Black Widow
Authors: Chris Brookmyre
Since his award-winning debut novel
Quite Ugly One Morning
, Chris Brookmyre has established himself as one of Britain's leading crime novelists. His Jack Parlabane novels have sold more than one million copies in the UK alone.
Quite Ugly One Morning
Country of the Blind
Not the End of the World
One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night
Boiling a Frog
A Big Boy Did It and Ran Away
The Sacred Art of Stealing
Be My Enemy
All Fun and Games until Somebody Loses an Eye
A Tale Etched in Blood and Hard Black Pencil
Attack of the Unsinkable Rubber Ducks
A Snowball in Hell
Pandaemonium
Where the Bodies are Buried
When the Devil Drives
Bedlam
Flesh Wounds
Dead Girl Walking
COPYRIGHT
Published by Little, Brown
ISBN: 9781408707166
Copyright © Christopher Brookmyre 2016
The right of Christopher Brookmyre to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Little, Brown
An imprint of Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
Contents
For Marisa
VOICES OFF
There was a low background hiss as the courtroom awaited the playback, the volume on the speakers jacked up so much that Parlabane was bracing himself, expecting the soundfile to be booming and distorted. Instead it was surprisingly clear, particularly at the police end. He could hear the dispatcher's fag-ravaged breathing during pauses, the rattle of a keyboard in the background.
Nobody knows where to look when they're listening to a recording. Parlabane glanced around to see how people were responding. Most were looking at the floor, the walls or any fixed point that didn't have a face on it. Others were more pruriently taking the opportunity to look at the accused.
Diana Jager had her gaze locked, staring into a future only she could see.
The jury mostly had their heads bowed, like they were in church, or as though they were afraid they'd get into trouble with the judge if they were caught paying less than maximum attention. They were filtering out distraction, concentrating only on the words booming out around the court, anxious not to miss a crucial detail.
They couldn't know it yet, but they were listening out for the wrong thing.
âI think I've just seen an accident.'
âAre you injured, madam?'
âNo. But I think a car might have gone off the road.'
âCan you tell me your name, madam?'
âYes, it's Sheena. Sheena Matheson. Missus.'
âAnd are you in your own vehicle now? Is it off the carriageway?'
âNo. Yes. I mean, I'm out of my car. It's parked. I'm trying to see where he went.'
âWhere are you, Mrs Matheson?'
âI'm not sure. Maybe a couple of miles west of Ordskirk. I'm on the Kingsburgh Road.'
âAnd can you describe what happened? Is someone injured?'
âI don't know. This car was coming around the bend towards me as I approached it. It was going way too fast. I think it was a BMW. It swerved on to my side of the road because of the curve, then swerved back again when I thought it was going to hit me. I jumped on the brakes because I got such a fright, and I looked in my rear-view. It swerved again like he was trying to get it back under control, but then it disappeared. I think it went off the road altogether.'
âThe Kingsburgh Road, you said?'
âThat's right.'
âI'm going to see if I can get some officers out there as soon as possible. You've parked your car, that's good. If you can wait beside it but not in itâ¦'
âNo, that's the thing. I can't stay here. I've a ten-year-old at home alone. She woke up with a temperature and we had run out of Calpol. I told her I'd nip out to the garage for some. I said I'd only be away half an hour. My husband's on nights.'
âOkay. Can you give me a wee bit more detail about where you are, then?'
âSure, but I need to warn you: the battery's almost dead on this thing.'
âTell us whatever you can. Anything you might have passed that our drivers could look out for.'
âThere's a signpost right here. It says Uidh Dubh viewpoint and picnic area half a mile. The car disappeared just past the sign. I'm crossing the road now, in case I can see anything over the other side.'
âPlease be careful, Mrs Matheson.'
âThere are skid marks on the tarmac. I think I can see tyre tracks on the grass. It slopes away after that, and it's too dark to see down the slope.'
