After He Died

by Michael Malone

  From the distance of time, Paula now reviewed that evening. Was it anything more than a bad day? For the life of her she couldn’t remember any spill that evening. What had really happened? Her memory was fogged, but she would never forget the raw look of fear on that boy’s face.

  She slumped till her head fell onto her desk. The wood cool and smooth, and a solid reminder that she was still in the world.

  That moment in the restaurant was so remote from his normal behaviour. What had prompted the memory now? A stranger’s assertion that she didn’t really know her husband?

  Paula located her mobile, then all but ran through to her bedroom, found her dressing gown on the floor beside her bed, rummaged for the pocket and found the note. She read the number and dialled as she trod back through to the study. As she sat down in front of her laptop the phone was answered.

  ‘Yes?’ A young woman said, wariness a low note in a voice worn with sleep.

  ‘It’s Paula Gadd here.’

  ‘Right.’ She was awake now. And even in that single syllable Paula heard hesitancy warring with … what? Relief?

  ‘Okay. I’ll hear you out. I want to know what you’ve got to say. Could you come to my house?’

  And suddenly the need to find out surged up through Paula’s chest. The need to see this woman face to face; hear what she had to say. Watch her as she said it.

  ‘Now, please?’

  ‘But it’s the middle of the…’

  Fair enough, thought Paula. She was being unreasonable. ‘First thing in the morning then? Eight?’

  She gave the address, then cut the connection without saying another word. Worry was a cold coiling through her stomach reaching up towards her heart. Thomas was a good man. A loyal man. The alternative was too ugly to contemplate.

  Shaking her head against her ruminations a movement across her computer screen drew her attention.

  The mouse arrow was moving as if of its own accord. She looked down. She hadn’t touched anything, but it was definitely moving to programmes on the main screen. She watched open-mouthed. What on earth was happening here?

  Microsoft Word, spreadsheets, and then her internet connection were being opened. Google filled her screen. One bank after another filled the search bar. Then it settled for the Bank of Scotland, as if it recognised a regular connection.

  What on earth…?

  The shock of this realisation pulled her from her inertia. She must be being hacked remotely as she watched. Who could even do that? And why?

  She closed the lid. Then realised that wouldn’t be enough to stop whoever it was. Panicked, she turned the laptop on its side. Fiddling with the catches, her fingers refusing to obey her quickly enough, she finally managed to pop the battery out of its bed. She stared at the laptop for a moment, realising she was panting and that her heart was racing.

  Her phone rang out loud into the room. She jumped. As her heartbeat thumped in her ears she answered it without even checking who it was.

  ‘Hello?’ she said, trying to keep her voice level.

  Nothing. There was no response.

  Wait. There. The slight sound of someone breathing.

  ‘Go away,’ she screamed into the phone. With trembling fingers she cut the connection.

  What in God’s name was happening?

  8

  Cara Connolly took a deep breath. Paused, as if she was about to change her mind, and then climbed the last step up to the Glasgow townhouse. The door was impressive. A centre panel of smoked glass inserted into an oak frame. If the door was representative of what was behind it, this was going to be some house. She was more used to shabby tenements or the ambitiously entitled ‘maisonettes’ in the concrete towers of the city’s sink estates.

  Even knocking on the thick wood, she could feel the quality.

  Bet she’s a cold-hearted bint, Cara thought as she took a step back and pushed her hands into the pockets of her denims to hide the shaking.

  Nothing. No answer.

  Maybe she’d lost her shot at speaking to her?

  She took another step back and looked around the door’s blonde sandstone lintel. Spotted a white ceramic button inside a brass ring. She pushed it and heard nothing and wondered if it was ringing somewhere far inside.

  Again, no response.

  She craned her head to the side and tried to look inside the giant window. The morning sunshine was hitting the glass at an angle that made it difficult to see into the room. All she could make out was the back of a cream, leather sofa and on the far wall, a giant mirror in an ornate frame. Made her think of the stately homes she’d seen in historical TV dramas.

