by Megan Goldin
I stood in the blustery evening air looking up at the house. This was where Laura West was last seen before she disappeared five years ago. I rang the intercom bell. A green light flashed on the console. I was being observed. Great. My hair was a mess from the wind and I was wearing jeans and a cable-knit sweater that I put on because of the chill. It was hardly standard detective gear. I probably looked like I was delivering religious pamphlets, or doing some shonky door-to-door sales pitch.
‘Can I help you?’ said a male voice through the speaker.
‘Professor West,’ I said loudly to be heard above the wind. ‘I’m a police detective and I’d like to talk with you.’
A pause.
‘Can I ask what it’s regarding?’
‘It’s probably better if I discuss this matter with you in person.’
‘Can’t this wait until tomorrow?’ He made little effort to disguise his annoyance.
‘I wish it could, sir,’ I said, ‘but I think it’s best if we talk as soon as possible. I really am sorry to disturb your evening.’
A long beep and a click told me he was playing ball. ‘It’s open,’ he said. ‘Just push the gate and head up to the house.’
Motion-sensor lights turned on in slow succession as I walked up the sloping slate pathway.
‘What’s this about?’ He was standing on the porch with his hair slightly ruffled by the evening breeze and his face taut with irritation. He kept his voice deliberately soft. It told me there were others in the house and he didn’t want them to hear the conversation.
‘It’s with regard to the death of your wife.’
‘My wife?’ He turned his head instinctively to look upstairs.
‘Laura West,’ I clarified quickly. ‘I’d rather talk with you inside if you don’t mind. This won’t be a five-minute conversation.’
‘Come in.’ He led me into a study off the entry hall. It was a severe room furnished with antiques and leather Brentwood armchairs. On the wall was a collection of old lithographs in brass frames.
‘Have a seat,’ he instructed me, closing the study door. He sat down on a leather armchair facing me. His jaw was tense as he waited for me to speak.
‘I’m sorry if this brings up painful memories. Unfortunately, it can’t be helped. I have a development that I’d like to discuss with you.’
‘What development could you possibly have? Laura was brutally murdered. It was a nightmare. It still is,’ he rasped. ‘Death was too good for the bastard who killed her.’
‘I’m sure it is incredibly difficult.’
‘Detective, it took a long time, but I am trying to move ahead with my life and your presence here out of the blue is frankly, not to be rude, more than a little disconcerting.’
‘You’re right,’ I agreed, trying to build rapport. ‘I understand that, and I’ll be quick.’
He stood abruptly and walked to a sideboard to pour himself a glass of whiskey. He drank it down neat in a single gulp. ‘Would you like one?’ he asked when he was done. I shook my head. He poured me a drink anyway.
There was no way to say it other than to spit it out. ‘Professor West, I’m here because we have new evidence that suggests that Edward Pitt did not murder your wife.’
‘What are you talking about?’ His voice was raw. ‘Are you suggesting Laura might still be alive?’
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘That’s not at all what I’m suggesting. About ten days ago, we found a body at Kellers Way. It’s a forest road just out of town,’ I added.
‘I know where it is,’ he cut me off abruptly. ‘I’ve lived here most of my life.’
‘There was no identification found on the body,’ I continued. ‘But the victim was wearing certain clothing items and jewellery. I’d like you to look at photos of the items to see if any of them are familiar.’
I handed him photos taken in the lab of the personal effects found with the body. He went through them one at a time, under the soft glow of an antique lamp on his desk. When he was done, he said nothing. For a good two minutes there was no sound in the room except for an old clock ticking on the mantel of the fireplace. Matthew West stared into his whiskey glass as if it was a crystal ball.
‘Do you recognise any of those items?’ My voice broke through the silence.
‘This looks like Laura’s necklace.’ He handed me a photograph of the pendant. ‘I bought it when I visited South Africa for a conference. It was a gift to Laura to mark our first anniversary. The stone isn’t precious but it’s rare, a distinct colour only found in Africa.’