âNo. Stay back from the edge. Our officers will look into it.'
âI can't see any lights. I'm worried it might have gone into the river.'
My trial has barely begun, and no testimony heard, but already I know that in the eyes of this court, I am an abomination.
As I gaze from the dock and take in all the faces gazing back, I think of the opinions they have formed, the hateful things they have written and said. I think of how once it stung, but my skin has grown thicker over time, and I have worse things to endure now than mere words.
They have to be respectful in their conduct within these walls: no shouting and barracking like when the van with its blacked-out windows pulled up outside the prisoners' entrance, a desperate photographer extending a hopeful arm and firing blind with a flash gun as he pressed himself perilously close against the moving steel.
One of these days the vehicle is going to run over one of those reckless idiots' feet: several tons of G4S hardware degloving the flesh from crushed and shattered bones as it rolls across his instep, all in the service of striving for, at best, a blurry low-contrast image of some scared and wretched prisoner cowering inside. It would be a valuable illustration of the risk-benefit equation
pour encourager les autres
.
To them, I am someone who ought to have been grateful for all that life apparently gifted me, not asked for more. I should have settled for what I was dealt, as it was generous enough in other people's estimation. The actions I took in pursuit of my desires, to better my lot and to extricate myself from an intolerable situation, these were unforgivable, depraved.
Society's judgement is always harsher upon a woman who has done grave deeds to get what she wants: a woman who has challenged their values, violated the accepted order of things. It's a crime against society, a transgression of unwritten rules that are far more precious than those inscribed in law.
With this thought I glance across the room, and to my surprise feel a sorority even with the woman I came to regard as my enemy: the woman who laid me low, brought my deeds to light. In our own ways we both acted for the purest of reasons. Her I respect. Everyone else is merely white noise to me now.
I do not expect anyone's sympathy. I do not seek forgiveness from people who have never been tested like I was. I may be guilty, and I may be sentenced, but I will not be condemned: not by those who cannot understand. Nobody here can judge me until they know the whole truth.
Until then, their opinions are no more than impotent angry words, and my, haven't those been in spate since this business first came to light. Just think how they were exercised by the revelation that this bitch murdered her husband.
The tone was one of boiling anger, and at the heart of it all was one single rhetorical question:
How dare she.
How dare she.
There's a thought: nobody ever asks âHow dare he?' when a man kills his wife. The coverage is coloured by sombre tones, its language muted and respectful. It's like they're reporting on a death from disease or calamitous mishap. âIt's dreadful, but it happens. Poor thing. So tragic,' it seems to say.
And like disease or disaster, the follow-up is about asking whether more could have been done. What signs were missed? What can we learn?
By contrast there's a conspicuous shortage of victim-blaming when it's a husband who lies slain.
âWhy didn't he leave her? He must have known what she might be capable of. There must have been indications that she was dangerous. I'm not condoning it, but surely he was aware of her triggers. There's no excusing what she did, but it wouldn't have happened unless he did something to provoke her.'
Said nobody ever.
See, that's what chills them. They can just about handle a crime of passion, a moment of madness. But a clever, calculating woman who can plan something elaborate and deceitful is a far more galling prospect.
I glance at the reporters in the gallery, poised to take their notes. I think about what it looked like from their perspective.
They saw a woman who found love when she was beginning to think it was too late. She had given the best of herself to her career, and had come to sorely doubt whether it was worth the price she paid. But then out of nowhere she met her Mr Right, and suddenly everything seemed possible. Suddenly she got to have it all. A whirlwind romance, two ostensibly mismatched but surprisingly complementary personalities who found each other at just the right time: it was the stuff of rom-coms and chick-lit.
So much good fortune came her way, so much goodwill, and after that, so much sympathy. The rom-com turned out to be a weepy. The singleton surgeon who found love late was left heartbroken after her husband of only six months lost his life when his car shot off the road and plunged into a freezing river.
