Dangerous to Know

by Anne Buist

  Closing up Frank’s office in frustration, she moved on to look in the empty office next door. Again there were rows of cabinets with research articles and grants. All had handwritten tags in a neat bold pen. She quickly excluded all the reference articles—unlikely to provide anything of interest—but one cabinet appeared to have neither labelled reference articles nor grant applications. The tags were scribbled out. Natalie paused, and took her time with each file set. These were articles too, and at first she just thought they had yet to be filed. But some dated back ten years and while there was overlap with the ones Frank had, these were all Reeva’s. Had they been together that long? Certainly Frank was not a co-author on the earliest papers. His name didn’t appear until six years previously.

  Natalie checked every paper for co-authors and research subjects. Nothing struck her as unusual until she had closed all the cabinets and was heading for the door. The topics. She turned around and went back to check. Reeva had an extensive research record: all her publications were on cytokines, inflammatory response and cancer. Some of the later papers, with Frank as first author, covered depression. She double-checked through the research grants and found the same.

  So the file containing articles on half a dozen rare medical disorders seemed to be an anomaly. Had Wei or Frank misfiled them? Some of the disorders might have been genetic but as far as she knew they weren’t inflammatory—the type of disorders that Reeva researched. Taking out the unnamed folder she went through it slowly. There were a range of articles, and a handwritten sheet at the back. Reeva had a list. Some, such as Parkinsons and MS, had a line through them. Others were annotated: Unlikely or a question mark. She saw schizophrenia and bipolar among the list; the former crossed out, the latter questioned. That felt too close to home. She had no idea what Reeva had been trying to work out. She took a photocopy in case it was important.

  20

  Reeva died in the guest bedroom. I came in and found her at 8 a.m., just as I told the police, with a cup of black tea for her in one hand. It remained there untouched as they took her away, strapped to the stretcher. I watched as she disappeared from my life. She had been dead for hours. I found Alison much earlier, perhaps only minutes too late, but still not early enough to save her or my son. The hypoxia would have affected his intellect even if I had been able to revive her.

  I could imagine a jury thinking that, as I lay there unable to sleep, in the warmth of the master bedroom, I was planning the rest of my life without her. Is that what the prosecutor would say? That I got out of bed and pulled on some warm clothes to go down and check that she had died, rather than to make sure she was all right?

  The police have been polite but distant. I can see they think this is too much to be written off as bad luck. I can’t blame them, though it would be reassuring if I could believe one of them might actually understand statistics. Improbable things do occur. But these are the sorts of men I would expect to see in the police. Most criminals are, after all, not particularly smart; police are not paid well, and their jobs are unstimulating for the most part. These are much the same as the ones who took my statement after Reeva died. This time they are edgier. This time they are looking at me as if I am a killer.

  My lawyer, a feisty Vietnamese woman, is protective. She is barely five foot tall and next to the policemen she looks mildly ridiculous, as if playing at being a grown-up.

  Yes, I have told her, my fingerprints will be on the gas heater. I lit it for Alison, an act of kindness. Yes, we had argued; what couple doesn’t? I wonder what Alison told her parents, what they will tell the police. I feel that it should be me that breaks the bad news to my in-laws but I have already mixed up names. I think I sound as if I am drunk and they have taken a blood sample, but it is hours since that drink at the Wye River pub; even then I doubt if I was over 0.05.

  What will Natalie tell them? That my marriage was troubled? That I made an inappropriate comment, for which I immediately apologised? Maybe. She will feel sorry for me no doubt, but she will wonder. Even if she does understand statistics. Will she want to know about my relationship with my mother, and how that has affected my relationships with my wives? Whether I have a deep-seated, unresolved murderous rage towards the woman who bore me which is now projected onto any woman who attempts to take over her role as the family matriarch?

  She will, of course. And then I suspect she’ll tell the tall cop who is…what? Her boyfriend I suppose. I saw how he looked at her in the pub that night. If he isn’t yet he certainly wants to be. He isn’t, of course, smart enough for her, but she will work that out.

