Woman with a Secret (9 page)

Authors: Sophie Hannah

BOOK: Woman with a Secret

5.41Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Hannah ignored him and addressed Simon instead. “You mentioned my patients. You’re right. Most psychological problems and relationship issues are as common as physical attraction to pretty faces and hourglass figures, but every now and then someone turns up with a completely new one, and I think, ‘Wow. I really ought to write a paper about this case and publish it in a journal.’ I had a patient recently who had a pathological terror of train and bus drivers, taxi drivers, airplane pilots. She was neurotically convinced that all the people who might conceivably drive her anywhere were in league against her, conspiring to take her to some unspeakably frightening destination that she couldn’t even imagine. She really believed that if they succeeded in getting her there, she’d be destroyed. I mean, she knew logically that it couldn’t be true, but she couldn’t get over her phobia.”

“I feel that way every time I get the number forty-five bus from Rawndesley to Spilling in the morning,” Uzma called out from the other side of the room. “The speed of some of those drivers, tearing around corners.”

Hannah looked sharply at Sam as if to say,
Isn’t it bad enough
that my husband’s been murdered? Did you have to send me this idiot as well?

“So maybe Damon had outlandish taste in women,” said Simon, enjoying Sam’s discomfort at his frankness. “Maybe odd-looking was his thing.”

“No,” said Hannah. “There might be a rare man somewhere on this earth whose perfect fantasy woman looks as if she’s been assembled from odd parts found at a flea market, but not Damon. You’d know that if you’d read his columns. He wrote in one that he could never love an ugly woman. When I asked him about it, he said, ‘You’re not ugly, darling,’ as I knew he would. His two ex-wives are both beautiful: Princess Doormat and Dr. Despot.”

“Pardon?” said Sam.

“That’s what Damon called them, in his column.”

“We’ll need to talk to them. What are their real names?”

“Verity Hewson, doormat, and Abigail Meredith, despot.”

“Why ‘Princess Doormat’?” Simon asked.

“Damon thought she was spoiled by her father—that’s who she was a doormat for, not Damon. She always tried to persuade him to do whatever her father thought they should do: buy the house he wanted them to buy, tone down his column so as not to embarrass Daddy at the golf club. That’s if you believe Damon,” Hannah added. “I did, actually, about that. I don’t think he lied to me much about anything else—only about loving me.”

“Were Verity and Abigail still on decent terms with Damon?” Sam asked.

“No, terms of pure hatred, in both cases,” said Hannah. “He was vile to both of them, during and after the marriages. There you go: concrete proof that he’s not a man who’s nice to his wives—so why was he to me? What was he hoping to achieve?”

Simon didn’t know, but he wanted to. He reminded himself that Hannah might be lying. That struck him as more likely than her being honest but wrong.

Why dream up such a bizarre lie?

“Do you think Verity or Abigail might have hated Damon enough to kill him?” asked Sam.

“Either, yes, easily,” said Hannah. “But that applies to dozens of people. Every time Damon published a column, he made between three and ten new enemies.”

“A list of names would be helpful,” Simon said. “The ones you know.”

“It’d make more sense to give you a list of people who didn’t hate him,” said Hannah. “Me. There, that was quick. He should have pretended to be kind and caring with more people the way he did with me. He might still be alive.”

“Going back to this morning . . .” said Sam. “You said Damon went up to his study at eight thirty?”

“Yes, after breakfast. I didn’t see or hear from him until ten thirty when I took him up a cup of tea and found him.” Hannah stiffened in her chair at the memory. “What does ‘He is no less dead’ mean?” she asked suddenly, as if the strangeness of the words had only just struck her. “Why would someone put that on the wall?”

“We don’t know,” said Sam. “You can’t think of anything it might mean?”

“No. It makes no sense to me.”

“Between eight thirty and ten thirty, did you hear the doorbell?” Simon asked.

“No, and I would have. It’s loud down here. No one rang the bell.”

“I’m wondering, in that case, how the killer got into the house without breaking in.”

“I don’t know,” said Hannah.

“And you didn’t hear Damon talking to anyone, any footsteps, laughter?” Sam asked.

“No, nothing. But I had the radio on, so nothing that wasn’t really loud would have filtered through. Only the doorbell would have.”

“The phone?” Sam asked. “The landline, I mean.”

Hannah shook her head.

Simon wanted to ask her which radio station she’d been listening to, and what programs she’d heard, but now wasn’t the moment.

She loved her husband. But she didn’t trust him. So she also hated him
.

She killed him because she’d gotten nowhere trying to solve the mystery of his secret on her own. If she wanted police help, a murder was the way to get it . . .

No. Far-fetched.

“Did you have any contact with Damon between eight thirty this morning and when you found his body at ten thirty?” Sam asked.

“No. None. He went upstairs after breakfast. I switched the radio on . . . That was it.”

“Before you found his body this morning, when was the last time you’d been in his study?” asked Simon.

“Yesterday evening—I went in to put some books back on his shelves. He leaves them lying around all over the house.”