  Cold-hearted lucky bint, she amended her earlier thought and tried the door again, this time with the side of her hand against the door.

  As she waited for a response she thought about the conversation she’d had with her mother, a conversation that had played over and over in her mind since they’d last spoken.

  ‘I wish you’d leave that, doll,’ her mother said, leaning forwards, her hands clasped on her bony knees. ‘It’s done. Sean’s no’ coming back.’

  ‘But, Mum…’

  Helen shook her head with slow care, her brown eyes leaking love. ‘To bury a child is my burden. I’m no’ having you on some sort of crusade that could end up with you killed as well.’

  ‘What makes you think I could end up being killed?’

  ‘Did they find the man who did it?’ Helen demanded, suddenly losing her cool. The force of her worry made the ligaments that stretched from under her chin to her collarbone stand out starkly. ‘Naw. So there’s a murderer out there and if you go kicking at hornet’s nests you might get stung. And that…’ She bit her lip as she tailed off. ‘Just leave it, honey, please?’

  Leave it. A simple request. A sensible request. But Cara couldn’t.

  The door opened, throwing Cara from her thoughts. And she took a little cheer from the fact that the woman facing her was a mess. Her hair was all over the place, and her eyes were puffy and red. Cara took a step closer, but couldn’t smell any booze, just mouthwash.

  ‘You don’t look like the girl from the funeral,’ Mrs Gadd said, her eyes narrow with suspicion.

  ‘I was wearin’ a large pair of sunglasses, and a big hat.’ Cara paused, gathering her determination to get to the truth. ‘Can I come in?’

  Without a word, Gadd turned and walked away. Cara stepped inside, closed the door behind her and followed. They walked along a long, light-flooded corridor, past the foot of a wide staircase and into a kitchen straight out of a movie set. A series of white units, a pair of Belfast sinks under the window, an island cooker and lots of shiny devices.

  This was beautiful. Everything was so classy. And you could almost fit Cara’s entire flat into this room.

  ‘We can talk here,’ the woman said. ‘That’s where the coffee is.’ She reached a coffee machine, pressed a button and then turned and asked, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Cara.’

  ‘Cara what?’

  ‘Let’s settle for just Cara at the moment, please.’

  ‘Well, Cara…’ she paused as if this was costing her a lot of effort ‘… you should call me Paula.’

  ‘Paula,’ Cara repeated somewhat unnecessarily. The woman might be a mess and in the midst of grief, but she could detect a core of steel there and Cara suddenly felt unsure of herself.

  This was something she hated about herself; that flare of feeling she got when she first met someone that people would deem her social better – that somehow she wasn’t quite as worthy. It was something she fought on an almost daily basis. She looked out of the window, away from Paula Gadd, in an effort to marshal her strength and to remind herself why she was here. What she could see of the garden was pretty. A trim lawn, plants of various sizes along the borders, plant pots bursting with reds, yellows and blues, and some rattan furniture under a large umbrella.

  ‘My husband loves the garden,’ Paula said as she followed Cara’s gaz
e. ‘We could have had a gardener, but he was determined to do all that stuff himself.’ The machine made some gurgling noises and Paula lifted a pair of mugs from a cupboard. ‘What do you take in your coffee?’ she asked and for a moment Cara caught a glimpse of how difficult it was for this woman to hold it all together.

  She felt a knot of uncertainty. What was she doing here? She resisted the impulse to leave, the muscles of her back suddenly aching as if someone was pushing her out of there.

  ‘Tea, actually,’ she said. ‘I’m no’ a fan of coffee.’ Then reminded herself of society’s expectation. Regardless that she was here to stick it to this woman, she had to be polite. She added a defiant, ‘Please.’

  Paula nodded as if in recognition of her tone.

  ‘Don’t have tea in this house. Nobody drinks it, so it’s coffee, milk or…’ she looked over her shoulder in the direction of a massive fridge-freezer ‘…I might have some bottled water?’

  ‘Water’s fine, ta.’ And she added another ‘please’ for good measure.

