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Dangerous to Know

Page 11

by Anne Buist


  ‘I don’t have that sort of personal relationship. He has been using me to work through his grief over his first wife’s death; he could hardly talk about that to Alison.’

  ‘But he could talk to you? How did Alison feel about that?

  ‘I think,’ said Natalie slowly, ‘it was hard being in Reeva’s footsteps.’

  Damian thought about this, then said, ‘We’ve called this Operation Blue.’

  ‘Why blue?’

  ‘Officially? Because it’s on the surf coast. Sea and sun and all that.’

  ‘Unofficially?’

  Damian grinned. ‘Short for Bluebeard.’

  24

  Mala was worried. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need to.

  ‘There is no evidence. It doesn’t matter what they might think,’ I told her.

  She smiled; when she does she reminds me of our grandmother. She has Lyuba’s eyes, large and wide set, but in the old photos the eyes were always cloaked in sadness, even those that were taken once they had arrived in Australia. My grandmother had a difficult life, and some things can’t be fixed once they are broken. That is how I think of Lyuba: broken.

  Mala’s eyes are full of surprise and promise, of mystery and the impossible.

  ‘They’ll drag everything up again. Reeva. The media.’ She wasn’t tense; not really worried. Except perhaps for our mother.

  ‘You can hole up here as long as you like. They can’t get to us. Or why not go away? Take Vesna on a holiday.’

  ‘And leave you to go through it alone?’ she scoffed. ‘Hardly.’

  ‘I could find someone to come and keep me company.’

  ‘I’m sure you could, but would that be wise?’

  I patted her hand and she put her head on my shoulder. ‘We should all go away, when this is done,’ she said.

  ‘You know I have work commitments.’

  ‘I know they can wait.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I conceded. I was tired, very tired. I couldn’t recall the last time I had had a holiday. A real one, not interrupted by pregnancy symptoms or grant applications.

  ‘I wonder…’ Mala waited until she had my full attention. ‘Senka is still seeing Jasper.’

  I knew where Mala was going. How could I not have wondered myself what Jasper knew or thought he knew: what his mother had told him or let him believe.

  ‘Don’t worry about Jasper,’ I said. Mala had felt me tense. ‘I have him in hand.’

  25

  Frank was already there with a glass of wine in hand when Natalie arrived. He had a Corona as well. She poured herself a glass of water and joined him.

  ‘You look like shit, Frank.’

  His smile was little more than a flicker. They sat in silence, watching the only other diners, a couple with a newborn in a capsule under their table and a toddler who was being given a free rein of the entire room. Frank huddled over his glass, with his back to them. She watched him tense as the toddler joined them, confident in the belief that everyone in the world wanted his company as much as his parents. Frank clearly didn’t.

  ‘Do you want to get out of here?’ Natalie shooed the child away; it looked at her in astonishment, smile turning to wail. ‘My place isn’t far.’

  Frank drove in silence. She wondered about the wisdom of her invitation but it was hard to turn her back on the grief that was etched into every pore of the man’s being.

  ‘You have a choice of beer,’—Damian’s—‘scotch or bourbon. And my cooking, I’m afraid. Pasta with…’ Natalie rummaged in the cupboard. ‘Tomatoes.’

  Frank just nodded. She poured him some scotch and put a saucepan of water on to heat.

  ‘Have the police been difficult?’ Natalie sat down on the chair beside him. Outside it was dark. She could hear the waves in the distance, the soft regular sounds of the nights when the wind wasn’t creating havoc in the national park behind the house.

  ‘They’re just doing their job.’

  They sat in silence for a while. She said quietly, ‘Do you want to talk about what happened?’

  He nodded, though she wasn’t sure he had heard her. His mind seemed to be tuned into some inner torment. The one she wanted to access.

  ‘It was an accident.’

  Natalie didn’t respond; she tucked her feet up underneath her. Frank finally looked up.

  ‘Do you believe me?’

