Death of a Butterfly

by Simon Brown

  Friday came quickly. The funeral was at 2 p.m. I wore my black dress and a black hat I bought for the occasion. Jennie and I drove down to the crematorium. The crunching of the gravel, sounded jarring. I wanted to hide behind a mask, and insulate myself from the crowd in the hall.

  James strode over and gave me a hug that squeezed the air from my lungs.

  “We’ll miss him,” he said gravely.

  “Yes,” I responded weakly.

  “Oh God, what’s she doing here?”

  I followed James’ gaze and saw Inspector Pride at the back, talking to Jennie.

  Edwina came over and gave me a big hug.

  “Stay strong, I’m here if you need me.”

  Edward scowled, pointedly standing beyond Edwina. Then the awkward moment was broken, as a large, longhaired, bearded man came over and told me used to play guitar with Mathew at the blues club. He rambled on describing Mathew in terms of scales, chords and rhythm. My mind wandered and I looked past the man to see Miranda and Jessica from the shop talking to James.

  Two profusely sympathetic teachers from the art department rescued me. I stood bathed in their condolences until Jeff, who looked after Mathew’s old Alfa Romeo, shook my hand.

  Thankfully, we were ushered to our pews. I could be on my own again. I started to shake a little as the coffin slid into the dark tunnel. Tears welled up and rolled down my cheeks. Somehow all the mystery about the missing money had smeared my final feelings for the man with whom I had shared so much with a thin veneer of betrayal. I felt I had been cheated of the real grief I should be feeling. Being part of this tarnished ending felt so very sad and incomplete.

  Goodbye, Mathew. Thank you for the memories.

  After I shook more hands. I noticed that I began to view James and Edward suspiciously. Was one of them the murderer? I looked around at the people slowly walking to the church doors. It could be any of them.

  I was aware that neither Mathew nor I had any family at the funeral. I had never met any of Mathew’s relations and he had not met any of mine. I had told Mathew that I would like to create a new family with him. I think I used the well-worn phrase – “Darling, I want to have your baby. I think it would be wonderful to have some little Blakes running around our home.” He reasoned that it was not the best time. It never was – too soon, too busy, too expensive. Excuses included wanting to move house, the recession, travel. He felt the future was too uncertain. We might depend on my salary for a few years as the shop was in difficulties. Besides, he kept reassuring me, I was young and could wait a couple of years.

  I regretted my decision not to invite people home. I experienced pangs of guilt as I said goodbye to everyone at the crematorium. When Jennie and I got home, I went upstairs, took my dress off and crawled into bed. Images of the coffin, people’s faces and the crematorium, circled past my eyes. I turned onto my side forced myself to look out of the window at the billowing white clouds blowing past.

  Later Jennie brought me some soup, bread and a salad.

  I submerged myself into a dark black cloud all weekend. I lay in bed, slumped on the sofa or sat at the kitchen table with my head in my hands. Jennie eventually gave up asking if there was anything she could do. She read and listened to her iPod. My favourite thoughts were: why me? What had I done to deserve this?

  CHAPTER 6

  Monday morning, three weeks after the killing, PC Fiona Mills replaced Jennie. Fiona was more outgoing and chatty, with a jolly manner. My responses were minimal, having lost my need to keep up with social convention. Fiona persisted with snatches of conversation each time we met in the kitchen or living room. She would be an excellent nurse.

  We drove back to the crematorium to collect Mathew’s ashes. I wondered what to do with them. I thought of burying them in our garden, but if I was to lose my home what was the point of leaving them there. I forced myself to search through my memories for a time and place Mathew might like for his final resting place.

  I remembered a time early in our relationship when we enjoyed a picnic in a meadow, near the River Mimram. Wild flowers swayed in the warm breeze, as butterflies fluttered over colourful petals. We lay on a brown and red tartan blanket under a large oak tree. I had packed sandwiches, juices and fruit into a large wicker hamper. It was here that Mathew proposed to me. He was so gallant, as he held my hand and knelt next to me. Mathew gazed into my eyes as he spoke eloquently of his love and desire to be beside me forever. When he asked me to marry him, I became overwhelmed with emotion and cried. He embraced me and I kept whispering, “Yes,” into his ear. I wanted him to be part of me as we lay in each other’s arms. I felt so close, so open to him.

  Now, I was struggling to hold onto the validity of those memories. It was so easy to question his intentions, and dismiss any expression of his love as being the cynical seeds of eventual betrayal. Somehow I had to keep a part of Mathew sacred, untainted by his duplicity. I had to believe that what he said at the time was true.

  I collected the ashes and we drove to the meadow. I walked along the same path as all those years ago, towards the oak tree. Instead of holding Mathew’s hand I was holding a pot of his ashes. It was cold and bleak. I reassured myself that the flowers would grow back in the spring and that Mathew’s ashes would feed them.

  I knelt down close to the spot where Mathew and I were consumed with love and started to pull the soil away with my hands. I tipped the ashes into the hole and pushed the soil over with my palms. Fiona stood behind me in silence. I prayed that Mathew would find peace.

