by Valerie Laws
‘What’s wrong, Beccy?’ This didn’t seem the time to remind her about the need to make appointments in advance. She grabbed Erica’s arm tightly. Erica freed herself gently. ‘Let me make us both a hot drink.’
She handed Beccy a Clarice Cliff repro mug of chamomile tea. She wrapped her hands around it, and sipped, the steam adding to the moisture on her pink cheeks. She was wearing pale stonewash skinny jeans and a sugar pink short cardigan buttoned over a white tee-shirt which probably cost pennies to make in some foreign sweatshop and a fortune to buy because of the label on it, the cardigan arranged to make sure it was clearly visible. She wore high heels with the jeans. She took a hand off the mug and touched her eyes with a tissue from the box on the desk. A pile of scrumpled damp discards littered the floor under her chair. She wore no makeup, which Erica noticed from the lack of black smears on her face or the tissues. She’d never seen her without it before. She remembered Beccy saying early on that she would never go out, wouldn’t even answer the door without ‘putting her face on’. As if she had no face without cosmetics. Her mouth trembled and she almost spilled the drink.
‘What’s up?’ Erica asked, sipping her own drink.
‘He... It’s him.’
Some people look ugly when they cry. They fight against it, their faces break up, their mouths twist, distort. But Beccy still looked pretty, her mascara-less lashes dark with tears and giving her a watery, pale mermaid look. She didn’t fight against the tears, maybe for her it was OK for a girl to cry, even a girl of 30, and she let the tears run down without shame.
She blotted the tears again with a fresh tissue, careful not to rub. Some magazine had probably told her it stretches the skin and gives you wrinkles. Erica ached to see her in such distress even while feeling a stab of impatience at her helplessness.
‘Your husband? Has he done something to you?’ Already Erica felt a spurt of anger. Her protective feelings were reporting for duty as usual, wanted or not. She’d wondered before if Beccy’s husband knocked her about, but Beccy had refused to discuss her marriage apart from to insist on confidentiality.
‘He’s dead,’ Beccy looked down into her mug.
‘Dead!’ Remembering the impression she’d had of her feelings about her husband, Erica wasn’t sure how to respond. But she certainly seemed upset.
‘Can you tell me about it?’
She began to laugh, a barking sound like a seal, not a healthy sound.
‘I don’t need to,’ she said. ‘You know... you found him, didn’t you?’
Erica put down her mug, trying to stay calm, her mind whirling.
‘Kingston? He was your husband? But how, I mean... his wife’s name is Tessa.’
‘That’s right,’ she replied with a hint of triumph, lifting her round little chin. ‘I fooled him... I used a false name to come here, to go anywhere on my own if I could. He was so possessive, so controlling, he even insisted I go to a ladies’ only gym. He would never have let me come here. He hated alternative medicine. To be honest, that’s one reason I came in the beginning - it made me feel better, knowing I was deceiving him, rejecting his work, his world. I’m sorry I deceived you as well, but it’s only a name after all. You know the real me, Erica! You’ve helped me such a lot. It was coming here, talking to you, seeing how you live your own life, even though you don’t seem to have much money, well it gave me the courage to leave him and start doing the same. And Tara my sister and I are close again, I’m living with her just now.’
‘Why are you here?’ Erica tried to keep her voice neutral and quiet.
‘I want you to know, because you found him, because you’ve helped me, you’ve listened to me. And because even after he’s dead, I still have to be scared. It’s not fair! You have to help me!’
The childlike wail came from a grown woman, but it seemed she had not grown up.
‘What are you scared of?’ Being alone, probably.
‘I’ve been scared for years. Maybe it’s a habit now. At first, when we got married, I was just scared I’d show myself up, not be up to the job of being his wife... he was so much cleverer, more important, older, I couldn’t believe he’d picked me, just another pretty young nurse. I tried so hard to please him – but he - you mustn’t tell anyone!’
‘Not if you don’t want me to. But he can’t hurt you anymore. He did hurt you, didn’t he?’
‘He broke my arm once. On purpose. We hadn’t been married long. When I said I wanted to go to a hypnotherapist to cure my insomnia. He just did it, like that. He hit me, he wasn’t even in a temper. ‘Can a hypnotherapist cure that?’ he asked me. He took me to A&E himself. We walked in there and they were all over him, grovelling. Oh, I got great service! The nurses teased me. Silly me, a doctor’s wife, falling down stairs. I couldn’t say anything. He was their boss, the great healer; they’d never have believed me. He’d have had me put away. He told me that. Sectioned, he said, he always used the proper terms. ‘Silly hysterical woman, I’d have to have you sectioned’. All women were hysterical to him.’
‘I can well believe it.’ Erica remembered the phone conversation.
‘After that, I tried never to argue with him again. He had to be in control you see. He didn’t break any more bones. Too risky. But a few times, he’d manage to give me drugs, so I passed out. It was terrifying, waking up with no idea what had happened. I’d been helpless with him... he’d done things to me, you know, sexually… He said he knew ways to kill someone. He could make it look like heart failure and one of his colleagues would back him up so nobody’d ever know. It was terrible, knowing he could do it, just waiting until one day he’d feel like going all the way. But he was so careful... and I felt I somehow deserved it. I’d always wanted children but I couldn’t conceive. Robert told me he’d once got a girlfriend pregnant, but she lost the baby. Then he married me and I couldn’t give him a son. My fault. I’d tricked him, trapped him into marrying me. He seemed to resent it more and more. He hurt me sometimes, ways he knew, that didn’t cause injury or leave marks. And he would say terrible things – that I wasn’t a real woman... I was useless, nothing... words don’t leave bruises do they?’
