“Cece isn’t here,” she said, attempting one of her fake room-illuminating smiles.
“Don’t,” I snapped.
Her eyes narrowed. “What is this about?”
“The attitude–whenever I’m around. Whenever Kate and Suzanne are with me. Cece might not notice but we do.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.”
“I have work to do.”
Looking round the empty restaurant, I continued. “Do we offend you that much?”
She reared back, nostrils flaring.
I steamed on. “Not everyone gets the perfect life.”
“Lori—”
I cut her off. “This must be hard to understand when all you have think about is whether this lipstick matches last season’s Monsoon dress, but it’s different for us–”
“Wait—”
“You
wait. And, don’t think for a single minute we’re freeloading each time we come here. We all pay our way. We’re keeping you in a job.”
I stopped to draw breath, waiting for her to explode furiously. She looked as though she could give it back in buckets and I was spoiling for a fight.
Angry, I was so angry with everyone and everything–it bubbled inside me at such an excessively high temperature I could have surfaced roads with the rage. I’d reached boiling point, Daisy, however, wasn’t set to do battle, anything but; shocked and speechless more like.
We stared at each other, eyes locked, mouths set, mirroring each other’s hostile expression.
Eventually, she spoke. “Sit down.”
I did what I was told feeling faintly ridiculous, short changed on a screaming match.
She went to the bar and poured a whisky for me, vodka lemonade for her, leaving her purse on the till. “Just so you know, I’m not freeloading either.”
I took the drink and mumbled. “I’m sorry. Lack of sleep makes me a bitch.”
“You think?”
She had every right to sound defensive. I nodded, chastened. “I’m really sorry.”
“Whatever.” Daisy shrugged, letting me suffer in silence for a decent amount of time before continuing. And I sensed a secret–another one that never sleeps. “I do have attitude, you’re right. But it has nothing to do with you being a widow. Hell, what kind of person do you think I am? I’m genuinely sorry for your loss–”
His name was Robbie. I swear I’d never heard Cece talk about him, which was weird considering that Ribbons’ volume of staff wasn’t up there with The Savoy. What’s more. Cece liked to talk about
everyone
—good and bad regardless.
Daisy talked fast. Like the world was falling through a colander. “Oh, Robbie’s great to look at–no question. Not so great to work with. He ends up restaurant manager with no experience whatsoever. How the hell?”
“He…who…restaurant manager? It does sound rather…impulsive,” I said still trying to work out why I hadn’t heard about Robbie until now.
“It’s bloody bad for business. You’ve no idea how frustrating it is to see someone not do their job properly.”
I wasn’t sure if she was talking about Cece or Robbie so resorted to a generic response. “You’re right.”
“The position should have been
mine
. Cece knows she can count on me. It’s no secret that I want to learn everything there is to know about the restaurant business. I’ve seen the mistakes he’s made.”
“Why didn’t you put yourself forward?”
“I draw the line at sleeping with the boss.”
“Ah–” Now I sensed Cece’s need for secrecy.
“You mean you didn’t know?”
I shook my head.
“I thought you all knew. Approved.”
“We didn’t. Believe me.”
“That’s what I couldn’t understand: why four intelligent women would think it’s okay to let an overconfident undergraduate take over the running of a restaurant? It’s been driving me nuts. And, yeah, I’ve been a bitch about it.” She rubbed her temples, tired.
“We
wouldn’t
think it was okay. I just thought…”
“…I was the restaurant’s eye candy?”
I apologised and explained that I’d been so caught up in my own world that everything and everyone had been blotted out,
We talked some more. And it made me realise that everyone has stuff going on, whether it is emotional, financial or both. Daisy had two young children to support, which meant a job at Ribbons was a big deal to her. “I want to learn the ropes and I work hard. I
admired
Cece,” she said.
Past tense. Ouch.
Chapter Thirty Eight
Hurricane Sunset
Red and orange beguile me. The alternative is the horror-movie darkness I have become accustomed to. I’m an expert at sunsets and sunrises. Edinburgh had a summer of spectacular ones.
