In an interview with this paper, Clive Witherall, who only has months to live, also claimed an investigation would be launched into David’s death, which he believes could have been arranged by those wishing to silence him once it became clear he planned to hand himself in to police.
In a statement yesterday, Mrs Witherall’s former boss Clarissa Marceaux told this newspaper she was shocked by the revelations, and confirmed that Anna Witherall would no longer be employed by the company.
Clive Witherall added: ‘It is with great regret that I accept a degree of responsibility for the actions of my company, TradeSmart. Although I had no knowledge of it at the time, it is only right that I recognise that I failed to prevent this terrible misdemeanour, leading to the tragic loss of innocent lives.
‘I have always said that corporate responsibility stands at the heart of, and has been the driver for, all that we do at TradeSmart. In my years as a businessman I have always strived to hold the highest standards of corporate responsibility, not just through our own behaviours but through our foundation and our sponsorship programme.
‘It is with great personal remorse that I must tell you that in the weeks following the death of my son, David, I received a letter from him, confessing to what had become to him a very heavy burden. In the letter, David revealed that under a degree of pressure from his wife, who I have since learnt had been duping my son from the moment they first met, the pair hired a local firm in Equatorial Guinea to dispose of waste materials, to avoid costs.
‘My son accepted he acted with terrible misjudgement after falling for the charms of his wife, who entered our lives under a veil of deceit – and he was subsequently plagued by the ramifications of his actions in the years leading to his untimely death.’
Isobel looks back at Madeleine. ‘It’s an as-yet unpublished article written for The Times … by Clive Witherall.’
Artemis
London, the Nineties
There was a message on the answer machine. It was a few days after Clive had left and Artemis had just got home from dropping David off at school.
‘This is Dr Blackman. I wondered if you could call me when you get this message. My number is 071 …’
She scribbled down the details on a pad she kept on the side table in the hall, not recognising the number beyond the London area code. Why was a doctor calling? Her first thought was David. What if he had been ill and Clive had taken him to see someone without telling her? It’s possible that he didn’t want to worry her. But then why would she be addressed in the message rather than Clive, if he had been the one who—
Her thoughts were cut off by a woman’s voice. ‘Good morning. Dr Blackman’s office.’
‘Oh hello, this is Artemis Witherall. I had a message from Dr Blackman,’ Artemis said, her voice tense.
‘Please hold, Mrs Witherall. I’ll see if he’s available.’ There was a pause and then she came back on the line, ‘I’m going to put you through now.’
‘Mrs Witherall, thank you for calling back.’ The voice at the other end of the line was convivial, as if speaking to an old friend rather than someone he had never met. ‘I am an old friend of Clive’s; he’s been in touch, from Asia—’
‘Is he sick?’ Artemis was struck by a wave of guilt. She hadn’t considered for a moment that it might be Clive who was ill.
‘No, no, nothing like that. Please don’t worry. Actually, it was you he was concerned about.’ The doctor paused, letting his words sink in.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Clive tells me you’ve been struggling.’ He said it as a matter of fact, not requiring either confirmation or denial. From his manner it was hard to believe he had never even met the person he was talking to, but this level of self-belief, this unwavering certainty in what he was saying, was a trait she had noticed in so many of the people in Clive’s life – her life, now. From the teachers at David’s school, who spoke about her son as if it was they, not she, who had raised him, to the friends who came to the soirees he insisted on hosting at the house, denouncing the Prime Minister’s ability to govern on the basis of his accent; they all seemed to have an opinion, on everything. And their confidence in their own assertions was such that there was no point trying to persuade them otherwise.
‘It would be much better if we spoke face-to-face,’ Dr Blackman rattled on. ‘You could come to my office next week. I have an appointment available on—’
‘Look, I’m not sure what Clive has told you, but there must be some confusion – I’m not sick,’ Artemis interjected.
Dr Blackman paused. When he resumed, his voice had a patient authority. ‘I understand. And nobody is saying that you’re ill, necessarily. But with trauma can come long-lasting consequences, and sometimes it’s best we seek help for these. There’s nothing shameful in it. I think if we’re honest, the concern here isn’t just for you – it’s for David.’
‘David?’ Artemis held a hand to her head, trying to make sense of what was being said.
‘Now look, it’s much better to speak face-to-face. I’ll hand you back to Daisy at reception and she will book you in with an appointment, OK? I’m just on Harley Street, very central, easy to get to. I look forward to meeting you, Mrs Witherall.’
Artemis dropped David at school the following Monday and headed straight to the tube station, letting her mind go blank as the wind surged through the train carriages, the rattling motion of the Northern Line soothing her as she waited to get off at Euston, where it was just two more stops to Oxford Circus.
