“Said the man who went to St Anne’s College for three years.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ma’am. It goes from bad to worse.” I was eight years older and, holy Christ, at times did I feel it. It didn’t help that Jim still lived at home with his mother, who asked to speak to “Jimmy” whenever she called the office.
Jim edged his chair closer until I caught the faintest scent of Bleu de Chanel. “Come with me.”
I rubbed knuckles into my eyes. “I think I’m losing it.”
“Take a moment. Let the police come back to you with more information.”
“I’m not holding my breath.”
“I’ll pick you up at 8pm.”
He took my silence as a resounding yes and turned his attention back to his work.
What am I doing? I wondered, needing a drink like you wouldn’t believe. What the hell am I doing?
I feel a familiar tightness turn the screws on my chest and wish for a breathing machine; respirator to deliver oxygen. Need a portable ventilator to help me. Save me.
McCarthy returned sooner than expected. It was another early morning call in uncharacteristically warm sunshine for Scotland. I wasn’t off the hook.
I was wearing a white silk wraparound Chloé dress and nude heels and instantly panicked about my personal appearance: should look more distressed. Whereas, he came over attractive without trying in another soft-cotton shirt, unbuttoned at the top, untucked at the bottom, tieless and jeans. The plainclothes look worked.
I pictured his poor wife ageing beside him, having her work cut out: hair appointments every three weeks to cover the roots, expensive facials, counting calories, a bit of Botox on the side, while he remained the same; mellow, attractive, not gathering dust.
“Ms Walker,” he said. “A word?”
He walked across the cobblestone street to the cafe with me ragtagging behind, sludgingly slow in the humidity. Cold sweat broke up my shoulder blades.
No drinks to soften the blow this time, we sat at the stainless steel bistro table; a barrier between me and McCarthy in our makeshift interview room. Question time. I jumped the gun before he berated me for not taking his calls. “I think I’m being followed.”
His chin lifted, interested. “Any idea who?”
I shook my head emphatically and rushed to explain. “I thought… it was like I was imagining things at first but I could
feel
someone. I still do.” I met his gaze.
“When were you first aware of this?”
“Walking home one night. I’d been at a restaurant.”
“A man?”
I nodded.
“Did you report it?”
I shook my head.
“Why not?”
I sighed, exasperated. “Because I thought I was seeing ghosts.”
It isn’t strictly a lie. I see Harrison everywhere, feel his presence. Not haunting but watchful, under my skin. How could I explain that this city
made
you believe in ghosts?
I confessed. “I can’t be
sure
that he… Harrison died. I saw him laid out in a morgue at the hospital but–”
To his credit, McCarthy didn’t suggest immediate psychiatric treatment but wasn’t overly sympathetic either, considering I’d told him someone might be following me. He had other concerns.
“When were you going to tell me about Vivienne Roberts?”
I swallowed and realised I’d made a crucial mistake: one who withholds information cannot be trusted.
“I’m here to find out who killed your husband.” He had to squint into the sunshine, which meant I couldn’t read his expression. “I need you to help me.”
“Do you think I killed my husband?”
He hesitated long enough to make me feel horribly uncomfortable. “I’m not paid to speculate. I’m paid to find out who killed your husband.”
This time there was quietness in his voice that belied the rough, beaten face; a person existed behind the inspector detective exterior. His eyes softened fractionally and I held his gaze. Two seconds too long.
In a rush I wanted to convince him that I wasn’t a lost cause. The real me had been flattened by Harrison’s death but I was still in here somewhere. Rewind and McCarthy would discover a carefree someone; lighthearted, droll even.
Listen, I used to swing my handbag when I walked. There is more to me than this
, I wanted to whisper.
Just at that second I felt a sudden rush of blood to the heart. Like being resuscitated or even more aggressive–defibrillator forcefulness. In an instant, I remember my father explain the chemical cocktail of physical attraction: endorphins and hormones vasopressin and oxytocin shaken vigorously and served.
