(2013) Four Widows (17 page)

I endured the continued postal attack, never quick to hand mail over to McCarthy because it was my guilty secret. I would slide the photos out of the drawer and scatter them, corners curled, across the polished granite work surface in Ralph’s designer kitchen, pouring over them for clues without much luck.

McCarthy predictably was no-nonsense and referred to the situation as the “hate campaign.” Moves were in motion to question relatives and friends of Vivienne Roberts. I think he was frustrated, sensing reluctance in me, stalling for as long as I could.

Jim and I went to Oloroso for lunch. He was dressed for a skate session in overlong shorts and T-shirt, while I went for Missoni. The stretch-wool zigzag dress was completely wrong for the freak heat. I was a burnt-orange colour. Inside and out.

The rooftop terrace overlooking the castle was a favourite haunt for Jim while the cocktail menu did it for me. We walked to the restaurant falling into rapid-fire conversation about The Watcher, the latest cover shoot and, of course, the heat. Jim was acclimatising whereas I was not.

“I talked to Cece,” he said.

“You’re playing at the relaunch?”

He nodded, raking a hand through unruly hair. “Johnny Cash got bumped for Stevie Nicks. Carly Simon is on the playlist. How the hell did
that
happen?”

We both laughed. “You’re a sucker for a blonde?”

“This is true.”

The waiter showed us to the last table on the rooftop terrace. I took a long swallow of vodka martini, shifting closer to Jim until I was almost entirely in the shade. He asked how the police enquiries were going
.

I sighed. “We got off on the wrong foot– I held back.”

“The hate mail? The Watcher?”

“Both. And all the stuff that went on in London.”

“What’s he like?”

It was an innocent question but I faltered nonetheless, struggling to think of words.

Jim poured his beer and probed. “Is he an intimidating old-school cop?”

I studied the castle in the distance and regained composure. “He’s… to-the-point. I guess I’m scared about what he might uncover. Harrison and his secrets.”

“It’s really thrown you, hasn’t it?”

I motioned for another drink. “I don’t know what to think. He makes
me
feel guilty–like somehow I’m a suspect.”

“He? The detective?”

“Yes, McCarthy.”

I even felt flustered saying his name. Jim glanced at me.

Hurriedly, I continued the conversation. “I didn’t tell you before but…I had a weird-out moment–fainted. Can you
believe
?”

“And?”

“He picked me up?”

“Picked you up?”

“Got me back on my feet.” I dropped my chin to my chest, embarrassed.

“
Ah ha…
.”

“Nothing happened,” I added defensively.

Jim leaned into me, boyish brown eyes alert. “Men like to rescue women in distress; it’s in our blue print. Firefighters start new lives with wives of fallen comrades, policemen catch widows who fall at their feet.”

“I made a fool of myself.”

“Who hasn’t?”

“He doesn’t trust me.”

“Because?”

“I’m holding back. I don’t want him to find out the truth.”

“He understands that. He
knows
the truth is rarely pure and never simple.”

“I’m not ready for all this.”

“Who are you running from here–Harrison or McCarthy?”

I attempted to backtrack. “I’m not running.”

“Okay, when you want to finish this conversation, you know where I work.” He sounded hurt.

We could have been on a talk show set. I was starting to sweat under the studio lights. I tried to lighten the mood. “Here’s me thinking you were more
Phineas & Ferb
than
Oprah
.”

“Okay, okay. No more probing questions for now.”

I breathe out, glad to get the McCarthy business out in the open. It shrunk an infatuation down to size, exposed it for what it was: emotional silliness, giddiness.

Lunch over, Jim seemed keen to escape. He wanted to shoot off to interview an unknown comedian who was shaping up to be the surprise hit at The Fringe festival.

“Might win the Fizzy Water Award,” he explained. “Better still, does her stand-up in Chanel.”

“Go get her.”

“See you back at the office.”

I watched him leave while I called for the bill. The hour with Jim had done me the world of good. I felt more focused and could almost laugh off the lightning strike from McCarthy, the current of lust passing through the ground into me.

Then I saw him. The Watcher was staring at me through the glass doors from the restaurant bar. Abruptly, he swivelled in his seat, turning his back on me.