  By Tuesday I noticed I was looking forward to seeing Steven again. I drove to Hertford with Fiona.

  When I was seated, Steven looked up at me from his notes.

  “So we left off with you at art college. Would you like to proceed?”

  “I think you should know that since last week I have received a death threat. I buried my husband on Friday and I have been feeling very depressed.”

  Steven made notes.

  “I see. Do you want to skip forwards?”

  I nodded.

  I told my therapist how my father died suddenly, about my mother’s unexpected death, meeting Mathew and our relationship. I described finding Mathew dead on the floor, the bank details and the threatening letter. I went on to tell him about my depression.

  “I think it would be unusual if you did not feel depressed under the circumstances. Giving yourself some time to grieve might be very healthy.”

  When I was ready, we went on talking about adjustments, change and challenges. Once my hour was up, I felt a bit more open.

  On the way home, I engaged in conversation with Fiona for the first time. I found myself interested in her new relationship. I wanted to know where they met, what he was like, how they spent their time together.

  When I pushed open the front door, I could see three letters on the floor. A long brown envelope caught my eye. I turned it over and saw the same scribbled handwriting. I looked at Fiona.

  “Oh no, it’s the same style as before.”

  “Put it down and I’ll call in Inspector Pride.”

  Pride arrived nearly half an hour later.

  She put on gloves and carefully unsealed the envelope. She pulled out the white paper and unfolded it. A picture of me was positioned to the right and to the left was a photograph of a masked man holding a gun. Both were black and white photocopied images, cut out and stuck onto a plain sheet of paper.

  This time the bubble coming from my mouth said me big prostitute. me turn man on and get him do wat I want. The words in his bubble were Now u pay big time bitch. I get closer.

  We sat looking at the paper for what seemed like a long time. Pride was the first to speak.

  “Where did this picture of you come from?”

  “The same album. It is a picture of me with Mathew taken on the beach near Nice. In the original, Mathew and I are leaning against a rock holding hands. He must have copied it and cut around my profile.”

  I was topless. Again i
n the original setting it looked completely natural but here, weird and creepy. I had my purple and black bikini bottoms on. My picture had been cut just along the top of my bikini line so that it looked as though I could be posing naked. I had a slightly seductive look. Whilst our friend Janis was getting ready to take the photograph, Mathew had pinched my bottom. I had cuffed him across the back of his head playfully, so when the camera clicked I still had a half smile.

  Pride turned and fixed me with a stare.

  “And you cannot think of anyone who could be sending you these?”

  I shook my head. Pride sighed. I watched as Pride carefully placed the envelope and message in an evidence bag. She took off her gloves and continued.

  “It’s just that I find it strange that someone would go to all this trouble for no apparent reason.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It strikes me that the logical conclusion was that you have upset someone who is trying to get back at you by sending these notes. Did you take Mathew away from another woman? Did you lead someone on and then reject him? Was someone else in love with you leading up to the time you started a relationship with Mr Blake?”

  I started to say no, but remembered Edward.

  “My neighbour Edward did recently tell me he had strong feelings for me for a year, and that he wanted to leave his wife.”

  Pride made notes.

  “Good, so now we are getting somewhere. How did you react?”

  “I told him I did not share his feelings and, of course would not hurt Edwina even if I did.”

  “And was this before the first letter appeared?”

  “Yes.”

  “So Mr Edwards claims he has secretly been in love with you for a year, your husband is murdered and then you reject him and you start receiving these letters. Does Mr Edwards work in London?”

  “Yes, in Holborn.”

  “The first letter was postmarked as being sent from King’s Cross, London. Unfortunately the stamp and envelope were of the self-seal variety so we have no DNA or prints. I think I will talk to Mr Edwards next.”

  Pride looked triumphant. I felt a slight pang of guilt, as though I had betrayed Edward. Would he be visited by the curse of telling Amanda his feelings?

  “Can you think of anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “Come on, it took my probing to get you to tell me about Mr Edwards. I’ve known weaker motives drive people to violence. Was anyone interested in you when you started your relationship with Mr Blake?”

  “I was seeing someone called Patrick Larkin. We were just friends, nothing serious.”

  “Where did he live?”

  “London. Notting Hill.”

  “How did it end?”

  “I just stopped calling him and he did not call me. As I remember, it was me who initiated the friendship and did most to keep it going.”

  “Was Mr Blake in a relationship when you met?”

  Pride leant forward and stared into my eyes. I felt intimidated and blinked.

  “He did mention that he was just coming out of a relationship.”

  Pride looked a little flushed.

  “Who with?”

  “I don’t know. I think he said she was a distraction for him and did not mean anything to him.”

  Pride looked down at her notebook and wrote, with an intense stare. Two deep vertical lines ran up between her eyebrows. Her cheeks were quite red. Her lips appeared to be slightly purple and pressed tight against each other. Pride got up to leave.

  “So far, no one remembers seeing you in that park.”

  After she left, I felt disturbed. There was a gnawing in the pit of my stomach, my heart was beating faster, my mind was spinning and I felt disorientated. The inspector had become something of a bully. It was almost as though she thought I had brought it on myself.