  Will she work me out?

  Only if I let her.

  21

  The church was already full when Natalie arrived. A thin, anxious man was ushering people along the sides of the pews to jostle for a position where they could see. The screen at the front behind the lectern, on which pictures were rotating, was large enough for everyone to catch a glimpse. Natalie wondered who chose the photos. Not Alison’s mother, surely, given there were several of Alison in Rocky Horror undress. Oliver was by her side. White Y-fronts, thought Natalie, hadn’t done anything for his porcelain skin.

  She recognised herself in one shot and hoped no one else did. Except Damian. He and his homicide partner were on the other side of the aisle. She saw him smile at the photo of her in a bodice, stockings and suspenders. Today she was wearing the dark grey suit jacket she had bought but refused to wear for her final psychiatry oral examination. She felt as uncomfortable in it now as she had then. At least she’d paired it with jeans, though. It would have been too hard to change at a church after arriving by bike.

  From the side, ten rows back, she was able to survey the congregation. Alison’s family were in the front. Damian had been given permission to help with the case and interviewed them. Alison had been anxious. Not herself.

  ‘And,’ Damian told her, ‘they think he did it.’ But were too polite—or shocked—to say so.

  The Cunninghams looked shrunken and faded, older than they should have. Alison’s mother, Lally Foster-Cunningham, had been a model once but it was hard to see her beauty now. Luke, Alison’s brother, looked grim in a charcoal suit. A lawyer, she recalled. Probably too early in the grief process for recriminations, but they would come. Luke walked over to Frank, seated between his mother and sister, and they conversed briefly.

  There were a number of doctors she recognised, some from her year, some not. According to the memorial booklet with her graduation photo on the front, Alison had finished her general practice training while Natalie had been doing psychiatry. She had met Frank in her psychiatry placement, but of course there was no indication of whether he had still been married then.

  There were a lot of tears but at least there was no tiny second coffin. Harry was to be buried with his mother. Alison’s old school friends, now professional women, told stories with practised delivery. The sobs didn’t erupt until they were collected by other women at the end, all regressing to schoolgirls again in their little huddles. Stories of Alison’s childhood from her brother with accompanying video clips; stories of her medical training told by the doctor who had played Columbia in the doomed Rocky Hospital Horror.

  Natalie felt curiously detached from it all; she felt they had missed the essence of Alison in her last year or so. Perhaps that turmoil was not the stuff of funerals. But it was disconcerting, and difficult to reconcile Alison as she had last seen her with Alison the netballer, Alison the winner of the dermatology prize, goofy teenage Alison in braces. Even Frank’s brief farewell failed to evoke a woman who’d had a lifetime meticulously planned.

  Frank looked depleted, almost crumpled, although his trousers had the usual crispness and his shirt and tie were in order. It was the creases in his face, a sagging she hadn’t ever noticed before, that made him look older. At the end of the ceremony she gave him a quick hug and nodded to his family. He held her hand, reluctant to let it go, but was soon herded away.

  She offered
her condolences to the Cunninghams, who looked blankly at her, then went to make a rapid exit, wondering why she had come. She avoided funerals. They reminded her of Eoin, and that she hadn’t been able to attend his, over half a lifetime ago when she was in intensive care. Before she could escape, Columbia—the program said her real name was Marcie, though Natalie had no recollection of this—cornered her.

  ‘Well that was pretty bloody depressing.’

  Natalie nodded. Marcie looked like she’d been crying. She pulled out a packet of tissues and offered Natalie one.

  ‘I only saw her last week. Seems unreal.’ Doctors didn’t find sudden death any easier than anyone else.

  ‘How was she?’

  ‘Looking forward to having it all over. I mean the pregnancy.’ She started sniffing and wiped her nose.

  ‘I got the impression she and Frank weren’t getting on so well.’ Natalie looked around self-consciously. No one was paying them any attention.

