma nodded and returned his expression of cordiality, glad not to have to face the mess Nicky must have made in the kitchen.

  “Ok, but it’s cold in this big room. Do you mind if we go into the sitting room?”

  “No, that’s fine. Should I take my shoes off?”

  Emma looked at the neat brogues on the detective’s feet and shook her head. “No, you’ll be fine. The Persian rugs are being cleaned.” She laughed at the man’s expression, her face becoming solemn as she remembered a man was dead outside her gate. “We don’t really have expensive rugs,” she said, her face earnest. “It’s just floorboards.”

  Detective Paul Barker followed Emma along the corridor and past the ornate staircase. He glanced upwards at the viewing gallery and saw the small blonde child peeking through the balustrade. In the sitting room, Emma jerked her head towards a cream sofa and reached above the mantelpiece for a box of matches. “I’ll just get this going. It’ll take the edge off the chill.” She fluffed around on her knees, lighting the newspaper which Rohan had set in place days ago. It caught and flames licked at the grey surface, turning it black and chewing through
it without conscience. Like my marriage, Emma thought sadly, watching as the kindling smoked and sent tiny distress sparks into the chimney.

  Paul Barker cleared his throat. Emma turned to see him seated on the edge of a sofa, notebook and pen already poised in a slender hand. Emma exhaled and sat on the fluffy cream hearth rug, banishing memories of Rohan’s naked body wrapped around hers in front of the fire, satiating their passion for one another. She clasped her hands together around her shins and rested her chin on her knees, presenting a serene smile to the man in front of her. “Can I ask your full name?” he asked.

  “Emma Katharine Harrington,” she replied. “My married name is Andreyev but my husband and I are separated.” She swallowed and stared into the flames which ran riot as a sad reflection of her charred heart. The detective wrote that down, struggling with the spelling of her married name and getting it wrong despite Emma spelling it for him phonetically.

  “This is your house?” Barker asked, his eyes seeming incredulous at Emma’s confirmation.

  “Yes, my brother-in-law left it in his will last year.”

  “All of this?” The policeman sounded doubtful and it pressed a dangerous button in Emma’s psyche.

  “Yes! All of this. I don’t see how it’s relevant but my solicitor is David Allen of Allen, Holdsworth and Bowes. I’m happy for you to check it’s all above board!” Her tone was snippy and she gritted her teeth, thinking she might have got the order of the names wrong but deciding she didn’t care.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it, Miss Harrington,” the policeman countered.

  Emma ignored him, getting to her feet and striding across the room. She pulled back the huge wooden shutters, latterly painted a clean shade of white and allowed the grey daylight further access to the large room. She stared at the circus beyond her gate and sighed. “I can assure you, I’d rather have Anton back here, alive, than any of this.” Emma waved her hand around the room and thought of his bright, happy smile. In her mind’s eye, Anton threw his head back and laughed at some small, private joke which he’d refuse to share with her. Emma’s lips twitched and she closed her eyes against the tears which pricked behind them. I’ve messed up already, Anton Stepanovich, her heart wailed.

  “How did he die?” the policeman asked, all pretense at tact lost in his inquisitive nature.

  “Bowel cancer,” Emma sighed. “He left it too late. He was my best friend growing up in a very difficult home and he had nobody else to leave it to.”

  “How was he your brother-in-law?” the man pressed. “How were you related? Was he a sister’s husband or...your husband’s brother?” Barker seemed way too interested in the intricacies of Emma’s relationships.

  She turned. “My ex-husband’s brother. And before you ask, Rohan didn’t need Anton’s money, so it was left to me and Nicky and he’s happy with that. This has absolutely no relevance to a dead Chinese male found outside my property. Please get to the point or leave!” Emma sat on the plush cushion which graced the window seat and folded her legs elegantly beneath her.

  Paul Barker nodded and feigned an apologetic stance. Emma could recognise an act in progress and humoured him. Anton would have been impressed with the detective’s ability; he might have offered him a part in his latest theatrical venture.

  The man moved through Emma’s last address and employment in a monotone, becoming frustrated as he failed to make a link between her and the dead man at her gate. “Do you know anyone of Chinese origin in Market Harborough or anywhere else?” he asked in desperation.

  “Probably, but only in passing!” Emma scoffed. “I’ve been in the town just over four months. My friends comprise a policeman’s English wife, a ninety year old ex-missionary who’s also English and an Afro-Caribbean woman who just moved out of a shelter for battered women. I don’t know anyone else! I’ve been working at the school for exactly five weeks and when I’m not there, I’m here. The estate I lived on in Lincoln was inhabited by purely racist individuals and nobody of alternative persuasions would voluntarily live there.” Emma touched her stomach as the fluttering began in her groin, closing her eyes against Rohan’s child and its constant reminder of the pleasure he took in her body.

  “Are you alright?”

  Emma’s eyes snapped open, surprised at the concern in the policeman’s face. “I’m three months pregnant and alone. Of course I’m not alright.” She instantly regretted her barbed tone and sighed. “Now there’s a dead person outside my driveway and you clearly think I killed him.”

