What to Do When Someone Dies

by Unknown

  ‘Are you going to call the police?’ I said.

  ‘I think that’s for you to do, don’t you?’ he said. ‘At the moment they’re curious. Soon they’ll be suspicious. Don’t leave it too long. Or I’ll make up your mind for you.’

  As soon as he was gone, I rang Gwen. I didn’t even say hello. ‘Have the police been in touch with you?’ I asked.

  ‘Ellie? Yes, some policeman rang me. How on earth did you know?’

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  Chapter Twenty-five

  ‘You’re kidding me.’ Gwen was staring at me across the kitchen table. She’d been running her fingers through her hair as I talked so now it stood up in small blonde tufts. She looked bewildered and accusing all at once. Her eyes were owlishly round.

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘I think I’d better have that drink, after all.’

  ‘Red or white?’

  ‘Whisky?’

  ‘Whisky it is.’

  ‘So all this time…’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you said you were –’

  ‘You. Yes.’ I poured her a large whisky, neat and ice-less. She took a deep gulp; her eyes watered. I poured another for myself and let it burn a trail down my throat.

  ‘And you got away with it?’

  ‘Yes. Until now.’

  ‘And now, this woman, Frances…’

  ‘Has been murdered.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fuck fuck fuck.’

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

  ‘I don’t know. What should I be saying?’

  ‘You could scream at me. Don’t you feel angry?’

  ‘Angry?’ She considered, swilling her whisky in the glass, then taking another vast swallow so that I could see her throat jumping. The drink was nearly gone already.

  ‘Because I pretended to be you, because I lied to you about what I was up to, because I didn’t confide in you, because I’ve been so stupid, because –’

  ‘OK, OK, I get it. Here, give me another of these.’ She held out her glass. ‘Angry’s not the right word, Ellie. I can’t get my head round it. You’ve been using my name, infiltrating this poor woman’s business, breaking into computers, like some sort of spy, to find out – what?’

  ‘Something. Anything. I thought I’d go mad otherwise. And, in fact, I did find out something. I found out that Frances’s husband was having an affair with Milena, and that there was another man who was with her the night I’d thought she was with Greg. And then I found out that the menu card with the love note on – it was a forgery.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It wasn’t to Greg at all.’

  ‘This is all too much to take in. You say this woman – Frances – was murdered.’

  I nodded, trying not to let the image of Frances’s open, staring eyes flood through me again. ‘She was.’

  ‘And are you assuming that this has anything to do with Greg?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. It must have something to do with Milena. Though she was having an affair too – that’s probably irrelevant. I can’t think straight. Everywhere I look I see these betrayals.’

  ‘Are you in danger?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Or me?’ said Gwen.

  ‘No, I don’t think so, but I’m going to the police. I’ll clear up the confusion.’

  ‘Who else knows?’

  I could feel the flush rising up my neck and covering my face. ‘There’s this guy. He’s called Johnny.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Kind of a chef.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He was Milena’s lover – one of many.’

  ‘How did he find out you weren’t me?’

  ‘He tracked me down here after he’d heard about Frances. I probably should say that I missed something out. It’s not particularly relevant, but we had a kind of thing. I slept with him. Twice.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What does that mean – oh?’

  ‘All these secrets.’

  I sloshed more whisky into her glass and my own. ‘It’s a great relief that you know,’ I said, after a pause.

  Gwen opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment there was a loud knocking at the door. My head was swimming as I made my way down the hall and opened it.

  Joe stood there, wrapped in his thick coat, a huge grin on his face, which was rosy with the cold.

  ‘I’ve brought you a rowing-machine,’ he said. ‘I could hardly get it into the car.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought it would be good for you, keep you fit through these winter months. And I didn’t actually go out and buy it, a client gave it to me.’

  I didn’t want a rowing-machine. And after our last encounter I didn’t much want to see Joe.

  ‘And I wanted to say sorry for – you know – what happened. Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

  ‘Gwen’s here.’

  He stepped past me and walked towards the kitchen, calling greetings to Gwen.

  ‘Hi there, Joe,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve been drinking,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘So would you have been in my position.’

  ‘What position is that?’ He took off his coat and slung it over the back of a chair.

  Gwen might not have been angry, but Joe was. He was furious, shocked and hurt. His blue eyes blazed and his lips turned white. He banged his glass down on the table so that the whisky splashed everywhere and told me I’d been very, very stupid and why the fuck hadn’t I told him what I was doing? Didn’t I understand that he and Alison wanted to look after me? Greg had been like a son to him and I was like a daughter. ‘What the fuck were you up to?’ he said. ‘What the fuck were you playing at?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I don’t have to explain it to you.’

  ‘You’re upset that your husband dies so what do you do? Weep and mourn? No. Get your life together? No. Talk things through with friends? No. See a counsellor? No.’

  ‘I have actually seen a –’

  ‘You pretend to be your own best friend and dabble in half-baked conspiracy theories – oh, Jesus. It defies belief. And where did it get you? Greg’s still dead. He still died in the car with a woman who liked having affairs with married men. Have you unearthed some deep plot?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘And now somebody’s died. What are you doing about that?’ He put his head into his hands, breathing deeply.