‘Madagascar,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he looked up in surprise. ‘That’s right.’
‘What about the jacket and the boots?’
‘Laura had an extensive wardrobe,’ he said. ‘I was at a conference on the day she disappeared and I don’t know what she wore that day. I told this to the police when I reported her missing.’
‘Does any of the other jewellery look familiar?’
‘I can’t be sure,’ he said. ‘The earrings, maybe. My mother bought her a set like that for her birthday. It’s hard to tell with the watch so damaged, but that could be Laura’s.’
‘What about Laura’s wedding and engagement rings? Was she wearing them on the day she disappeared?’
‘I’m sure she was.’ He seemed very certain. ‘Laura never took off her rings. She even insisted on wearing them when we were on holiday in Mexico, despite warnings that muggers were targeting tourists wearing expensive jewellery. Why do you ask? Did you find Laura’s rings?’
‘No,’ I answered, without going into details.
He put his face into his hands for a moment. When he removed them, he was pale and drawn.
‘You think the body in Kellers Way might be Laura? Don’t you?’ His eyes bored into me as he waited for my answer.
The brass door handle twisted and the heavy door slowly opened to reveal a child dressed in a fluffy dressing gown, with a teddy bear tucked under her arm. She ran into the room and wriggled onto Matt’s lap.
‘Mommy said I should kiss you goodnight.’ She stood on tiptoe with her face turned up to her father.
‘Well, of course you should, honey.’ He lifted her into his arms and kissed her cheeks. ‘Goodnight, Alice. I’ll be up shortly to tuck you in, ok?’
‘Ok, Daddy. I won’t go to sleep until you come.’ She ran out of the room and up the stairs.
‘How do we find out for sure if there’s a connection to Laura?’ he asked once his daughter was out of earshot.
‘I need Laura’s DNA. You’re the next of kin. I don’t know how to reach her biological family. I understand that she was from New England originally? Or perhaps you’ve kept some of her personal effects that might still have her DNA. A hairbrush. Lipstick?’
‘Laura’s DNA.’ His forehead creased as he considered the question. ‘I’m sure I gave everything to the police when she went missing. I remember they took a whole box of items. Can’t you use that?’
‘When the case was closed, some of the forensics material was unfortunately destroyed. We need fresh DNA, either swabs or actual items I can give to the lab.’
‘Whatever personal items weren’t given to the police were thrown out. I gave Laura’s shoes and clothes to charity. It was the only way I could move on with my life,’ he said with a touch of defensiveness.
‘What about Laura’s parents? Siblings?’ I asked. ‘Can you put us in touch with them?’
‘Her parents are dead. Laura was an only child.’ He sighed. ‘I know what you want. I’ll be back in a moment.’ He left the study and returned with his daughter in his arms.
‘Alice,’ he said. ‘This nice lady is a doctor. She needs you to open your mouth while she makes sure you don’t have a sore throat. So when I tell you to, say “Ahhh” and open your mouth really big.’ She looked at him uncertainly.
‘It won’t hurt. I promise,’ I reassured her as I opened the swab kit. It took a second to swab the inside of her cheek and pu
t the sample into a sealed vial.
‘You’re the best patient I’ve had today,’ I said gently. ‘We’re checking lots of children in the neighbourhood because of whooping cough.’
He mouthed a thanks to me as he led her out of the room.
‘Ask Mommy to put you to bed. It’s very late,’ he said. ‘Oh, and Alice, don’t tell Mommy about the doctor doing the throat checks. We don’t want her to get worried.’
‘Yes, Daddy.’ She kissed him on the cheek before scuttling up the stairs again.
‘Thank you,’ I said to him. ‘I know this can’t be easy.’
‘No, it’s not,’ he agreed. ‘Alice and I would do anything to help you find Laura’s killer. Anything,’ he emphasised.
