‘No,’ she said again, tears pouring down her cheeks. She studied his features, the awful gashes in his forehead and cheeks. She saw how the blood had soaked his jacket and shirt.
So much blood.
‘Is it your husband, Mrs Ward?’ Mackenzie asked.
Donna nodded and reached for her husband, touching one of his lacerated cheeks.
Jesus, he was so cold.
His skin was white, those areas that weren’t discoloured by bruises or hideous cuts, as if all the blood had been drained from him. She smoothed one of his eyebrows, then touched his lips with her index finger.
So cold.
She touched her fingertips to her own lips and kissed them, then pressed those fingers to his cold lips once more.
She shook her head again, allowing herself to be eased back by the WPC, allowing herself to be guided towards the door.
She saw Jordan replace the sheet.
It was then that she collapsed.
Five
How many tears could the human eye produce?
As Donna sat sobbing she wondered.
How much pain was it possible to feel at the death of a man you loved? Could pain be measured, calibrated and categorised like anything else?
Chris would have known.
She felt a hand clasp hers; it seemed to exude strength and feeling.
The nurse who sat beside her was in her mid-thirties
(
maybe a year or two older than Chris
)
and she had the most piercing blue eyes Donna had ever seen. But in those eyes there was only concern now. The small room had yellow walls, two or three threadbare chairs and posters which bore slogans like
SAVE THE NHS
OVERWORKED DOCTORS ARE A DANGER TO EVERYONE: CUT HOURS
On the small table beside her there were tea cups; one was still steaming.
‘Drink it,’ said the nurse, holding the cup towards Donna, gripping her other hand firmly.
Donna looked at her, then at the WPC who sat opposite. She took the cup and sipped the tea.
‘Good girl,’ said the nurse, still holding her hand.
Donna swallowed a couple of mouthfuls then put the cup down. She sucked in a deep breath, as if to replace air that had been knocked from her, then sank back in the chair, one hand over her face, her eyes closed. Her sobs subsided into a series of quivering inhalations and exhalations. She could feel how wet her own cheeks were.
‘Oh God,’ she whispered, swallowing hard, aware for the first time of the heavy silence in the room and of the ticking of a clock above her.
11.06 p.m.
‘What happened?’ she asked, looking at the nurse and the WPC in turn.
‘You fainted and we brought you in here,’ the policewoman told her quietly.
‘Oh God,’ Donna murmured again. The words were like a litany.
The room was lit by a sixty-watt bulb that cast thick black shadows. Outside, beyond the closed curtains, she could hear the wind. The hospital seemed very quiet. Donna sat for interminable minutes just staring ahead, wondering why her mind was so blank. It was like a blackboard wiped clean of chalk, all feelings wiped away. She just felt a terrible emptiness, so intense it was almost physical, as if a hole had been gouged in her soul. Could so much emotion be expended that a person was left without feeling? When Donna looked down at her own body she saw only a shell, with nothing left inside. Just a husk, devoid and emptied of feeling.
She put down the teacup, touched the nurse gently on the back of the hand and released her grip, resting both arms on the worn arms of the chair. Tilting her head back she closed her eyes and took another deep, racking breath.
‘How did it happen?’ she asked finally, her voice low.
The policewoman looked at her and then at the nurse, as if for permission to speak.
‘How was Chris killed?’ Donna had no recollection of Cobb telling her about the accident.
‘A car crash,’ the WPC said quietly.
‘When did it happen?’
‘I’m not really sure, Mrs Ward,’ the policewoman told her apologetically. ‘I wasn’t on duty when it happened.’
‘Is there anyone here who could tell me?’ Donna asked, smiling thinly. ‘Please.’
The policewoman got to her feet, excused herself and slipped out of the door, closing it behind her.
The clock continued to tick loudly above Donna’s head.
‘You must have done this so many times,’ she said to the nurse, ‘comforted the grieving relatives.’ Her voice cracked and a tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away hurriedly. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ the nurse told her, clutching her arm warmly. ‘Don’t apologise for the way you feel. I was the same when my father died; I was saying sorry to everyone. Sorry for being a nuisance, sorry for crying all the time. Then I realized that it didn’t matter. You have a right to your grief. Don’t be ashamed of it.’
Donna smiled, despite her tears. She touched the nurse’s hand.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
The door of the room opened and the WPC re-entered. Mackenzie was with her. He nodded awkwardly to Donna before sitting down opposite her.
‘You wanted some information about your husband’s death, Mrs Ward?’ he said.
She nodded.
‘The crash happened some time this afternoon,’ the DC said. ‘We think at about four o’clock. His body was brought here for identification. It was easier to reach you.’