  Paula walked over to the fridge, pulled out a green bottle with a tear-shaped bottom, which to Cara’s estimation probably cost more than a box of teabags. Then she reached into a cupboard, pulled out a tall glass and handed both items to Cara.

  Cara accepted the bottle and glass with a nod of thanks. She had to admire the woman. If someone had gone through this with her she’d have probably chucked them at her.

  Paula took a seat on a stool at the end of the island and Cara took another, pulling it away from the older woman to give her more space.

  ‘What age are you, Cara?’ Paula asked and then took a sip of her coffee. She made a face at the taste and Cara thought she saw a look of confusion pass over her face.

  ‘Twenty-six…’ she answered, allowing her tone to say, why are you asking?

  ‘A bit young to be leaving cryptic messages in people’s pockets,’ observed Paula. Then she paused as if another, more worrying question had occurred to her. ‘What do you know about hacking into computers?’

  ‘What?’ asked Cara, mystified.

  ‘Nothing,’ Paula shook her head, then she gave a pained smile. ‘Okay. Please. Rip off the plaster. What do you want to tell me?’

  Now that the moment was here, Cara was again unsure of herself. Besides, where to start?

  ‘As I said in the note, there’s more to your husband than…’

  Paula took another sip of her coffee. Then made a face and stood up. ‘Needs milk. Who forgets to put milk into their coffee? I swear my head is all over the place these days.’ She walked over to the fridge and pulled out a carton of milk.

  Cara watched as she poured, seeing this for what it was – a delaying tactic – and again questioned what she hoped to achieve here. The woman looked tiny. Out of it. A blast of air from an electric fan would be enough to push her over.

  Cara stood up. ‘This is a mistake, Paula. I should go.’

  ‘After you’ve gone to all this trouble?’ She turned, visibly steeling herself. ‘Let’s just get this over with, please.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ Now that the moment had come, Cara wished she was anywhere but here, in this woman’s kitchen, about to pile more bad news on her head. She looked around herself. Used the obvious wealth around her as fuel. How could this woman not know who and what her husband was?

  ‘Just … tell me,’ answered Paula.

  ‘You should have a seat.’

  With a sigh, Paula moved back to the stool and sat down. ‘There,’ she said. ‘I’m sitting.’

  ‘Okay. This is a lot to take in, but…’ Cara looked around herself again ‘…it seems to me you’ve been well compensated for having to put up with that man all these years.’

  ‘Just tell me, will you?’ Then as if realising her tone was a bit too sharp, she added a quiet ‘please’.

  ‘Your son was killed in a hit-and-run seven years ago, yes?’

  Paula sat up and looked over at her as if she was finally seeing Cara.

  ‘He was hit by a red car. A Ford Focus.’ She paused and steeled herself to force the words out. For this was her shame. ‘My brother, Sean, was drivin’ it. He was seventeen. A doped-up nut job. But I think he was paid to do the hit.’

  ‘What?’ Paula blinked rapidly, as if that might help her to digest the words.

  Cara took a deep breath. ‘I think he was paid to kill your son in some sort of gangland payback for your husband. And in revenge, your husband tortured and killed my brother…’

  9

  Paula jumped up from her stool and moved over to the younger woman. ‘What on earth? Are you some sort of delusional…’ She put a hand to the side of her face as if she had just been slapped. ‘You need to leave. You need to leave right now.’ She’d barely slept after catching someone hacking into her computer, and then receiving yet another silent phone call. And now this outrageous statement. It was as if all around her the world was going mad.

  Cara stepped away from her. ‘Listen, I know this isn’t an easy thing to hear…’

  ‘An easy thing to hear?’ Thomas a murderer? ‘I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life.’ She tightened her robe around her waist and wished she was properly dressed. And that she had her makeup on. She was never without it. Concealer, foundation, blush, mascara and lipstick. And if she was meeting an actual person, eyeshadow and a further layer of mascara. But now she had nothing. No defence.

  In just a few words, this young woman had thrown the shreds of her life in the air. Not only had she accused her husband of torture and murder, but she’d given her a version of Christopher’s death that ripped at her heart. Her baby was targeted? He’d been driven at deliberately?