“You’re no expert until your first hurricane sunset,” Jim pointed out.
“Is that so?” Someone had opened a bottle of wine at the office and unfathomably failed to finish it. Jim and I obliged.
“To think we used to get a box of Champagne shipped into the office every Friday afternoon,” said Jim, sighing. “Until the financial fiasco felled us.” He raised his glass. “To freebies.”
“I can detect a smidgen of less light.” I swivelled my chair until I had a panoramic view of the city.
“About time–like living in an Alaskan town.”
“You get used to it.”
“Like I said.” Jim headed across the office in search of more alcohol. “Hurricane sunsets; so captivatingly beautiful no one notices the shipwrecks on the horizon.”
“I think I always knew… something wasn’t right. Y’know…Harrison’s death.”
“Yeah?”
“See…he wasn’t that person. Someone who would drink and drive.”
“Time to face the music?”
“I guess I so.”
“Good call.”
“Where do I start?”
“Where we always start; by asking questions.”
I drained my drink. “The truth scares the shit out of me.”
Jim came over and hauled me onto my feet. “So it should. No place to run, no place to hide.”
He pushed me in the direction of the lift. “C’mon, let’s go to the pub. This place is dry.”
“Jim.”
“Yes?”
“Did you know that Cece is seeing someone?”
“Waiter boy or whatever he is?”
“You
knew
?”
Jim grinned. “You didn’t?”
“I do now.”
“Yeah, Cece got it
bad
.”
“Why didn’t she say something?”
“Why do you think?”
It was Jim’s idea. He said I should phone Harrison’s colleagues at the college hospital in London; dig around before the police ploughed in. Even offered to do it for me but I resisted.
Doctors don’t remember dead patients or, at least, this is the impression they give.
Marcus Wilson, senior anaesthetist and Harrison’s drinking partner, seemed like a good start. I got straight to the point and asked whom should I talk to regarding Vivienne Roberts.
“Who?” he asked, sounding shattered. He told me he’d just finished a 14-hour shift. Seven days doing 14-hour night shifts. I got the message.
“Vivienne Roberts,” I repeated.
“Doctors don’t remember dead patients, Lori. You know the rules.”
“I do, I know, but, please, this is important. I just need the name of someone.”
“What for?”
“I … I need to go over some details.”
His sigh whooshed down the phone. “Harrison didn’t do anything to her. We’re breaking our balls in this place and shit like this doesn’t help.”
“Then what do
you
think happened?”
“Lori, let it go.”
“I can’t. I need to find out what happened.”
“Harrison was cleared.
No blame
.” He spoke with exaggerated conviction. “
That’s
the truth.”
“Why did he leave the hospital then? Did he have something to hide?”
He laughed at this. “We all have something to hide.”
“Please. I’m trying to finish this.”
“It
is
finished. I can’t give you more.”
“Then who can?”
Reluctantly, he gave me a name and contact number of a senior consultant at the hospital and the conversation ran out of steam after that. He did, however, take a moment to ask how I was doing.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Let it go, Lori.”
“I’m
fine
. Take care, Marcus.” I put down the phone, hands shaking.
I wrote down the name. Mr Akshay Kotharo, senior surgeon at the hospital, and one-time mentor to Harrison. He took my call even though his secretary sounded seriously suspicious.
“May I ask what it is regarding?” she asked, unfriendly.
“It is a personal matter.”
“A
personal
matter,” she repeated, voice sounding as though she was wading through weeds.
“Please. It is important. Hello?”
She’d pitched me into a cavernous silence, leaving me to guess whether I was on hold or unceremoniously cut off.
Then suddenly: “Kotharo,” boomed a voice.
“Oh, yes, hello, it is Lori Walker here.”
“Lori who?”
“I’m Harrison Warner’s wife.”
“Right, yes. Go on.”
I looked down at the list of questions scribbled in a notebook and took the plunge even though Kotharo’s manner made me ridiculously nervous. Stick to the questions, I told myself.
“I wanted to ask you about Harrison and his patient Vivienne Roberts. She…”
“I am well aware of the case.” Again, voice clipped.