  CHAPTER 7

  My next visit from Pride was two days later. I did not feel moved to welcome her. She strode in and slumped onto the sofa.

  “Have you thought anymore about possible suspects?”

  “Yes, but I cannot think of anyone else. Do you really think Edward is a suspect?”

  “He has not provided a reliable alibi for the time Mr Blake was murdered.”

  “And Mathew’s past? Have you found any details?”

  “He is recorded as being Ramon Vilanova before he married a Veronica Blake. Veronica Blake is currently residing in Venice. She had a stroke last year and is slowly recovering from damage to the left side of her brain. I don’t think she warrants a visit to Venice, unfortunately, nor do I think she is a suspect in her current condition.”

  I was shocked to hear Mathew was married. He had never mentioned Veronica. Why would he be so secretive? I felt slightly out of breath as I absorbed this new chapter in his history.

  “Did they have any children?”

  “None recorded.”

  “How long were they married?”

  “Just over three years.”

  I wondered what had happened. Was the break up so painful he could not talk about it? Perhaps she had run off with his best friend. I felt a twinge of sadness that he could not tell me about it. I considered myself to be a sympathetic, understanding woman. I could have comforted him, if the memory was so painful.

  “I cannot find any record of a Ramon Vilanova living in Spain. I am working on the assumption that he either changed his name or illegally entered the country and took on a false identity. So far I have not turned up any missing person’s reports for a Ramon Vilanova. It may be that we will never find out more about his life prior to his marriage to Veronica Blake.”

  Pride then tried to sit up. The sofa was too low for her and instead of her body moving forwards, her knees lifted. For a moment I felt too embarrassed to do anything. I hoped with the next surge forwards she would be able to lever herself up onto the armrest. She didn’t and I forced myself to stand up and offer her a hand. We grabbed each other’s wrists and I leant back so Pride could get her weight over her feet.

  “I would like you to look at your husband’s phone bill and let me know if there is anyone unusual on the list.”

  She found her bag and got out Mathew’s phone bills. Someone had called the numbers and noted the names of the people. There were several calls home, calls to my mobile, to the shop, to James’ mobile, to several friends I knew of, the bank and the tax office. No telephone numbers that would reveal a potential blackmailer appeared on the bills. On the morning of his murder, Mathew’s last call was to James. I told Pride there was nothing suspicious and she left.

  I thought about Veronica. I assumed Mathew would have had other relationships, although he had not even indicated he had ever been married. I supposed he would have had to marry a UK citizen to have a British passport. I felt disorientated thinking of Mathew with a previous wife. I had a desire to see a photograph of her, or even Mathew and her together. I didn’t want to leave it to my imagination.

  My next task was to visit the building society. I sat in a black office chair looking across a dark wood desk at large drooping cheeks and jowls. In a low, gravelly voice, devoid of emotion, the man told me Mathew set up the loans. The society had agreed three loans that added up to eighty per cent of the value of our home at the time. Our home had since lost value, whilst unpaid interest on the loans had increased to the point that the manager mechanically suggested I was now in negative equity. The current repayment charges would consume my full salary after tax. I stared at the prospect of my home being repossessed with a numb daze. I could not summon the will to get out of my chair. An assistant came and helped me up, leading me to the reception area.

  Halfway through my life I had lost my husband, house and lifestyle. I would have to start all over again from nothing. I felt as though I was staring into a black abyss. I was slipping from my warm, safe, predictable world into the cold, lonely, unknown. I cannot remember feeling so sad.

  That night I woke from a dream about Mathew. He was looking at me
pleadingly, as though he was begging for mercy. I felt remote and disconnected from him. I could not hear him. He reached out towards me with open hands but there was a gulf between us. I just stood there feeling cold, watching him.

  I lay in the dark with my eyes open, curled into the foetal position, with images of Mathew spinning around my head. The awful question that I could not push away was, had I killed him? Was my dream a distant recollection of a traumatic event that I had buried deep in my subconscious? Did I really go to the park on the day of the murder? My heart was beating fast, as I tried to remember details. What was in the sandwich? What was I wearing?

  I was distracted by the sound of creaking on the stairs. I thought it must be Fiona. The steps sounded heavy. I pulled the duvet tightly around my neck. As I stared at the round brass doorknob, I thought I saw it turning. I thought I heard the sound of someone breathing deeply. It was as though the breathing was already in the room. I felt paralysed. As the breathing became heavier, mine froze to tiny, quick shallow gasps. The sounds disappeared as quickly as they came. Had the ghost of Mathew visited me?

  In the morning I asked Fiona if she had got up in the night. She said she had not. I wanted to believe she was lying, but I couldn’t.

  Fear was following me. I became suspicious of Fiona. I began to watch her. I checked my valuables, in case they were the object of her nightly prowls. They were still there.

  I thought about Edward and his reaction to me at the end of our lunch. As Inspector Pride pointed out, I received the first threat after that incident. Oh my God, could he have murdered Mathew, to get him out of the way? Could he have coolly walked across and rang the front door? Of course, Mathew would let him in. Then he could have shot Mathew in cold blood and took any photographs of me he could find.