  An interesting question. How to answer? It wasn’t so different from being with a patient, managing the balance of interest and reserve. But Frank wasn’t her patient; and he might have murdered his wives. Right now it was hard to believe that he was anything more than a grieving husband who needed a friend.

  ‘I guess you must be feeling that no one does,’ she said.

  ‘I understand if you don’t,’ he said, not fooled by her sidestep.

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘I dreamed last night of my father’s funeral. I hadn’t had the dream for months but I suppose it’s been triggered. All this death.’ He put his head in his hands.

  ‘You were young when your dad died, weren’t you?’ Frank nodded.

  ‘So tell me about him.’ Natalie walked over to the stove to tip the pasta into the boiling water. ‘It might take your mind off things. Five words or phrases to describe your relationship with him.’

  ‘Wendell?’ Frank frowned. ‘Five words?’

  He didn’t appear to know the Adult Attachment Interview. But then he was a biological researcher, not an attachment theorist. A small advantage.

  ‘Yes, just the first random ones that come into your mind.’

  Frank shrugged, looked like for a moment he would resist. But she stood watching and waiting and he finally replied. Long enough to have considered his answers, but not long enough to have worked out what she was really after.

  ‘Fun, responsible, remote, I guess. Sporty: it was the one thing we did together, you know, he’d come to my football matches and we went to see Arsenal once. Was that four? Umm…disappointing.’

  There was the sense Frank was going to say something more, then stopped. Had he been her patient she would have waited him out, but the polite smile suggested she was close to losing him. ‘Fun. How come dads get to be fun? Did you know that’s how their children bond to them? When they play with them.’ Natalie had turned away, stirring the pasta before putting the lid on and turning it down. She let him relax again as she pulled out two bowls before she asked, ‘In what way responsible?’

  There was only the briefest pause. ‘British thing. Oldest son and so forth.’

  Was this the moment? Natalie took a breath. She sat down on the sofa next to him, knees to her chest. ‘How did he die? He must have been young. Was he sick?’

  Frank stared out the window. ‘Car accident.’

  ‘That must have been awful. At least if he’s sick you get some warning.’ Natalie felt genuine sorrow for him. He’d had a lot of losses. She wondered if, rather than adding up, they multiplied. ‘Was anyone else…was it just him?’

  ‘No,’ said Frank. ‘He ran into another car after going through a red light. He was drunk.’

  ‘Shit.’ Natalie leaned forward and put her hand on his. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  His head turned slowly, eyes glistening with tears meeting hers. ‘He was on the way home from seeing my mother. Mala had just been born. I was with him in the car. I escaped without so much as a scratch.’

  Time passed as she sat there and tried to absorb some of his pain. She didn’t notice his hand continuing to hold hers, or his fingers absentmindedly brushing along her bare feet. Later, when the pasta had gone well beyond al dente, he added, ‘The woman he killed was eight months pregnant.’

  She was speaking too fast. She took a breath and sat down, mindful that Declan was assessing not just the content of her speech but her mental state. At least she could truthfully tell him she was compliant—not just with the medication but also her exercise and meditation regime. True, he thought she was off her antidepre
ssants; she needed to get around to telling him she was still taking a Zoloft in the morning. Or had it been two recently? Time to get off them.

  ‘You think Frank killed his wives?’ Declan finally spoke. His grip on his pen looked like he might break it in half.

  ‘I don’t know, of course,’ said Natalie. ‘It isn’t like he’s confessed or anything. But I’m almost wondering…’

  ‘Wondering what?’

  Natalie bit her lip as she reflected. ‘The grief is genuine I’m sure,’ she said as much to herself as Declan. ‘But over whose death?’

  ‘I felt you were wondering about something more than that.’

  ‘Yes. But I don’t quite know how to explain it.’ Her mind went back to her house, Frank’s grey pallor in the dim light. How comfortable she had felt with him. ‘He opened the door to his father, then seemed surprised that I went with it. Or…maybe it just the particular question I asked, inspired by the AAI.’

  ‘The AAI was designed as a research tool, not for clinical purposes. And certainly not for forensic use.’ Declan had more time for analytic theories than tool development.