‘How
did it happen?’
‘His brakes failed, as far as we can tell. He hit a wall.’
Donna felt that feeling of despair rising once more like an unstoppable tide.
‘Was anyone else hurt in the crash?’ she wanted to know.
Mackenzie hesitated, licking his lips self-consciously.
‘I’m afraid there was another death. We ... er ... we found another body in the car with your husband. A young woman. Her name was Suzanne Regan.’
Donna sat forward in her chair, a frown creasing her brow.
‘Oh my God,’ she murmured. ‘And she was killed, too?’
‘Unfortunately, yes. Did you know her?’
‘She worked for my husband’s publishers. I don’t know why she would have been with him, though.’
‘She obviously knew your husband quite well?’
‘They worked together,’ Donna said, her confusion growing. ‘Well, not really worked together. Like I said, she worked for his publishers. She was only a secretary, as far as I know. What makes you think she knew him?’
‘Well, she was in the car with him, for one thing, Mrs Ward. I suppose he could have been giving her a lift home, something like that.’
‘What are you trying to say?’ Donna snapped, sucking in a deep breath.
Mackenzie clasped his hands together and looked evenly at the distraught woman.
‘One of the reasons we couldn’t identify your husband after the crash was because he had no ID on his person. No driver’s licence, no credit cards, no cheque book. Nothing.’
‘He always got
me
to carry his credit cards for him,’ she protested.
‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Mrs Ward. He
did
have credit cards
and
his cheque book but
he
wasn’t carrying them. After we’d taken the bodies from the wreckage we found your husband’s cheque book
and
credit cards in Suzanne Regan’s handbag.’
Six
‘What are you trying to say?’ Donna demanded angrily.
‘I’m not trying to say anything, Mrs Ward. You merely asked me for some information and I gave it to you,’ Mackenzie told her.
‘I want to see her,’ Donna said flatly.
‘That’s impossible, Mrs Ward.’
‘You could be wrong about her. It might not be Suzanne Regan. I’ve seen her; I could identify her.’
‘That’s already been done. Her brother confirmed it earlier.’
There was an awkward silence, which was finally broken by Donna.
‘Why was she carrying his credit cards?’
‘We don’t know that, Mrs Ward,’ Mackenzie said, almost apologetically.
‘What else did you find in her bag? Anything that belonged to my husband?’ There was a trace of anger in her voice now.
‘I can’t disclose information like that, Mrs Ward.’
‘Was there anything else?’
‘There was a photo of your husband in Miss Regan’s purse, and we found two letters from your husband to Miss Regan in her bag as well.’
‘Where are they?’ Donna demanded.
‘Her brother took them. He took all her belongings with him.’
‘And my husband? Did he have anything of
hers?’
‘Not as far as we can tell. There was a card - it looks like a business card - in his wallet, but it was blank apart from a phone number and the initial S written on it.’
‘Suzanne,’ she hissed, her jaws clenched.
The silence descended again and Donna sat back in the chair. Her mind was spinning. First dread, then shock, now confusion. What was next? What other revelations were to be revealed to her?
Why had Suzanne Regan been in the car with him?
Why had she had his photo in her bag? Why was she carrying his credit cards?
Why?
Letters. From Ward to
her
.
She raised a hand to her face once more, covering her eyes.
‘I
will
need to speak to you again, Mrs Ward,’ Mackenzie said. ‘Once everything has been taken care of.’
‘You mean after the funeral,’ she said, quietly.
‘I’ll be in touch.’ He moved towards the door, pausing before he left. ‘I’m very sorry.’ And he was gone.
‘I want to go home,’ Donna said, her voice quivering. She sounded like a child, a lost child. And lost she most certainly was. She felt more alone than she could ever remember.
Seven
She’d been alone in the house often, but until now Donna had never felt truly lonely.
The silence and the desolation crowded in on her almost palpably. The clock on the wall opposite showed 1.32 a.m. She cradled the mug of tea in her hands and sat at the breakfast bar, head lowered. The central heating was turned up to full and Donna was seated close to a radiator, but she still felt that ever-present chill. She wondered if it would ever leave her.
The policewoman had offered to stay with her for the night, to call a relative. A doctor at the hospital had recommended sleeping pills. She had declined all the offers, accepting only the one to drive her home around midnight.
Home.
Even the word had an empty ring. How could it be home without Chris there? She sniffed back a tear then thought about what the nurse had said:
‘You have a right to your grief’
. It was one of the few things from that interminable evening she did remember.
That, and Mackenzie’s revelations that her husband had been in the car with another woman when he’d been killed.