(2013) Four Widows (11 page)

I wanted to put further conversation into a holding pattern, circling Eddie McCarthy until it ran out of fuel. Give me more time. What was to follow wasn’t going to be good.

He unfolded a sheet of paper and slid it across the table to me. I stared at the type, blurred until I forced the words into focus:

Harrison Warner is dead because he deserved it. Death was too quick but he is gone, as he should be. The world thinks it was a car accident, but I tell you it was justice. Justice is done.

No sign-off but Harrison’s car registration number, make and model were included, as were time and date of accident followed by latitude/longitude details.

Stupefied, I pointed at the numbers.

“Accident location–dead accurate.”

Speech restored, I blurted, “I don’t understand.”

“Someone is suggesting they know more than we do.”

“No one else was involved. The car was a write-off.”

“Doesn’t mean no one else was involved.”

“You’ve
no
idea who sent this?”

“The message was encrypted–not hard to do. Send it through a chain of remailers that remove all traces of the original sender. Done.”

Truly baffled, I reread the email over and over until I sensed I was being scrutinised. “Wait a minute. Do you think
I
sent the email?”

He paused and considered this, surprised almost. He didn’t fool me.

“Did you?”

“Do I need a
lawyer?
”

“Listen, I’m not interviewing you—”

I cut in, “I didn’t send a message to
anyone
anonymously; I have nothing to hide. My husband was killed in a car accident.
That’s
the truth.”

“I think your husband was murdered,” he said without sugaring the blow.

The words bounced over the table and smashed into me at full force. I put my hand over my mouth, thinking teeth will fall out.
Your husband was murdered
.

My coffee cup hit the metal table top with such a sharp crack, a woman sitting near us bounced in her seat. The look she threw at me said it all: too early in the morning for the dramatics, lady.

Murdered
. The word formed a pointed tip–spear sharp and hit my windpipe at full force.

My husband was murdered.

With considerable effort I manage to gasp, “Who? Who would want to murder my husband?”

One in two people are killed by someone they know
.

That wasn’t all I remembered.
Lamb To The Slaughter–
Cece cooking the murder weapon for police officers to eat. In that second, a grotesque giggle caught in my throat. I was one breath away from folding myself in fits of laughter.
Pull it back
, I told myself, furiously.
Get yourself under control
.

Eddie McCarthy’s eyes drilled into me; signature stare that could break up rocks. It was as though he had grouped pixels together to create a clearer image of me. Did he see the giggle?

If he did, he continued, unfazed. “Can you think of anyone who had a grudge against your husband? Even a minor falling out?”

I shook my head and stood up too fast, scraping the chair across the pavement with a whine. Upright, I tottered backwards to put distance between this news and myself.

McCarthy’s eyes locked on target, looking through me, inside my head, leaving no place to duck under. I knew that he knew I wasn’t telling him the truth.

As the dizziness set in, I thought about my mother, heard her voice: “You’ve fallen in love with a scandalous man.”

I concentrated on the blackness drifting from the outer corner of my eye towards my nose; ink sinking through water. Then the audio went down–the buzz from traffic on the street turned to a hush and pure quietness descended upon me, peaceful and calm. I knew I was fainting and could feel myself sink, although still in control. This wasn’t rushed, it was a leisurely slide past stainless steel tables and chairs shining in front of me like fallen stars on the street.

Eddie McCarthy caught me before I hit the cobbled street, sitting back on his heels to let me lean me back into his chest, a solid defence wall from the world. When I opened my eyes I saw a hitched-up skirt almost indecent, legs spangled out at angles and I’d kicked off a shoe. It wasn’t a good look.

“You okay?”

I attempted to nod but there was worse to come. I managed to scramble onto my knees before retching over the high kerb onto the street. Someone picked up a drink and purposefully marched inside.

I wretched until I managed to catch a breath. Unflappable Eddie McCarthy handed me a fistful of paper napkins from the coffee shop and hoisted me onto my feet like a rag doll before leading me across the street towards the main front door of my flat–back where we had started.