This hormone whoosh could burn down a tree on first strike and I seriously wondered if I had some kind of syndrome; post-traumatic shock or survivor guilt–something that skewed emotions and triggered inappropriate behaviour. I attempted to gulp air.
McCarthy leaned towards me concerned, not surprising considering my brief history of fainting fits. “You okay?”
I couldn’t look at him. I had one notion and that was to walk and never look back. What if he could read me; practised from years of questioning criminals. What then?
“Ms Walker?”
I mumbled and pressed a hand to my forehead. Using Harrison’s death as a cover for blatant wantonness. I was shameless.
He leaned towards me, so close to me I could feel the warmth pulse out from him–four bars on an electric fire, strong as a physical touch. With that, I had a violent urge to put my hands over his face, trace my fingers over his eyebrows, his broken nose, his lips. I wanted to reach out and pull him across the table as fast as a firefighter would haul a person from a burning building. I needed forceful and thorough contact to fight off a loneliness that was turning me into a ghost trapped between this world and another. How could he not notice this shift in me? Not notice I wanted
so
much.
He sensed change. His subconscious did because he switched from addressing me as Ms Warner to calling me Lori.
“Look, Lori,” he said. “You haven’t been straight with me. You should have told me about Vivienne Roberts. That you were being followed.”
I nodded, waiting for him to go on.
“Let’s take it back to the start. I’ll ask questions that should have been put to you six months ago.”
I forced myself to focus on his words. Talking about the horror of Harrison’s death hosed down my hormones until the heat of lust went out with a hiss.
“Questions?” I whispered.
“As I’ve said, procedure wasn’t followed to the rule at the time of your husband’s death.”
“Continue.” I had turned monosyllabic.
“Failure to close the road following the accident; failure to use appeal boards and trace further witnesses to the incident. No prizes for identifying the key word here.”
“Now?”
He shrugged. “I’m being honest with you–we can think about damage control later.”
“You think I’m going to
sue
the police?”
“Actually, I was hoping you could help us.”
Rush of hormones truly dampened down, we trawled over the accident details and I was never more grateful for a distraction. The post mortem, as expected, revealed excessively high levels of alcohol in Harrison’s blood.
McCarthy probed. “Did he take recreational drugs?”
I shook my head emphatically. Then thought of my sister and moderated my answer.
“I don’t
think
so. I’m not sure what I know any more.”
“I’m surprised he could find his car, never mind drive it as far as he did. He’s had drink-driving convictions in the past?”
“No, never–out of character. He’s a
doctor
.” Free pass to perfection.
“Tell me more about being followed.”
He leaned forward. I had to stop myself from leaning back.
I told him as much as I knew, which wasn’t much. McCarthy said he wanted to
build a profile
. I didn’t argue but how can you profile someone’s shadow or the feeling of being watched?
“Has anyone else in your family reported suspicious behaviour?”
“No, nothing but…God, do you think my mother and sister and could be at risk?”
“It’s possible.”
“Should I… warn them?”
“Don’t spook them. Until we know more.”
“I’ll give my sister the heads up–she’s not easily spooked.”
He stood up, signalling our chat was over. “Call me if something comes up.”
This second visit from McCarthy seriously rattled me. I took a detour through the park, collapsing onto the nearest bench, not wanting to wait until I reached the office before phoning Gee. I fixed my breathing first. Hyperventilating during conversation wouldn’t wash with my sister, who had no time for “psychoneurotic hysteria”–her label for anything remotely emotional.
She picked up on the second ring, surprising us both.
“It’s me.” I cut to the chase. “I’ve had a visit from the police.”
There was absolutely no reaction apart from a slight intake of breath.
Jesus
, I cursed silently. I could tell when she was gone–there was a dumb-down numbness to her, which was a trillion miles from her scalpel-sharp brain.
“Did you hear me?” I barked. “The
police
.”
“The
police
?” This time you would think I’d given her an injection of adrenaline and I felt immediately guilty about the abruptness of the call. You don’t open a conversation like this to mothers with young children.