I rushed out the words, looking at my notes and sounding stilted. “Harrison’s death might not have been an accident. There’s evidence to suggest that someone else might have wanted to harm him. I need to find out what happened.”
There was a slight pause. “This must be difficult for you. I’m not sure how I can help.”
“I don’t think Harrison recovered from Vivienne Roberts’ death. He carried the blame. I’m trying to work out what happened–and whether someone close to Vivienne would want to hurt Harrison.”
“If I remember correctly, Vivienne Roberts’ prospects weren’t good without a heart transplant and she was in a great deal of pain. Dr Warner was very attentive to her case and did the best he could.”
“I think she asked for his help. To end the pain.”
“She probably did.”
“Then how can you be so sure he didn’t…” I couldn’t bring myself to go further.
“I can be sure, Ms Walker,” he reprimanded me, “Because one doesn’t need
that
much morphine to kill someone. This is
exactly
what I told the investigating committee.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.”
“Dr Warner would have been mindful of hospital resources.”
I thought he was joking but, no, deadly serious. “The excessiveness surrounding her death didn’t point to a skilled professional such as your husband. It was an emotional act, that I’m sure. Unfortunately, we were
dragged
into a situation.”
“I don’t understand why he wanted to leave the hospital. He had support here. No one blamed him.”
There was stillness before Kotharo answered. “I personally wanted him to continue his work here. But… we are not just surgeons–”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
He pulled back, brusqueness restored, as though he had said too much. “Ms Walker, I know you want answers. You want to find out what happened to your husband but have decided to focus on his death, which, in my opinion, is like starting at the end and working backwards. Think
ab ovo
. Go back to the start.”
I was disappointed. His advice was logical, yes, but no more than that. Hell, it was like speaking to the Wizard of Oz; booming authority from behind a curtain. I couldn’t read his expressions or make a connection. I expected him to hold all the answers but, of course, he didn’t.
The conversation was over and I thanked him for his time.
All at once Kotharo shed the sharp, professional veneer and his tone softened. “I am more than sure that Dr Warner didn’t kill his patient. It would be quite out of character. Harrison was an emotionally intelligent, talented man. He is missed.”
He caught me off guard and I blinked back tears, looking up at the ceiling. I needed to hear these words. “I know. Thank you.”
He is missed
.
“Call me again whenever you have more questions,” he said, reverting to form before hanging up the phone.
Go back to the beginning.
Although I was none the wiser who would want to kill Harrison, I was lifted by Kotharo’s words. He confirmed what I thought. Harrison didn’t kill someone.
I would tell McCarthy this. I needed him to believe me. The alternative theory was less attractive: Harrison killed Vivienne Roberts. I killed Harrison.
But instead of calling McCarthy, I speed-dialled Jim. “I’d like to test that Oxford education of yours.”
“Knock yourself out, Boss.”
“We are not just surgeons…”
He finished the quote for me after a second’s hesitation: “…we are men who make mistakes.”
Chapter Thirty Nine
Tea & Sympathy
Autumn arrived in red boots. Tangerine dresses with big cartoonish prints, drop waists and leather leggings also emerged as a key trend. We covered the Spring/Summer shows for the following year with inexhaustible attention and
Corset Magazine
went up a dress size so to speak–more pages as more advertisers showed interest.
I hit the road for half an hour each morning in the hope that some drive time would settle the debris in my head before I got to the office. A candyfloss-coloured dawn was mirrored on the River Forth and its pinkness rippled into the future throwing out splashes of lilac. The bridge suspended by steel hanger ropes carried me over to the other side, putting distance between here and there. The options: face up to what Harrison did, whatever mistakes he made, or drive back and forth forever.
Kate called while I was driving. No good morning, just: “She’s something else. When was she going to tell us?”
“She wasn’t.”
“Let’s get her to meet us for a quick drink. Not Ribbons.”
Harvey Nichols–water on one side, the city on the other. Kate and I ordered drinks while we waited for Cece, who arrived when we were one martini up.