  Oh my God. She placed a trembling hand over her mouth. What had she just heard? The implications, if this was true were staggering. She imagined Christopher lying there, broken, at the side of the road. She screwed her eyes tight against the mental image. The police told her he’d died almost instantly. That was pretty much all they’d told her – their investigation had yielded little in the way of facts. No witnesses. Nothing to tell other than it was a hit-and-run; no description of the car or the drivers. Just that her boy had died when his head hit the kerb.

  Paula gathered herself together. Or tried to. Her head was hurting. No, it was way more than that. Her skull was fractured. Her brain was reduced to mush. The bone between her eyes held a deep ache, a strong sense of wrong.

  She looked at Cara properly for the first time. Quite tall for a girl … five eight or something? Long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was wearing tight, black jeans; she was curvy but athletic and her sleeveless top displayed good muscle tone in her upper arms. She was an attractive young woman. Would Thomas have found her mix of vulnerability, looks and strength impossible to resist? Was all of this nonsense about Thomas and Christopher a weak and nasty ploy from a spurned lover? Did Thomas promise her all sorts of things, but his death now meant she came away from their affair with absolutely nothing?

  Cara’s eyes held hers and she could read a mix of confidence and uncertainty.

  Who was this girl? And why was she saying this stuff? And why now?

  ‘You have two minutes to get out of my house. Because that’s how long it will take me to find my…’ she cast her eyes around the room as if her mobile would just appear ‘…bloody phone and call the police.’

  ‘Mrs Gadd…’

  ‘You need to leave my house and you need to leave now.’

  ‘Paula, I’m telling you the truth. My brother stole a red Ford Focus and … God help me, but he ran over your son Chris, and then legged it.’

  ‘No, Cara, no.’

  ‘Then your husband caught up with him and made him pay.’

  ‘Cara, no. Please. Get out.’ Paula was on her feet, right arm rigid, pointing in the direction of the front door.

  A chime rang out. Cara looked at her and Paula read a sense of real fear there.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Cara asked, immedia
tely getting to her feet in a stance suggesting she was happy either to fight or flee.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Paula said and trudged in the direction of the front door. ‘But I’ll show you out while I’m at it,’ she aimed over her shoulder.

  But when she reached the door she realised she was on her own. Cara hadn’t followed. She pulled it open to see a pair of elderly women, both of them as prim as a stack of freshly printed bibles. They were each wearing sensible coats and sensible skirts and their faces were geared to show their certainty in what they were doing.

  ‘May we interest you in the word of The Lord,’ one of them said while holding out a small piece of bright-yellow paper. Paula took it. Read the headline: God Chose Jesus To Rule the World. Paula handed it back to her.

  ‘Very nice,’ she said. And shut the door. She made sure the snib was in the locked position and then walked swiftly back down the hall to the kitchen. Cara was at the back door as if she was about to run. She opened her mouth to speak, but Paula beat her to it.

  ‘Right, what’s really going on here?’ She forced herself to calm down a little, while cursing the women who’d been at her door. She’d been working up a good head of steam, but somehow the interruption had dissipated the urge to throw the young woman out. And that had been replaced with a drive to know … and an unfathomable dread.

  ‘Our Sean,’ Cara began, then took a seat back up on the stool. ‘…You sure you don’t want to go and get some clothes on?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Paula answered. ‘I’m sure I can be excused relaxing my standards for now.’ She waved a hand. ‘Carry on. You were saying…’

  ‘He died a couple of years ago. It took your husband a good while to track him down.’ Cara paused. Bit her lip. ‘Sean was doing well. Getting his life back on track.’ She looked at Paula, eyes pleading for understanding.

  Paula gave her nothing back; she had nothing to give.

  ‘So, you claim this is when my husband, Thomas Gadd, tortured and killed him?’ Paula snorted, allowing a little of her fear and anger to leak through. ‘Don’t you hear how ridiculous that sounds? This isn’t some tawdry television crime series.’