“Listen, don’t panic. I
don’t
want you to tell Mum. I’m being followed and the police think it might be someone who is connected with Vivienne Roberts.”
“Vivienne
who
?”
“Christ, Gee. The girl who died of an
overdose
?”
“Uh huh, okay…okay, calm down.”
I told her in detail what McCarthy had told me and she gave me the impression she was listening.
“Be aware, that’s all. Anything or anyone out of the ordinary, tell me. Or the police. It’s probably nothing but I wanted you to know.”
“Yeah, alright. Thanks.”
“
Don’t
mention it to Mum.”
“I won’t.”
“You should call her,” I warned. “Otherwise she’s on the next plane to Aberdeen.”
“Is this what it’s really about?”
The self-centredness never ceased to amaze me. “No, Gee. This is not about you. This time it is about
me
.”
She sighed, exasperated. “Yes, Lori, I
know
that.”
Cece, Suzanne and Kate closed ranks around me and questioned me senseless; desperate to uncover clues. Cece was adamant I should stay with her in case Harrison’s murderer
came after me
. We were at Ribbons and she stuck to her theme. “I don’t know why you insist on returning home alone each night. I have the room. Hell, take over a whole floor.”
“I’m sick of running,” I said. It was true. It was exhausting–I felt marathon-runner fatigued as though I had sprinted from London to Edinburgh to Aberdeen and back again.
“Stay with Cece,” encouraged Suzanne. “Until the police find out more.”
“That’s just it,” I explained. “There has been one anonymous email and the possibility that someone
might
be following me. No further contact has been made and I haven’t seen anyone, no one has approached me.” I rubbed my eyes. “It could be my imagination; lack of sleep, stress. The police are on the case–and that’s about it.”
“Detective don’t think so,” Cece was quick to point out.
I was about to protest when she cut me off short and suggested we eat. “Food. Then decide what to do.”
She dished up an elaborate pastry tarte du pomme with the assuredness of someone who believes butter and flour can save any desperate situation.
I guess I expected action: immediate arrest and conviction but the first boom didn’t do much except shake me up. McCarthy said he had someone
working on it
.
My husband was murdered and it turned out to be an agonisingly slow process to find out who did it. I guess I expected McCarthy to run down the street and wrestle someone to the ground with his bare hands. In truth, I was relieved to have a cooling-off period even though it meant stalling over Harrison’s death.
I tried to think like my sensible mother would.
McCarthy–a knee-jerk reaction to loneliness: foam filler for the crater-size space inside a broken heart.
Chapter Nineteen
To Love Someone
Kate’s husband Neil Moritz died four years ago. Cece mentioned it to me on the quiet but Kate also told me herself when we bumped into each other one afternoon on Princes Street.
She said she was heading to the public gardens across the road to eat her lunch and would I like to join her. I bought coffees and we circled tourists and sunbathers until we found a space for two on the grass.
In truth, I still found Kate intimidating. She was guarded, the opposite of Cece who had no problems with disclosure, sharing intimate details of her life from gynaecologist appointments for painful menstrual periods to her business bank deficit and two dead husbands. Suzanne and I had fashion to bind us, which generated endless conversation.
Kate was different. She was frugal with words and emotions. I was also slightly in awe of her because she was a superbly clever mathematician, whereas the left linear side of my brain needed a jump-lead start.
Yet, if there was an impenetrable seriousness about her, I understood. She was a single mother of two children under 10. In contrast, I struggled to take care of myself.
She opened the conversation with, “Has McCarthy been in touch?”
“He’s around.”
“No answers?”
“Just more questions.” I sighed.
“Give it time.”
I lay back on the grass. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“It is four years since Neil died,” a pause, “tomorrow.”
Christ, okay, this took me off guard. For want of something to do, I sat up and blew on my coffee vigorously, fiddling with the lid to get the temperature
exactly
right.
I knew that her husband had killed himself but the facts ended there. The others didn’t talk about it. He Who Shall Not Be Talked About, said Cece, putting some Harry Potter spin on it.