“And when you went in there yesterday, the room looked normal? Nothing there that shouldn’t have been, nothing out of place?”

Hannah shook her head. “Nothing. Just Damon’s study, the way it always looked until . . . today.”

“Hannah, can I clarify something?” Sam cut in. “Between eight thirty and ten thirty this morning, you didn’t go upstairs
at all
? Didn’t catch sight of Damon, didn’t get any text messages or emails from him?”

“No,” said Hannah. “Nothing. Damon writes in the mornings and resurfaces at lunchtime. I steer clear so as not to interrupt his chain of venom. That’s what he calls it.”

“But this morning you didn’t steer clear,” Simon pointed out. “You went up with a cup of tea for him at ten thirty, you say.”

“Yes.” Hannah’s mouth twitched. “Sometimes in moments of weakness, I’d do that: try and catch him in the act.” She said this as if it were perfectly normal.

“Catch him doing what?”

“How can I answer that when I don’t know why he pretended to love me? It wasn’t a carefully thought-out strategy; it was just something I did from time to time. If someone’s keeping something from you and you want to find out what it is, it’s worth walking in on them every now and again when they least expect it. Who knows what you might find?”

“And?” Sam asked.

Hannah shook her head. “Nothing. Whenever I surprised Damon, he was writing his column. Thinking about it now, maybe he anticipated that I’d turn up in his study unannounced from time to time. Maybe he was extra vigilant during those times. Oh, who knows, who cares! I want to stop caring! I need to
stop
.” She pulled at her hair with both hands. “But I can’t, even now he’s dead, because he didn’t just have a heart attack or a fatal car crash—he was
murdered
. That means people more powerful and effective than me suddenly need to know all his secrets as much as I do. Which means new hope for me, and new dread, because now I might find out the truth. It’s horrible. You being here means I can’t let myself give up. It prolongs the torture. Can you understand that?”

“You think Damon’s murder was directly linked to his . . . pretending to love you, or to whatever made him feel he had to do that?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know,” said Hannah. “Maybe I’m imagining a pattern or shape that isn’t there, but when someone lives a lie—makes a lie of their
entire life
the way Damon did—aren’t they tempting fate in a very specific way?”

“How do you mean?” asked Simon.

“They’re issuing a challenge, to death and to the truth: ‘Come and get me.’ Well, one of them turned up this morning,” Hannah said matter-of-factly, as if she were talking about an actual visitor rather than an abstract concept. “I think they both did,” she added quietly after a few seconds. “I think they arrived together.”

From
: Nicki

Date
: Tue, July 2, 2013 09:19:13

To
:

Subject
: Distress signal

Hi Gavin,

Something strange and upsetting has happened. Why am I telling you this, when I’m not supposed to be writing to you at all? I don’t know. There’s no one else I can/want to tell. Have you heard of the journalist/columnist Damon Blundy?

N x

From
: Mr. Jugs

Date
: Tue, July 2, 2013 09:23:08

To
:

Subject
: Re: Distress signal

Hasn’t everyone? Not a particularly nice man.

From:
Nicki

Date
: Tue, July 2, 2013 09:30:26

To
:

Subject
: Re: Distress signal

Why do you say that?

N x

From
: Mr. Jugs

Date
: Tue, July 2, 2013 09:32:10

To
:

Subject
: Re: Distress signal

Are you kidding me?? I only know him from his little-boy-seeking-attention columns, but based on those, he’s always struck me as pathetic—someone who gets off on needlessly hurting people. Why? What’s the weird, upsetting thing that happened? And why aren’t you telling me about either of your encounters with this policeman? I still want to know about those.

From
: Nicki

Date
: Tue, July 2, 2013 09:40:21

To
:

Subject
: Re: Distress signal

I can’t get over the change in your “voice.” You sound just like an ordinary, real person. Is it the same you?

I’ve just found out that Damon Blundy was found dead yesterday in his home. It was on the radio a minute ago. He lived on Elmhirst Road in Spilling, ten minutes from where I live.

My second encounter with the policeman, the one that made me decide to contact you again, was yesterday on Elmhirst Road. I was driving to my kids’ school and the traffic was really slow. I saw police up ahead, including this particular one who I’d met before. They were stopping drivers, talking to them. I’m now thinking the reason they were there had to be Damon Blundy’s death. Apparently it’s being treated as suspicious.

I’m very upset. Please don’t ask me why.

N x

From
: Mr. Jugs

Date
: Tue, July 2, 2013 09:45:05

To
:

Subject
: Re: Distress signal

Why are you very upset that a contrarian newspaper columnist who happened to live near you has died?

Yes, this is the same me. If I were to order you to lie facedown on the carpet and remove your underwear **very** slowly, would that help to reassure you? Somebody could have hacked into my account, I suppose, but . . . they haven’t. It’s me.

So someone murdered Damon Blundy? Really?? What took them so long?
(An uncharacteristic emoticon—it’s **still** me.)