  “I didn’t say that.” Paul Barker left the sofa and sat by Emma on the window seat. He sat so close, their legs touched. “I’m just trying to collect the facts. I don’t want to miss anything which might be important later.” He gave a wry smile and his dark eyelashes swept upwards in a graceful arc. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but the medical examiner thought it looked as though his neck was broken. Unless you’re a secret judo expert, I doubt very much you’d have the strength to do that. He was built like a brick privy.”

  “What a horrible way to die,” Emma breathed. “Could he have been hit by a car? It’s a fast road.” Christopher Dolan said it was an accident, but not what kind of accident.

  “Possibly,” Barker said with confidence. “He’s quite bashed up. It’s the broken neck that’s confusing, unless it was done at the time.” Emma grimaced and closed her eyes and he sidled closer, offering comfort through his masculine proximity. “Sorry, too much information. He must have driven here but there’s no sign of a vehicle.”

  “The buses run until eleven,” Emma suggested. “Try the bus company.”

  The policeman nodded and wrote it down in a slanted shorthand.

  Emma glanced out of the window. The fire in the grate fogged up the glass and the proximity of their breathing exacerbated it. The lights from the police vehicles outside were dimmed by the condensation and Emma pretended they didn’t exist. They sat in silence, but it was companionable and the moments extended as the grandfather clock in the corner ticked in a relentless, comforting rhythm. Its loud chiming of the hour made Emma jump and the policeman drop his notebook.

  They both laughed. “Sorry,” he said, retrieving it and Emma smiled with her eyes.

  “When can I get out of my driveway?” she asked.

  “Not sure. Isn’t there another way out?”

  Emma shook her head. “No. We’re pretty fortified here. Anton had six foot wire put around the entire perimeter. There’s another gate a few miles away, but I’d need a Landrover to get across the fields. It’s padlocked and I’ve never worked out which is the right key to open it.”

  “Bummer,” Barker replied. “You could give ‘The Girly Car’ a go and take some bolt cutters, I suppose. Want me to come with you?”

  Emma snorted. “I’ll tell Will you said that. He’ll be impressed you thought it might make it. You know it’s only a two wheel drive, don’t you?”

  Barker nodded. “Yeah. Poor bloke. We thought he’d sold it months ago when he stopped driving it to work.”

  “Hmmmn.” Emma stirred and put her bare feet on the floor. Her toenails sparkled with the polish she persuaded Nicky to slap on and she stared at it wistfully. Her head snapped up with realisation. “That child’s been ages up there. I should check on him. If he’s taken the dog in the shower with him again, I’ll kill him!” Emma’s expression changed from annoyance to horror in a few muscle movements and she stared at Barker in dismay. “Obviously, I won’t literally kill him,” she ventured.

  The policeman laughed. “Yeah, I knew what you meant.”

  Emma led him to the front door and explained how to use the gate release panel from the inside. He thanked her, holding onto her fingers a little too long in the formal goodbye. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, his eyes bright as he processed some inner turmoil known only to him.

  Emma closed the front door and listened to the dog barking gleefully down the driveway with the policeman. At least he wasn’t in the shower with Nicky.
She watched as Barker walked around her car, checking for signs of damage or hasty repair. Turning to go upstairs, she found Christopher Dolan behind her. He smirked. “Another conquest, Emma Andreyev,” he said, his dark eyes studying her with intensity. “Every man who sees ya falls in love.”

  Emma shook her head and looked away from his dangerous gaze. “Whatever, Dolan.”

  “Aye, but we all do,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her slender frame and pulling her in close to his warm chest. “I meant it before Christmas, ya know.”

  Emma shook her head. “I’m off men for life. The only man I ever wanted was Rohan; look how that turned out.”

  Christopher tutted. “Ach, he loves ya alright. He’s just an eejit.”

  “Yep.” Emma’s flat tone housed bitterness. She pushed Christopher away from her, needing space between them, knowing her loneliness and disappointment made her vulnerable to his charms. Emma saw the heat flare in his eyes as he remembered the stolen kiss in the wrecked Scottish manor house, given and taken when both felt the touch of death on their lives and had nothing left to lose.

  “It was a good kiss. I can’t get past it.” The bold Irishman stared at her lips and Emma felt her colour rise.

  She fought to change the subject. “The man who died was Chinese. That policeman said.”

  “I could’ve told you that,” Christopher snorted.

  “Well, why didn’t you then?” Emma furrowed her brow, emotion making her cross.

  “Because you wouldn’t have been convincing!” he retorted and Emma sighed, seeing his point.

  “Well, someone died and they need justice. Did you kill him?” She faced the Irishman with a determined stance, her hands squarely on her hips. Christopher looked at the budding pregnancy and his eyes momentarily channeled regret.

  “No, I didn’t kill him.”

  “Did Rohan?” Emma’s voice wobbled at the question and Christopher shook his head.