  ‘I don’t think he was the easiest man to live with, reading between the lines.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘She wouldn’t say much but I got the impression pregnancy wasn’t much of a turn-on for him. They both just wanted it over.’

  Over. Natalie felt a shiver go through her.

  ‘She thought it would improve after the baby?’

  ‘Hell yes. I certainly hope so.’

  For the first time Natalie realised Columbia-Marcie was pregnant. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘I’m a bit spooked, to be honest. Still got three months to go.’ One of the doctors Natalie recognised as a surgical registrar from her internship joined them and put his arm around Marcie. Natalie reiterated her congratulations to them both and excused herself. It wasn’t just funerals she avoided: reunions had their own issues.

  ‘Didn’t think I’d see you here.’

  Natalie swung around, knowing who it would be before she saw him. This was a reunion she really didn’t need. Memories of the art gallery moat flashed through her mind.

  Oliver was looking good, but then he always had, Y-fronts aside: man most likely to succeed, doctor most likely to make professor—or a million dollars—first, the husband and son-in-law everyone wanted. His skin was still porcelain though there were fine lines around his eyes; blond hair, complete with dark tips, was still swept back behind his ears and over his collar. The blond version of Frank: Alison’s taste hadn’t matured much. Natalie had heard he was an obstetrician. It would fit. Perfect job for a man who fancied himself as a ladies’ man but was at heart a misogynist. He was wearing a bowtie.

  ‘You were back on speaking terms?’ Oliver offered her a cigarette.

  ‘Yes, but more by circumstances than anything else.’ She shook her head at the packet and watched him light up and lean his head back to expel a long, heartfelt drag.

  ‘Family still don’t speak to me. I hid up the back.’ He took another drag, looking around awkwardly. ‘Do you know what happened?’

  ‘Accident with a gas stove.’

  ‘Definitely an accident?’

  Natalie looked at him, wondered if this was old guilt at play; like if I hadn’t been a cad, she and I would be happily married type guilt. She looked at his left hand; it had a wedding ring. She doubted he had pined long for Alison. ‘There’ll be an inquest.’

  Oliver’s eyes darted to the last of the crowd leaving the church.

  ‘So, had you been in contact lately?’ asked Natalie.

  ‘What? Ah, no. I haven’t seen her in years.’ He dropped the half-smoked cigarette, stepped on it and smiled at her. ‘Got to get back to my patients. Nice seeing you. You look good.’ He kissed her on the cheek, and she stared after him, wondering.

  She had rung Jacqueline Barrett when the subpoena arrived at her Punt Road rooms.

  ‘It’s part of discovery. The prosecutor’s office is entitled to see your records.’ The lawyer seemed to cover the phone and start barking orders to someone else.

  ‘I don’t want to give them up.’

  ‘You’ve changed your mind? Is there something prejudicial against my client?’

  Natalie rubbed her temples. ‘They’re private confidential patient records. I’m her treating psychiatrist.’ And Georgia was finally, against all odds, beginning to trust her.

  ‘Then lodge an objection.’ Barrett gave her the details and hung up. She appeared to have more important things to focus on.

  Natalie could have mailed the objection, but after the funeral she had to go right past Liam’s office. She was tired of allowing the thought of Liam to spook her. Fate could decide if she was about to face her nemesis. It would certainly be better to get the personal feelings out of the way before they faced off in court.

  Carol, Liam’s secretary, was at the front desk, her toothpaste teeth brighter than ever. They arranged themselves into a knowing smile as Natalie handed her the paperwork and turned to leave.

  ‘Can you wait here?’ Carol said sharply, walking off down the corridor, past Liam’s office. Natalie let out her breath. The door was open; he wasn’t in. A minute later Carol returned. ‘Miss Perkins would like a word. Last office on the right.’

  The door had her full name on it. Someone with short blonde hair and a long fringe falling over her eyes, presumably Tania Perkins, was sitting on the desk talking on a landline.