  ‘I know, but the question about the five words, about the early parental relationship, it was also designed to catch people off-guard. And unless you’ve studied it, which he clearly hasn’t, you don’t know that the words themselves don’t actually matter.’

  ‘So what did you make of what did matter? The examples to support the words?’

  ‘I think they were genuine reflections of his parental relationship. Disappointing was the most interesting one. In general he was light on detail. Fitting a narcissistic personality style—he is quite grandiose, likes to be the centre of attention…’ Natalie thought about him surrounded by his adoring research staff. ‘Stemming from a dismissing, avoidant attachment. There wasn’t much time or nurture given to emotions when he was little. Disappointing fits, in that his father didn’t measure up. He certainly disappointed Frank by dying, and in the circumstances he did.’

  ‘And the fact that a pregnant woman was killed by his father?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s too…like he was delivering me something on a platter.’

  ‘A lie?’

  ‘No.’ Or at least she didn’t think so. ‘But did he tell me knowing I could find out? Letting me know it couldn’t drive him subconsciously?’

  ‘Does he know you’re dating a policeman?’

  Was she? Sex, yes, but dating?

  ‘No.’ She stopped. ‘Possibly.’ She thought of Frank holding her hand, his hand on her foot. She had been so absorbed in his grief that she hadn’t thought it was anything more than his seeking comfort, like a child.

  ‘If he’s playing me,’ she said suddenly, ‘why was he stupid enough to make a pass at me before Alison died?’

  Declan looked slightly agitated. ‘Natalie, you need to send him to see a therapist. Whether he is…responsible for these murders or not…being involved isn’t healthy for you.’

  ‘It’s too late, I am involved.’ Natalie sounded harsher than she intended. ‘When he told me I looked hot—was that to pull me in, or let me know that once he got through this he would be available? What do you think?’

  Declan put the pencil down with a clatter. ‘Natalie, you are over involved. You’re too close to this.’ She waited. After a moment he sighed. ‘Okay, yes, that’s possible. If he has a strong narcissistic structure he would want an adoring woman in the wings. He would also probably consider himself infallible, so that a mistake wouldn’t be any real risk to him.’

  Declan looked like he regretted the outburst. Maybe she had got it wrong: maybe it wasn’t her that Declan was concerned about. Frank being a colleague seemed to be really getting to him. Maybe Declan was over involved too.

  Natalie returned to her Collingwood warehouse after seeing her Monday patients. It felt odd returning home; neither there nor the stilt house by the sea felt quite like a place she belonged. It was about not being comfortable in her own skin, she supposed. Trying to be something she wasn’t had left her feeling lost.

  She had organised to meet Damian around the corner at a bar called Naked for Satan. He wanted to buy her dinner, she wanted to eat tapas and hear about the afternoon’s interview with Reeva’s parents. In particular, the answers to the questions she’d asked him to cover.

  ‘The Osbournes are pretty well off,’ said Damian. ‘Leafy suburbs, old house on the outside, all glass and stainless steel renovations on the inside. Colin, Reeva’s dad, is a senior manager with Toyota.’

  ‘A salesman?’

  ‘Was. Still more down to earth than your professor; got the impression they didn’t have much in common.’ Damian paused. ‘I asked him how he would have sold a car to Frank.’ ‘And?’ Natalie was impressed with the question. Not one she would have thought of.

  Damian grinned. ‘He’s good. Said that to sell to Frank he’d make sure Frank did all the talking and thought it was his idea.’

  ‘How about her mother?’

  ‘Conned.’ Damian swallowed a bite-sized morsel and winced.

  ‘Don’t like anchovies?’

  Damian shook his head and took a swig of sangria.

  ‘Did you ask about a family history of mental illness?’

  ‘Yes. And yes. Reeva’s grandmother had postpartum psychosis. Is that relevant?’

  ‘Might be.’

  ‘There was something more interesting though.’ Damian waited until he had her full attention. ‘Gail Osbourne says that at the wedding, at Mount Malosevic, she overheard one of the guests say she wished Reeva better luck than her predecessor. Might mean nothing.’