  ‘I don’t need help. I’m going to the police.’

  ‘You haven’t been to the police yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I can drive you there now.’ Gwen stood up, placing both hands flat on the table to steady herself.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, you can’t drive anywhere,’ said Joe. ‘Why on earth haven’t you been to the police, Ellie?’

  ‘I was scared and stunned. I know I should. It’s all so complicated.’

  He leaned back in his chair. He seemed so shocked that the fight had gone out of him.

  ‘I don’t know what it all means,’ I said. ‘Greg and Milena, and then Frances.’

  ‘Why does it have to mean anything except an unholy mess?’

  ‘I’m so tired, Joe.’ Having him there being so angry and fatherly made me feel younger and more foolish. Tears came to my eyes. ‘Maybe that’s the reason I haven’t been yet – I’m so very tired of thinking about all of it.’

  ‘Oh, Ell.’ Joe got up and crouched beside me, taking both my hands in his. ‘Of course you’re tired. I tell you what, leave it for tonight. Go tomorrow. I’ll take you myself, if you want.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Then the phone rang again and at first I let the answering-machine take the call, but when I heard Fergus’s voice, I ran to pick it up.

  ‘Fergus? Has labour started?’

  ‘It’s nothing like that, Ellie. I’ve just seen some news online. It’s the weirdest thing. You know th
at woman in the car with Greg? Well, her partner –’

  ‘Fergus,’ I cut him short, ‘there’s something you should know…’

  Later, when I’d finished talking to a stunned and stuttering Fergus, and Joe had gone home, leaving an enormous rowing-machine in the middle of the living room, Gwen said, ‘So why didn’t you feel able to confide in me?’

  She was sitting on the sofa, her legs curled up under her, floppily relaxed and moving in a slightly uncoordinated way. Daniel was coming to take her home; she could collect her car the next day, when the whisky had worn off.

  I hesitated. ‘I don’t know exactly. I think I didn’t want anyone to tell me that what I was doing was wrong. I knew it was wrong, and stupid, and maybe even a bit unhinged, or a lot unhinged, but I didn’t intend to stop. I’m sorry, though.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now I’ve honestly got no idea what I think about a single thing. She was nice, though.’

  ‘The woman who was killed?’

  ‘Frances, yes. She came from an entirely different world and I would never have met her in the ordinary run of things – she was rich and stylish and ironic, and had that well-bred, well-groomed English reticence. But in spite of that I liked her. She was good to me. And I don’t understand why she’s dead. And I don’t understand why someone wanted me to think Greg was having an affair with Milena. I don’t understand at all.’

  Chapter Twenty-six

  I wasn’t sure which police station to go to, but I knew it would be bad either way, and it was. I went to see WPC Darby because I hoped she might be sympathetic to me, knowing me as a grieving widow. When she greeted me, I noticed the wary expression people adopt when they open their door to someone trying to give them a pamphlet about a fringe religion. But she sat me down and gave me some tea. I started to explain why I was there and her expression changed from wariness to puzzlement, then from puzzlement to what looked like alarm. She hushed me and almost rushed out of the room.

  She returned five minutes later and asked if I could follow her. She led me through a door and into a room that was bare, except for a table and three orange plastic chairs. She sat me down and stood awkwardly by the door. I told her she didn’t need to stay but she said it was all right. It looked as if she had been told to stay with me and also not to say anything more. So I sat and she stood and we spent ten awful minutes avoiding each other’s eyes until the door opened and a detective came in. I recognized him as Detective Inspector Carter, the one I had talked to before. He didn’t even sit down.

  ‘WPC Darby tells me that you found the body of Mrs Frances Shaw.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said.

  ‘And you called it in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anonymously.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any particular reason for that?’

  ‘Kind of,’ I said.

  He held up his hand to stop me. ‘It’s not our patch,’ he said. ‘I need to phone the Stockwell lads. You’ll have to wait here for a bit, if that’s all right.’

  He was just being polite. I don’t think I had a choice. WPC Darby brought me a newspaper and another cup of tea, and I flicked through the pages without taking anything in. It was almost an hour before two more detectives, a man and a woman, came in and sat opposite me. WPC Darby left but DI Carter stood to one side, leaning against the wall. The man introduced himself as Detective Chief Inspector Stuart Ramsay and his colleague as Detective Inspector Bosworth. She opened her bag and took out a bulky machine, which she placed on the table between us. She loaded it with two cassette tapes and switched it on. She said the date and time and identified everybody present, then sat back.

  ‘The reason we’re being so formal,’ said Ramsay, ‘is that you have already made admissions that lay you open to being charged with a criminal offence. And that’s just to be getting on with. So, it’s important that, before you say anything else, we make clear that you’re entitled to legal representation. If you don’t have a lawyer, we can obtain one for you.’

  ‘I’m not bothered,’ I said.