Chapter Seventeen
Julie
Alice and I pretend not to notice that Matt’s been in his study for the longest time with a woman I’ve never seen before. She arrived unannounced at the tail end of dinner, with curious eyes, and an aloof manner that gave the impression she was here on business.
The evening drags on as we wait in the kitchen for Matt to emerge. Alice is bent over her sketchbook drawing a picture with crayons that scrape noisily across the paper. I make her school lunch for tomorrow. When I’m done, I wipe the kitchen counter until the marble gleams.
I jump when I hear the echo of voices in the hall, followed by the click of the front door closing shut. Footsteps fade out as Matt returns to his study and shuts the door behind him. I desperately want to go to him, except Alice has been clingy all day and won’t let me out of her sight. I don’t want another tantrum. Not tonight.
Alice has been wetting her bed again, out of the blue, after two years without an accident. I’m at my wits’ end with piles of sheets to wash each morning. Matt says I shouldn’t say a word. He bought the sketchpad to encourage her to draw, so she can express her anxieties. Tonight she draws a house with jagged edges. There are three people in the house. ‘Red people’, she calls them. Each one is in a different room. I ask her why. She shrugs. Then, almost to punish me, she sketches a fourth person, this time drawn with a purple crayon that she rubs hard into the paper.
It’s late and I’m about to tell Alice that it’s time for bed when Matt enters the kitchen. He absent-mindedly tousles Alice’s hair as he walks towards the living room couch. He holds a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. Judging by his flushed face, I’m sure it’s not his first. His glazed eyes tell me he’s in another place.
‘It’s about Laura, isn’t it?’ I whisper when I join him on the couch. He nods and looks into his drink.
‘The police are reopening the investigation into her death. They say the bastard they thought killed her didn’t do it. His confession was a lie.’
‘If he didn’t kill her, then who did?’ I ask, blood draining from my face as shock sets in.
‘They don’t know.’ His voice is strained. ‘It means the real killer is free. I feel like I’m reliving the nightmare. Julie, I’m not sure I can go through this a second time.’
‘You have me this time, Matt, darling.’ I wrap my arms around him. ‘We’ll get through this together.’
All our married life, I’ve carried with me a feeling of dread that Laura would tear us apart from the grave. Her grip on our marriage has never felt tighter. Yet, as I lie here in Matt’s arms on the couch, I realise that for once Matt needs me to help him through a crisis. Maybe this tragedy will, ironically, bring us closer.
Alice sits with her back to us at the kitchen counter, deep in concentration as she fills her book with drawings. I might not have given birth to her, but I’m her mother. I’m the one who holds her when she wakes in the middle of the night, who helps her with her homework, who reads to her, and gets down on the floor to play with her. I’m the one who listens to her tearfully recounting a playground argument at school. And who loves her. More than anything.
If my marriage falls apart then, as the mere stepmother, I’d lose Alice. That’s not something I will allow to happen. If she takes Matt away from me Emily would destroy everything I’ve built. Unless I stop her.
I rise from the couch to shut the back blinds of the living room and lock up the house. Through the window I see the golden eyes of a deer reflecting in the dark. The rear gate has come loose and the deer has strayed into the back garden. It will eat up our flowerbeds by morning if I let it stay. I let myself out of the French doors onto the patio.
‘Scoot,’ I tell the deer, clapping my hands as I walk towards it. It stands defiantly for a moment and then turns and runs through the open gate back into the forest. I walk across the garden in the dark to lock the gate.
The forest is filled with shadows. It’s alive with a nocturnal music that reaches a crescendo and then ebbs away before rising once more. As I look into the mesmerising sway of trees I see the bloodied face of a man lying dead in the driver’s seat of a car. A frisson of fear runs through me. I sprint back to the house as if I’m being chased.
Matt is slumped on the couch, fast asleep. I leave him there with the dimmers down. I whisper into Alice’s ear that it’s time for bed. She obeys without argument. I lie with her in bed and read her favourite book about a girl who wishes she was a goldfish. When I look up, Matt is leaning against the doorframe watching us as he sips another whiskey.