  ‘But it does mean we need to find out about our good professor’s previous love life,’ said Natalie, licking the oil off her fingers. ‘He was thirty-six when he married Reeva. He must have had one.’

  ‘According to her parents they had only been going out for two or three years prior to that.’

  ‘So there could be several girlfriends before her, but it sounds as if this particular one would have been local. Want to make a bet?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About her profession.’

  ‘You think she’ll be a doctor?’

  ‘No,’ said Natalie. ‘I think that’s exactly what she won’t be.’

  26

  I shouldn’t have been surprised when we ended up talking about my father. Funerals had been on my mind, after all. And it wasn’t as though I wanted to talk about Alison. My mind had been in a fog since first seeing her lying so still under the covers. Her face such a healthy pink colour, it hadn’t occurred to me that she was dead. I stood in the doorway and looked at her lying there, and it was her stillness that alerted me to the problem before I thought about the gas.

  I didn’t hurry. There was no point really. Except to turn off the gas and open the windows so as to not to succumb to the same fate. I put my hand to her abdomen. Only a week earlier I had seen an elbow and foot jut out as Harry squirmed. I felt tears, hot on my cold face, and wished for all the things that could not be, things that death, this death in particular, put an end to.

  I came alive, the fog lifting with Natalie’s barely disguised attempts to get me to talk. Women have always found me attractive. My female teachers were often inclined towards leniency, some even inclined to spend spare time with me. It was useful at times, though I never found older women particularly appealing. Miss Sandrine Williams was only five years my senior when she decided to initiate me into the adult world. She thought me quite gifted. She was not; but I did very well in history that year. She also thought I showed great promise, which I did, but not in history.

  Wendell Moreton was not much of a ladies’ man in my memory but in photos he is handsome enough. Vesna thought him sufficiently charming to let him sweep her off to the other side of the world. She told Mala and me that he was smart and hardworking and ambitious, which I suppose was true. He held a diplomatic post at one stage; he could have been someone important. Instead he
became a dead drunk.

  But I had other, better male role models; my grandfather was considered something of a demi-god by women. In photos the younger Antonije was handsome, certainly, but it is the twinkle in his eye and a certain bravado in his stance that jump off the page. In my favourite photo he is with my grandmother just after he had rescued her from the Ustase at the end of World War Two. A bear of a man, with rifles and ammunition strapped to him, she little more than a child. Lost and clutching him as her saviour.

  Of course he saved me too. At the end of the whiteness and sobs of my memory, he is there. I picture him as he was in the photo but in real life he was older—and would hardly have been wearing a partisan outfit—in 1982 when he arrived in England to bring his daughter and her children home.

  My own father disappointed me; curious that I used that word with Natalie but it was true at many levels. Mostly Wendell was dead and unavailable, but Antonije stepped into the role effortlessly. We never went to an Arsenal game, but I did spend hours in the boathouse talking to him as he painted, sometimes with Mala painting next to him or posing for him. She did that even when she was very young. And I suppose I watched his succession of girlfriends: Lyuba had died long before I was born and he never remarried. How could I not come to the conclusion—in this house of women who adored me and with my role model adored by women—that this was my destiny too? It wasn’t anything I ever really questioned. Girlfriends were just never a problem.

  But I was a problem for them. All young men, are, I imagine, are a little heartless if they can get away with it. I have to say I am ashamed of some of my behaviour. I wasn’t always as polite as I should have been. I embraced good manners in my thirties.

  I had previously imagined Natalie would be most interested in my mother but I am sure we will get to that. As it happened, discussing my father gave me opportunities to have her ponder the dark depths of my psyche. She is a worthy combatant. Different, more street savvy than my very focused first wife. And of course far more knowledgeable about psychopathology than Reeva, whose brilliance was in the twists of DNA, cytokines and inflammation. In the end Reeva’s lack of knowledge was her undoing; and Natalie’s knowledge may in turn be hers.

 

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