“Miss?” The waiter was waiting for me to hand over a credit card.

I punched in the pin, messed up and had to start over, all the while keeping watch on the man at the bar. The restaurant and terrace was at its busiest, people finding their seats and food soaring past on plates. Once I paid, I made a beeline in the man’s direction but he was cutting straight through the room towards the exit. Beer unfinished, his time interrupted.

I could see the back of him, tall and skeletal, clothes hanging not fitting. Close enough to see hair thinning, unwashed. As good as a ghost, I could put my hand right through him if I could get close enough.

Weaving through tables, I heard a shout. “Excuse me, excuse me….”

I looked back to see the waiter chasing me, card and receipt flapping. These precious few seconds were used to great advantage because when I turned back to the main restaurant, The Watcher was gone.

“SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!” I cursed, taking my frustration out on the lift button. I pushed through the glass doors onto the street, wading straight into the suffocating afternoon heat. No sign of him.

Gripping my Bayswater to my chest like a grenade, I marched in the direction of the office, ready to throw anyone to the ground who crossed me. Anger built in me, gaseous and dangerous. I was being played and didn’t like it. It wasn’t Harrison, I repeated to myself. It
wasn’t
. Yet, it felt as though he was close. Sometimes I glimpsed him walking down Princes Street. His car, his voice. Him.

It didn’t take much to convince myself that my husband was still out there. Until now I was chasing a shadow of someone. Now–well. Now it was different.

Chapter Twenty Six

The Official Widow

I regularly had the shakes and was desperately dehydrated. I could drink litres of water and still crave more. At first I was convinced it was the alcohol but soon realised panic exacerbated the problem.

McCarthy quenched this thirst. He had a hectic schedule but found time to answer questions. I decoded the email a hundred times in my head, picking the words apart as though each letter were a chromosome with substantial power to shape the future: building blocks to the truth. Stumbling blocks.

I wanted theories and McCarthy obliged. We would go over and over the same stuff. “I’m guessing whoever sent this email knew your husband on a personal level, otherwise he’d have addressed him as Dr Harrison Warner.”

“You think?”

McCarthy shrugged. “He’s the doc–that’s how he is introduced when you meet him at hospital as a patient.”

I thought about Vivienne Roberts. Harrison had stopped playing doctor.

“No more emails?”

“I think everything’s been said, don’t you?”

“Like what?”

“This person wanted him to suffer more:
death was too quick
. Your husband has hurt someone and it goes deep.”

I felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. “Justice is done?” I whispered.

“Straightforward revenge attack.”

I didn’t follow. “No one wants to take the credit for it? Expose what Harrison has done?”

He looked at me levelly; an unshakeable stare that could power saw through secrets and lies. “I think he or she is protecting someone.”

Blustering, I tried to keep the questions coming but McCarthy was done.

“Anything else that wasn’t in the email?” I asked before the conversation shut down.

“He wasn’t thrown from the car. He was dragged.”

Thank heavens for Ribbons. Never more did I need a distraction; even
Corset
wasn’t doing it for me. Cece was forging ahead with the restaurant relaunch and we were going to meet Fraser Davies for the first time.

Kate looked relaxed, knockout confident in one of Suzanne’s designs: crimson shift dress, beading detail and pencil-thin belt. I said she could borrow Christian Louboutin leopard-print Lady Derby shoe boots from a cover shoot.

Cece clocked him first. “Small-man syndrome.”

I dug an elbow into her. “He’s not
that
short.”

“It’s Dudley Moore to me.”

Fraser Davies was dressed to impress in a charcoal three-piece suit with white shirt and charcoal tie. Daisy nodded in our direction and he walked over to the table with a confident smile. All eyes locked onto our target and I’m surprised we didn’t perforate his suit jacket, leaving daylight holes shining through.

Cece stuck to her theme. “He is as wide as he is tall. Girlfriend can kiss goodbye to them new heels.”