She was early for her appointment. She had hardly slept the night before and she stopped at Benjys, ordering a takeaway coffee which arrived in a cup so large she had to hold it with two hands as she walked towards Cavendish Square. On the other side of the square a couple of school-aged girls smoked cigarettes on a bench, screeching with laughter. There was a dishonesty to their display – no girl of fourteen or fifteen truly felt that free and at ease – and there was something saddening about watching them, wondering what they were hiding, from themselves and from each other. One day David would be their age. For a moment Artemis wondered whether she had instilled enough goodness in her son that he never became the reason girls like these cried in their beds at night. She closed her eyes and breathed in, picturing his eyes, the flecks of amber against a darker brown, the way he tipped his head back when he laughed so that his neck was exposed. David was good, of that she could be sure.
Dr Blackman’s office was on the ground floor of one of the townhouses that lined Harley Street. There were bars on the windows, and as she was buzzed in she wondered if they had been designed to keep people in or out.
‘Artemis, thank you for coming to see me. Do take a seat,’ Dr Blackman said, indicating one of the chairs that lined the office.
Artemis hesitated for a moment before perching at the edge of the chair. The room was neutrally furnished, without so much as a bookcase to reveal anything about the inhabitant.
‘I don’t really know why I came,’ she said.
Dr Blackman concentrated on her face with a neutral expression.
‘Is that so?’ He waited a while, to ascertain that she wasn’t going to offer anything else, sat, hands interlinked on his desk, making no attempt to fill the silence. She focused on his upturned nose, the spectacles that might have been for show – he struck her as that sort of man. He didn’t flinch under her assessment and she looked away first.
Almost a minute passed before he said, ‘I think you do know. I think you came because you love your son very much and you would do anything to make sure that you are the best version of yourself so that you can be the person he needs.’
Artemis said nothing, looking down at her fingers.
‘I understand you’ve never spoken before, about what happened to you.’
‘It was a long time ago.’ Still she didn’t look at him.
‘So maybe now you’re ready to talk?’
‘I don’t see the point.’
Dr Blackman cleared his throat. ‘But you came here today, so maybe part of you does see a point?’
‘I came because I was curious, because I was concerned that my husband is talking about me to random psychologists without my consent—’
‘I’m not a psychologist, Artemis. I’m sorry, I should have explained. I’m a psychiatrist.’
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Well I think my point remains.’
Dr Blackman breathed evenly. ‘Clive came to me because we have known each other a long time. He is worried about you, about David.’
Artemis looked back at him for the first time, a fierceness in her voice, ‘I’m sorry, what are you suggesting about my son?’
‘I’m not suggesting anything about David, other than that a child responds intuitively to a parent’s emotions. If a mother is struggling then it stands to reason that their child …’ Seeing her expression, he changed tack. ‘There is nothing shameful about struggling, Artemis. From what I’ve gathered, you had early trauma and, undealt with, that trauma lingers. I can’t make you do or say anything, but I can tell you that I can help you. If you let me.’
‘Why didn’t Clive come to me first?’ She was asking herself more than him, but he replied.
‘Maybe he felt you would respond better to a professional. These things can be just as hard, in a way, for the family. For partners, for children …’
Why did he keep bringing up David? She tightened her fingers around the base of her seat.
Sensing her reaction, he continued, unabashed. ‘There is no shame here, Artemis. If you hurt your foot, you go to a doctor – you do not limp on because you are too embarrassed to ask for medication. It’s no different when the wound is internal.’
‘You want to put me on pills?’ Artemis said.
‘Not necessarily,’ Dr Blackman replied evenly. ‘Sometimes it can help, in the short term.’
‘What sort of medication?’
‘It depends. There are a number of different anti-depressants, depending on what suits various factors in your life. There are things if you’re having trouble sleeping …’
Defensively, Artemis touched her hand to her face. She knew she looked terrible. The toll of endless sleepless nights was evident in the puffy lids and the dark rings that circled her eyes.
‘Nothing is set in stone. Nothing has to be permanent. Sometimes in life we all need an extra hand, until we are strong enough to hold the weight alone.’
Madeleine
London, present day
‘I was there for a job interview,’ Isobel explains, removing the article from the wall and handing it to Madeleine. ‘The editor approached me and asked if I’d consider coming to work for them.’
Madeleine looks down at the paper in her hand, reading again from start to finish as Isobel speaks.
‘I ummed and ahhed for a while about whether or not to go to the meeting, for various reasons, and then eventually I decided I would. It was with the main editor – I already knew the news editor, so I guess the idea was that I was getting a vetting more than anything. Anyway, the meeting was in his office. It was just the two of us, and a few minutes in, there was a problem with one of the pages so someone came in and called him out for a minute.
‘I wasn’t snooping, I literally just cast my eye over his desk from where I was sitting and I saw this at the top of a pile of papers. It’s an unpublished article – the main body of text is the real piece – but the standfirst is still dummy copy, you see? And the slug in the corner of the paper …’
Madeleine follows Isobel’s finger and reads the words ‘ANNA WITHERALL EXCL. Byline CW’.
‘CW.’ Isobel says aloud what Madeleine is already thinking. ‘This feels like a strange piece to write about your recently deceased son and daughter-in-law, even if Clive did feel wronged by them … why would he go to the press?’
Madeleine shakes her head confusedly. ‘I don’t know. There’s something almost too emphatic about the whole thing, too performative.’