  ‘Does that mean you don’t want a lawyer?’

  ‘I don’t care,’ I said. ‘No.’

  ‘And you need to understand that anything you say in this and later interviews can be used as evidence and introduced in court.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘So how can I help you?’

  The two looked at each other as if they didn’t know quite what to make of me.

  ‘For a start,’ said Ramsay, ‘you can tell us what the hell you were playing at, leaving a crime scene, interfering with a police inquiry?’

  ‘It’s a complicated story,’ I said.

  ‘Then you’d better start telling it,’ said Ramsay.

  I had promised myself I would leave nothing out, make no attempt to justify myself or explain things away. I’m not used to telling stories and I started from the murder and worked backwards, and in other directions as well, when necessary, or when I remembered something that seemed relevant. When I first said I’d been working for Frances under an assumed name DI Bosworth’s jaw dropped, like that of a character expressing surprise in a silent movie.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Ramsay. ‘I didn’t quite get that. What did you say?’

  ‘It’s probably easiest if I tell you everything and then you ask questions about what you don’t understand.’

  Ramsay started to say something, then stopped and gestured to me to go on. As I meandered through the story, I felt as if I was talking about the misadventures of someone I didn’t really know – a distant cousin or a friend of a friend – whom I didn’t much care for and certainly didn’t understand. When I got on to the subject of Milena dying in the car accident with Greg and how I’d read her emails and how she had also had an affair with Frances’s husband, David, Ramsay’s head sank slowly into his hands. I then told him that Frances had confided in me that she, too, had had an affair.

  ‘I thought, or wondered, if the man she had had her affair with was Greg,’ I added.

  ‘What?’ He raised his head and stared at me; there was a glazed expression in his eyes.

  ‘You see, she said this man, I never got to know his name, had also had a fling with Milena, then turned to her. It doesn’t sound like the Greg I knew, but by that stage I was so confused I didn’t know what to think about anything.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ he growled.

  The one detail I deliberately withheld was my sexual relationship, such as it was, with Johnny. I don’t think it was out of any concern that it would make me look bad. It was far too late for that. I just felt it wasn’t an important detail and that at least I could spare Johnny the attention it might bring him.

  Anyway, there was hardly a shortage of damaging revelations. When I talked about my attempts to find out about the relationship between Milena and Greg, DI Carter interrupted me. ‘She compiled charts,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ asked Ramsay, in a weak tone.

  ‘Like they do with school timetables on big pieces of cardboard. It established the whereabouts of her late husband and of the woman.’

  ‘Charts,’ said Ramsay, looking at me.

  ‘I had to know,’ I said. ‘I needed to prove to myself, and to the world maybe, that they really did know each other, or that they really didn’t.’

  ‘You’ve been told it’s hard to prove a negative,’ said Ramsay. ‘Kind of a police motto.’

  ‘People keep telling me,’ I said. ‘Not that it’s a police motto, that it’s hard.’

  There was a pause. I leaned over the tape-machine to see if the little spools were turning.

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Ramsay.

  ‘I think so,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure if I told it in the right order. I may have left things out.’

  ‘It’s difficult to know where to start,’ said Ramsay. ‘For example, as someone who was working for Frances Shaw under an assumed name, you are an obvious suspect in her murder. If you had stayed on the scene, f
orensic examination might have exonerated you.’

  ‘It might not have,’ I said. ‘I pulled her out from where she was lying to see if she was still alive. I examined her. I wasn’t sure if there was something I ought to do to help.’

  ‘So you moved the body!’ said Ramsay. ‘And then you didn’t tell anybody. Our investigation to date has been based on a complete misunderstanding of the crime scene.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘That’s why I decided I had to get in touch with you.’

  ‘How kind,’ he said. ‘I still don’t understand. Why did you leave the scene?’

  ‘I was scared and confused. I thought the person who killed her might still be there. And maybe a part of me was wondering whether I was responsible for her death.’

  ‘How?’ asked Ramsay.

  ‘Perhaps I’d been stirring things up. I’m the one person who didn’t believe that Milena and Greg’s death was an accident.’

  ‘What on earth has that got to do with it?’ said Ramsay.

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe we’re not clever enough to understand,’ said Ramsay. ‘Could you explain why it’s so obvious?’

  ‘My husband and Milena died in a car crash in circumstances that haven’t been explained.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ said DI Carter.

  ‘And then Milena’s work partner is murdered. There must be a connection.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ said Ramsay. ‘I started off saying you ought to talk to a lawyer, but you really need a psychiatrist.’

  ‘I’m seeing one, as a sort of grief counselling.’

  ‘I’m surprised he lets you walk the streets.’

  ‘She.’

  ‘I don’t fucking care.’

  ‘I haven’t told her the details of all of this.’

  Ramsay threw his hands up in exasperation. ‘What’s the point of a psychiatrist if you’re not telling her the truth? And, furthermore, if you’re lying to your own doctor, why the hell should I believe you’re not lying to us now?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be much of a lie, would it?’ I said. ‘I don’t come out of it very well.’