I glanced at Kate, hoping she hadn’t heard but she was too distracted watching Fraser Davies approach our table. He was swift to shake hands (firm and strong) with everyone before slipping off his jacket and taking a seat between Kate and Suzanne. Cece, meanwhile, had taken to her feet and circled the table with a bottle of white wine in one hand, red in another, like two revolvers drawn from holsters. Never taking her eyes off the target.

If he was aware he was being scrutinised, Fraser Davies didn’t let on as we went through introductions and initial small talk. He chatted comfortably with hands folded in front of him on the white table linen, shoulders relaxed, listening attentively to whoever spoke, reaching for his wine with an appreciative nod to Cece.

Four widows and a widower. You couldn’t make it up.

Except for Kate, I’m sure we were all thinking about his dead wife. You want to know what happened. Crash, cancer, clots–the usual suspects. Fast aggressive form of breast cancer, we soon found out. He had no children and by all accounts had pretty much been on his own for the last eight years. He was 32 when his wife died. He looked younger than 40 despite the loss.

We studied him up close; the plump friendly face did have traces of lines and tiredness around the eyes but there was no melancholic edge or mawkishness. He was attentive and charming. Short but not as short as Cece made out. Okay, shorter than Kate.
Perfectly capable
, my mother would surmise.

No, Fraser Davies wasn’t someone who stood out from the crowd but there was a warmth about him that sealed his attractiveness. His voice was deep and full-bodied with an accessible Scottish accent–polished vowels to perfection. Hell, even Cece could understand him.

We continued to observe discreetly or not so discreetly in some cases, while ordering more drinks and looking at the menu, which was a first for us because Cece usually told us what to eat.
Recommend
, she would correct us.

Cece cleared her throat. “So. Fraser.”

“Here comes the inquisition,” said Kate. “He’s been warned.”

“Shoot,” said Fraser Davies.

Ouch. Immediately, he realised his error and squirmed in his seat, horribly embarrassed. Kate reached for his hand, reassuringly.

Cece cleared her throat again, as if to say,
let’s start over
. “You work in a law firm?”

“I do.”

“Partner or staff?”

“I’m one of the 65 partners but I used to be staff.”

“Criminal?”

“Financial.”

“No crime scenes?”

He chuckled. “Only the usual suspects in insurance, funds, regulatory and compliance and retail banking.”

Kate stepped in. “Cece is our ambassador for fictional American crime:
Law & Order. Bones. CSI.
She was just about to ask you about work experience in the firm.”

Cece pulled a face. “Don’t joke. The way business is going around here…”

“I love this place. I’ve eaten here before.”

“You have?” Cece brightened.

“On several occasions. We bring clients here.”

“Bring more clients, please. Clients welcome.”

Cece continued to grill Fraser Davies but the conversation soon slipped into comfortable banter. He handled her well and answered questions with good-natured ease.

As the conversation flowed, I let my mind turn to McCarthy. He turns up on the street outside my house and tells me my husband
might
have been murdered; throws me into emotional turmoil on different levels. Leaves.

As Fraser Davies talked briefly about his work, it made me think. Do I need a solicitor? There had been a crime and although McCarthy hadn’t officially interviewed me, I guessed it was just a matter of time. He had no new leads although seemed hellbent, following his hunch.

Random thoughts swarmed inside my head, bees buzzing. I must have groaned out loud because everyone glanced at me as my head jolted up. I’d fallen asleep at the table for a few seconds. Never felt such fatigue, the rhythmic babble of conversation, August heat and first hit of Champagne.

“Oopsie, Lori,” trilled Cece, gleefully. “Gonna give Fraser Davies a complex.”

I reached for my Champagne, mortified.

He laughed. “Never talk about work. I should know better.”

“I am
so
sorry. I’ve got this incessant insomniac thing going on.”

He looked sympathetic, as though he knew all too well what I was talking about.

Then Suzanne saved me. “Fraser,” she said with such conviction that we all stared, wondering what was to follow. “Do you know anything about family law?”

“I’m not an expert but what did you want to know?”

“I’m married.”

“Go on,” he said, carefully.

“I have a husband but I haven’t seen him for such a long time.”

“Ah–okay.”

When Suzanne didn’t respond he suggested tentatively, “Perhaps a private investigator?”