‘Almost as if he’s trying too hard to push the point,’ Isobel agrees.
Madeleine turns to face her. ‘But why would he want to do that? I suppose if he was desperate to protect his image …’
‘Yeah. Or if he wanted to set someone up.’
Artemis
London, the Nineties
It was David’s seventh birthday, a Friday. Artemis had spent the morning finishing the cake and running errands ahead of supper to be held at theirs after school. They would be celebrating the following day with a few of David’s friends, at the cinema in South End Green followed by lunch at Ed’s Diner in the village, but tonight was for close family friends, which meant Jeff and May, and Clive’s old university pal Clarissa together with her new girlfriend, Eliza. Clarissa and Eliza had been trying to conceive, unsuccessfully, through IVF, and May had decided, in an uncharacteristic show of empathy, that it would be fairer on them if she and Jeff left their children at home.
The decision struck Artemis as odd, but so much about May baffled her that she didn’t think to question it. Not today of all days. David’s birthday was a time for family and celebration, and she wouldn’t let May ruin that. Artemis had worked hard over the years to push aside the feeling of unease she had initially felt after that overheard phone call, and, perhaps in part thanks to the sessions she had been doing with Dr Blackman, it had paid off. It had been a misunderstanding, that was all – one she had never bothered, or perhaps dared, raise with Clive.
It had been a perfect morning, in many ways. Artemis had slept well, as she often did now, thanks to the cocktail of pills that Dr Blackman prescribed, pills she relied on a little more liberally, perhaps, than he intended. She had risen first, blowing up a bag of balloons with which she filled the kitchen: green and red – David’s favourite colours – and the sight of them cheered her as she listened to the birds through the window, preparing pancakes and fruit and coffee for a family breakfast.
For once, Clive had taken the day off work, and the easy sound of domestic co-existence rang through the house: the putting away of cutlery in drawers, the radio drifting out from the bedroom, reminding Artemis, for all its flaws, of the world they had created together. She held high hopes that the party would go well, everything just as planned.
May arrived early, an enormous gift tucked under her arm, clearly intent on demonstrating her best godmotherly behaviour when it counted, her lips plastered a startling shade of orangey-red, blue eye shadow smudged effectively around small, piercing eyes. Jeff would join them once he’d escaped the shackles of the office, she joked.
‘Don’t worry, you head off. I’ll help Clive with these,’ she added, pointing to a half-finished tray of canapés which Artemis had prepared with the help of the Nigel Slater cookbook Clive had given her for Christmas. ‘You don’t want to keep David waiting at the school gates.’
Artemis paused only for a split second before stepping out of the house. The sky was a perfect blue, a single trail of cloud like the trace of a bullet running over the top of the house.
Walking down the hill, Artemis breathed through her nostrils, enjoying the coolness of the air as it reached her chest. She thought of David’s face that morning shining with glee at the sight of his presents stacked neatly on the table. She had been unsure what to buy him. He was growing up so quickly and the toy selection at Woolworths on Kentish Town Road no longer seemed sufficient to Clive, who was willing to throw in snarky comments about her choices but not offer any proactive suggestions. In the end she had settled on a red Power Ranger, which she found at Hamleys on Regent Street. She didn’t want to raise a brat, not that David displayed any brattish tendencies, despite all his privilege, and this present, she felt, struck the right balance. It was such a relief when he opened it and it was instantly clear that he couldn’t have loved it more.
The tips of the trees were turning brittle again, she noticed as she skirted the Heath next to the Freemasons Arms. David was such a kind boy, thoughtful in a w
ay that made her proud, but he was also sensitive, which made him both vulnerable and aware of other people. One of the first things he had said after opening the red Power Ranger was that his friend, Irfan, would like to play with it, too.
Shit.
Artemis stopped in her tracks, remembering the conversation from earlier that morning. David had pleaded with her to let him take his new present to school and she had refused, on the grounds that pupils weren’t allowed to take toys in. He had been so cross with her, the depth of his rage surprising, and she had promised she would bring it with her at the end of the day, to show to Irfan.
David would be devastated if she let him down. But it was OK, she told herself – she was only a few minutes away from the house; she still had time to go back home and make it to the school before the final bell rang. Picking up her pace, she turned and walked briskly towards home. Rushing up the front steps, she fiddled with the key in the lock and when the door finally opened, she left it ajar while she ran quickly inside. The Power Ranger was in the living room and she would only be a second, after all.
Turning left into the living room, she spotted the toy and leaned down to pick it up.
She was about to call out to Clive that it was only her, that she was heading straight out again, when she looked up and saw them through the open doorway into the kitchen: her husband and May, her hands on his shoulders, their faces inches apart.
She stood there in the living room for a moment, watching them, her feet soldered to the spot. It was as though time had stopped; she felt her breath drag through her lungs, unable to pull her eyes away. And then she felt herself move backwards, slowly, stealthily, as if away from a dog that would pounce if she dared break eye contact, her hand still clutching the Power Ranger.
In the hallway, the front door to the street was wide open.
The Second Woman Page 17