I had an urge to explain myself. “Detective inspector… Mr… McCarthy, I’ve never fainted before,” I whispered weakly, undoing myself from his strong hands to lean against the wall in the shade. “This isn’t like me. This isn’t me at all.”

He looked at me, unreadable but not unkind. Something softened in his eyes, and I knew he felt sorry for me. Perhaps pitied me–gut instinct based on what was to come.

“Please, Eddie. Or McCarthy.”

I thought about a devoted wife whispering
Eddie
in his ear and decided McCarthy would work for me.

“I’ll come back later and we’ll talk it through. Are you sure you are okay?”

When I didn’t answer he said, “Let me get you a glass of water.

As I watched him stride back across the street I wanted to chase after him and shout, “It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.”

“I need you to make a list,” instructed McCarthy on his return. “Write down names of people you think might want to hurt your husband. Think
every
scenario: debt, drugs, malpractice at work. Feuds. Think seriously.”

I was taken aback. It seemed preposterous what I was about to do: make a list of names of people who could take a life. It was more appealing to stick with the original diagnosis, distasteful as it was: fatal car accident through excessive consumption of alcohol.

“This person who emailed–he or she could be time wasting?” I said, pathetically hopeful. “There are weirdos out there.” I didn’t add that I should know: The Watcher.

“Your husband was a senior surgeon at a leading hospital–it’s possible that his death could be linked to a former patient; someone who questioned his abilities as a doctor.” He lowered his voice as though someone might be eavesdropping. “Emotional people can act, well, irrationally. We have every reason to take the email seriously.”

I put my head in my hands. Too much, I could barely breathe.

“You’ll write the list for me?” McCarthy wasn’t one for flakiness. His tone remained insistent.

I often look back and think about the conversation with McCarthy; searching for names and motives. We focused on the usual suspects–drugs, debt, feuds, former patients. And somehow, incredibly, in the midst of all the chaos and questions, well, we overlooked love.

Chapter Seventeen

Hello, Cardiovascular Hell

Harrison didn’t talk much about his patients besides the generic operating-room anecdotes of a cardiac surgeon. I would hear about the exuberant behaviour of his colleagues; colourful antics of people in high-stressed jobs letting off steam. Prolific gossip, relationships and affairs. The medical profession made drink-downing journalists look second rate. An achievement.

Vivienne Roberts was the exception. I knew more about her than any other patient. There were other names, babies mostly. Success stories about hole-in-the-heart patients. Harrison would talk about them. He never ceased to be amazed at the tenacity and strength of the tiniest of bodies. Sliced from top to bottom and their heart plucked out, patched up, and popped back in the chest cavity again, how they would recover. Bandaged and brave. He remembered all their names.

But he talked in depth about Vivienne Roberts.
Gutsy,
he said. No matter what medical misfortune was thrown at her, she would buckle up and floor the accelerator.

Just 28 years old, she had suffered a second stroke and Harrison was determined to fix her without the need to go down the transplant route. He was convinced he could perform some kind of miracle.

I’ll never be sure why Harrison wanted to save Vivienne Roberts so much. He wanted to save all his patients but he
especially
wanted to save her. It was a connection; a bond. He admired her feistiness and she trusted him implicitly. He was the wizard in disposable scrubs. She got under his skin.

“Survivor,” he said.

And on another occasion, “Hosting dinners and raising a shitload of cash,” he said. “This is someone who wants to make a difference.”

I did feel a fierce stab of inadequacy during such conversations–not regarding Vivienne Roberts’ charitable efforts, but Harrison’s work. Hard not to compare job descriptions at times; him positioning a new heart inside someone while I worked in a wardrobe world surrounded by designer clothes. Worse still, I loved it.

Vivienne had type 1 diabetes and needed a new heart. “Diabetes does things to the lining of blood vessels; next thing, hello, cardiovascular hell,” Harrison explained.