‘Thanks,’ says Matt later as we get ready for bed in our room across the passage.
‘For what?’
‘For being here for me. And for Alice.’
‘We’re a family,’ I tell him. ‘We’re here for each other.’
I rub my hand along the stubble on his jaw and lean forward to kiss him. I unbutton his shirt with clumsy fingers. He pushes me back onto the mattress. We kiss hard and rough. The way we used to before Laura disappeared.
Chapter Eighteen
Mel
When I reviewed my notes from the first interview with Matthew West, what stood out were observations I had jotted in pencil in the margins of the transcript. They suggested I found him to be sympathetic. ‘Sincere’ was the word that I used. Sincerity. It’s what you look for when you’re interviewing potential suspects.
At the time that his wife Laura disappeared, Matthew West had been at a psychology conference on the other side of the state. The original investigator had written ‘conveniently?’ in his case notes. Matthew West, the notation implied, might have gone to an out-of-town conference to provide himself with an alibi. Perhaps the killing was a murder for hire; a husband wants to get rid of his wife without paying alimony, he hires a hit man to do his dirty work and makes sure he’s out of town with an airtight alibi when the murder is committed.
It held together in theory. In reality there wasn’t a single piece of direct or even indirect evidence that linked Matthew West to the death of his wife. At the time, the forensics team examined his car and searched his house, ostensibly to see if Laura had left behind clues to her disappearance. Perhaps she hadn’t been abducted. Maybe she ran away. Every theory was checked. The forensics team found nothing when they examined the house for blood with ultraviolet light and fluorescence spray. There was no indication that anything violent had taken place on the premises, in his car, or in her car when they found it abandoned a few days later. There were no significant withdrawals of cash from their bank account, no life insurance policy on Laura West. And if that wasn’t enough, her husband had no known motive for wanting her dead. There was not a single shred of evidence that Matthew West killed his wife.
His alibi was tight. At the time of her disappearance, he was a guest of honour at a conference in a city two hours’ drive away. It was attended by over a hundred health professionals, all leaders in their field. If ever there was an ironclad alibi, that was it.
His reaction rang true. None of the video footage of Matthew West speaking to the media and police after Laura West disappeared suggested he was anything less than devastated, and I watched hours of footage.
He played the role of grieving husband in a way that stru
ck people as both genuine and heartbreaking. The depth of emotion in his eyes, the pain in his voice, the dignified but palpable grief. That meant a lot to an investigating detective. You wouldn’t believe how many husband or wife killers act without remorse after the crime, or ham it up for the police with crocodile tears. Sincerity. Matthew West was the real deal. Either that or he was one hell of an actor.
West called my cellphone first thing that morning. His voice was even, though he spoke too fast. He was nervous, or upset. I wasn’t sure which. Maybe both. He hadn’t slept, he said. The more he’d thought about the jewellery in the photos I’d shown him the night before, the more he was convinced it belonged to Laura. His voice cracked as he said her name.
He was apologetic when I suggested he come to the station straight away. He was scheduled to teach classes all morning and couldn’t find a replacement lecturer at short notice. He asked if three o’clock would be convenient. I told him that was fine. I wanted time to go through the old case files and figure out a strategy for questioning him. He was a psychology professor. He knew interrogation techniques better than I did.
He arrived at the police station that afternoon straight from the university, wearing an open-collar shirt and a sports jacket, no tie. His eyes were bloodshot.
I took him upstairs to a meeting room on the third floor used for witnesses rather than suspects. It was an airy room that attracted afternoon light from a floor to ceiling window overlooking the street. It was furnished with upholstered chrome chairs and a white table. He sipped water as he spoke. I sensed it was more to break the tension than because he was thirsty.
‘I didn’t get much sleep last night,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about Laura and what the bastard did to her. All these years and she was buried less than three miles from our house.’