  Natalie stood in silence waiting for her to end the call. It seemed to take forever.

  ‘Dr King?’ Tania said after finally hanging up and waving her in as she pushed her fringe behind an ear.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll answer to Natalie.’ The voice came from the right, on the other side of the room. As she stepped reluctantly inside, almost as if compelled, Liam was leaning back in the chair, watching her. There was an instant of fear, then anger flared up before she got it under control. She didn’t look at him, afraid that the next feeling would be longing. Their affair hadn’t ended well: her fault. Faced with a choice between what was right for her patient and her patient’s child, and her own relationship with Liam, she had chosen the patient.

  ‘We got a copy of your report,’ said Tania. She took a seat by the table and indicated another for Natalie, who hesitated before taking it. ‘Can I clarify? You are saying she doesn’t dissociate?’

  ‘I’m not here to discuss the report.’ Natalie tried to block Liam out. Tried to stop minding that she was dressed more conservatively than he had probably ever seen her.

  Tania picked up the objection document. ‘We want your records.’

  ‘I’m treating her. It’s not in her best interest.’

  ‘What about the best interest of her surviving child?’ Liam’s voice was cool. Irish accent barely detectable.

  ‘That isn’t my concern.’

  Liam leaned forward in his chair, a lock of black hair falling over his right eye. The longing feeling was there, far too strongly for her liking. ‘But it is ours.’

  ‘Does she or does she not dissociate?’ Tania was not about to let it go either.

  ‘I never said she didn’t dissociate,’ said Natalie, cursing herself for being sucked in. ‘She dissociates, just not into separate personalities.’

  ‘Could she have committed murder while doing this dissociation thing?’

  Natalie stifled her irritation. ‘Not in my opinion: not without some premeditation.’

  ‘So she killed them?’

  ‘She says she is innocent.’

  ‘But what do you think?’ It was Liam this time, edging forward on his chair, almost close enough for her to feel his leg against hers.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She let her breath out as Liam sat back.

  ‘What about her husband?’

  ‘I only interviewed him once,’ said Natalie. ‘I believe they have, or rather had, a close enmeshed relationship, but how much he knew I don’t know.’

  ‘She knows the difference between right and wrong?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not psychotic?’

  ‘No.’

>   They were both looking at her.

  ‘I intend to go ahead with my objection.’ Natalie, watching their faces, couldn’t read anything in them. She turned and left as fast as she could without actually running.

  22

  I have relived the funeral in my dreams.

  In the past, dreams disturbed me nightly but until Reeva died I had forgotten about them. Now my wives and their deaths are also fragmented inclusions in my reliving of my childhood, unanswered questions about death still gnawing at me when I awake.

  I was not close to Wendell. There was always a remoteness to my father that I now put down to his British upbringing, the years at boarding school and nannies prior to that. His own mother had died when he was young and I don’t think his stepmother ever had maternal feelings. But I knew Wendell loved me and he had been a reliable presence, whereas Vesna blew hot and cold, sometimes smothering and then absent. Wendell had that English eccentricity that Australians like to laugh at. I picture him in an odd collection of clothes, including a waistcoat even in summer that may, for all I knew, have been the height of fashion. He liked ice cream, I remember that vividly. His stepmother would tell him he was too old for it—he mimicked that disapproving voice when he and I were alone.

  In my reliving of his funeral I am always alone, or at least cut off from anyone around me. The minister is smiling gravely; is it his white robes that seem to dazzle me as the coffin disappears into darkness? I always wake then, with a sob. I have no memory of the graveside and what happened there, or indeed anything until Antonije arrived to save me. I was only ten.

  This funeral is the third in five years: first Antonije’s, then my two wives, taking with them my two sons. I felt the waves of animosity toward me despite Mala’s attempts to shield me. She positioned me with Vesna on one side, herself on the other. The Cunninghams were still in shock; only Luke has thought beyond this event. I could see it in his eyes, the same look the tall policeman, Natalie’s friend, gave me.