Things come back to me. Conversations we had. “She’s not catching a break,” he said, frustrated over drinks one night. We had managed to meet for dinner, which was an incredible achievement considering our schedules.

“Who?”

His expression said it all: how could I possibly
not
know whom he was talking about? “Vivienne Roberts. She’s a fighter but…” an edge to his voice, “there are complications.”

“Her parents are supportive?”

“She’s their world.”

Another time, I remember him repeating to himself. “She has started to retreat.”

When I asked him to explain, he snapped, continuing with the war analogy. “It’s a battlefield and you can’t put down your rifle–not for a second.” He rallied. “It’ll be a hellish ride but she’s
not
a quitter.”

One week later Vivienne Roberts was dead.

I felt Harrison’s frustration. He didn’t lack the skill or tenacity to fix Vivienne–but was no match for her troubled heart. Transplant was out of the question, apparently, for reasons I didn’t ask. When she died, Harrison disintegrated, shouldering blame. Thinking about it now, she was the one who got away.

Harrison’s over-attention didn’t surprise me because my father would sometimes let someone cut through the medical armour veneer. He could be incredibly detached, mostly, and then turn wretched when he couldn’t save a certain someone, even though he had an almost faultless track record. It didn’t happen often but when it did, it triggered a profound reaction–an outpouring of sorrow on a scale of national mourning. He would lock the door to his home office; we would leave him to come round. He would, eventually. Our mother reminded us that he was a man first and a father (joint first, she added after a beat), and a doctor second. He was a man of emotions, not just decisions, she said. No mention of husband in the line-up, I see now.

From what I can gather, when Vivienne said she wanted to die, Harrison did an abrupt u-turn on his medical assessment. Despite initial reservations, he wanted to push on with a heart transplant.

“I think we’ll give the transplant a shot,” he said.

I didn’t hear a word more until news of her death and a fraught internal enquiry thereafter. Harrison shut down personally but cooperated with the hospital. It was an exhaustive process but I never doubted him: he was passionate about the job. As a doctor, better to care than be indifferent. As a lover, better to fall head over heels than throw a love-retardant substance over one’s heart.

Now I was faced with an altogether different scenario: did Harrison stop being a doctor and start playing God? Was he able to resist the charms of a beautiful woman; damsel in distress?
Player
, I hear my sister whisper.

The truth wants to show its face but I’m reluctant to uncover it. Call it what you like, but I’ve a sixth sense when it comes to trouble and don’t want to get involved. I used to be hard-nosed and thick-skinned but now I’m losing my edge. I reckon I’m going through the recovery process and feel pathetically weak; the slightest bump could probably break bones.

Suck it up
, says Gee when the going gets tough. She would make the textbook move and rescue no one from a burning house when the seriousness of the situation increased, whereas I’d attempt to save everyone and end up burned. Just like my father would, even though he was risk adverse. Avoid activities with increased risk of head injuries, he used to tell Gee and me. He used to embarrass us by shouting at cyclists who weren’t wearing helmets. “Organ donors,” he would roar.

Skiing, we never went skiing, horse riding at a push. Hell, don’t even mention mobile phones; my father classified phone signals as carcinogenic to humans and causes of fatal forms of brain cancer. He missed a trick when it came to relationships though and overlooked dangerous liaisons with scandalous men: it doesn’t get much worse than this.

Chapter Eighteen

Post-traumatic Attraction

Back at the office, Jim whistled when I updated him about the visit from a member of the Midlothian police. An inspector detective or detective sergeant, detective
something
, I explained.

“Shit, your world is weird.”

That’s the twentysomething’s take on the situation.

I also avoided phoning McCarthy for 35 hours straight. He finally chased me and I deliberately abandoned him to voice mail.

Jim’s immediate answer to the problem was distraction. “Look, the city is
jumping
right now–it’s a full-on festival out there. We need to cut loose.”

“Cut loose?”

“Tickets to
any
show you want. Perks of the job.”

“I don’t know.”

“The Murkin Vixens?” He looked hopeful,