‘But you did leave him,’ Erica reminded her. Inwardly she boiled with rage but tried to stay professionally detached. She’d always, though sympathetic, found it hard to imagine staying in an abusive relationship. Especially right at the start. First time he shows aggression, get out of there and report the bastard. Hurt me once, shame on you. Hurt me twice, shame on me. But she could see how hard that would be, married to someone like Kingston, not the stereotype drunken slob too handy with his fists after a night out on the lash.
‘Yes, I did. For a long time, I couldn’t get up the nerve. He told me I’d be useless on my own. I knew I’d never have a baby whatever happened. But then the sessions with you gave me hope; a life alone seemed better than what I had. So I just went. My sister’s strong, she’s not scared of him.’
‘Well that was great! But why didn’t you tell me about him? I’d have given you advice, addresses, contacts to turn to.’
‘I couldn’t tell anyone. I didn’t expect anyone to believe me. But even if they did, I didn’t want anyone to know; I thought it must be my fault, if he was so wonderful with everyone but me. I couldn’t prove it, could I? My word against his. No. I cleared out my ‘housekeeping’ bank account and went. Not that there was much in it. Only what he gave me for expenses. I’ve been childminding for my sister would you believe! Thank god I’ve got Tara.’
‘How did Kingston take you leaving?’
Making an effort to pull herself together, Beccy, no, Tessa took a hairbrush out of her bag which was on the floor under her chair. She began to tease it through her hair, ash-blonde where Erica’s was honey. Brushing her hair she set her mouth in a firm line, the way people do against the pulling, and she looked older and more determined.
‘I must look such a mess! Well, I was scared he’d come after me at first. So I went to a Well Woman Clinic
, not our usual GP, who’s an admirer of his of course, and said I was worried about my heart. Flutterings, pains, whatever. They tested me and said my heart was fine. I emailed him to say, you’ll be pleased to know my heart’s in good nick. Meaning, if I die, he’d find it hard to get away with heart failure as cause of death. I didn’t expect him to smash Tara’s door down or anything. He’s much too careful. He has a reputation and a lot to lose. Has to keep up the godlike image in public.’
She had slipped into the present tense. Hard to believe he was dead, Erica supposed. ‘That’s impressive Be- Tessa. You’ve really made great strides.’
‘I was still terrified though. I was sure he’d do - something. I don’t know what. He said, ‘You’ll be back!’ He really believed I would! That I couldn’t manage on my own. Anyway, I’ve been doing a computer course in the daytime, spending hours at the gym getting fit in the evenings, and my sister’s going to help me get a job. Couldn’t use my nursing locally could I? In this region his fans and underlings are everywhere. Tara’s much cleverer than me. She was the clever one, I was the pretty one, but now she looks pretty good too and she’s got a good job. And children. She’s a solicitor, lucky for me as it turns out. ‘
‘So why are you still scared now he’s dead?’
‘The police think I did it.’
She had been calmer, thinking of how she had asserted herself and got away, but now she slumped into the chair.
‘They interviewed me. Asked me all sorts of questions. It turns out there was no sign of forced entry at the house.’
‘The front door was on the latch when I arrived.’ Why?
‘So Tara pointed out he’d changed the locks and I don’t have a new key. So then it was ‘Or it was someone he knew and opened the door to,’ which points to me again.’
‘Yes well I’m sure he knew lots of people. That’s not evidence.’ Perhaps someone was let in through the front door and went out the back, not bothering to check the front door.
‘And the fact I’d left him... At first I thought they were just breaking the news officially, being sympathetic. Then they began asking questions about why I left. Tara was with me, thank god, it was terrifying. That Inspector Bennett, so handsome but so horrible, tall and dark, glowering over me. Tara told me not to say anything unless she gave me the nod. Why would they believe me anyway? Robert played golf with the Chief Constable up in the city club sometimes! I realised after a bit they think I must have someone else, a younger man probably. ‘Quite an age difference between you wasn’t there?’ and so on. Tara said, well how do you know Robert didn’t have women involved with him? They’ve checked, or so they say, don’t know of any. Asked Tara and me if we do. Course we had to say no, but that means nothing does it?
‘I said to them, you don’t think I did it, do you? ‘Oh, we’re just asking routine questions. We always interview the relatives in a case like this,’ they said. Tara said, Look at her, does she look like someone who could hit a man on the head with a rock? If he knew his killer, they said, easy to hit someone from behind when they trust you. It wasn’t that big a rock, they said. They even looked in my bag for signs, bits of stone I suppose. Like I’d put some dirty stone in there, it’s Prada! Then there were hints about all his money, would anyone want to lose half of it in a divorce when they could inherit all of it. I’m sure they’re watching Tara’s house. I could end up swapping one prison for another. I need to know I can trust you to keep all my stuff confidential. Tara wants to decide when and what to tell the police. But we, I, will need you to back me up at some point soon. Just confirm I told you of his abuse.’
Erica’s heart sank. What could she do to help, with no official standing, except give moral support. Except that she did now have a kind of link to the case. Beccy, dammit Tessa, was her patient, her client. Suck on that, Bennett and co!
‘All my patients have confidentiality, don’t worry about that.’
‘I was scared of Robert, but how could I have done - that, to him? I’m a nurse, I’ve seen enough pain and suffering. All I wanted was to be free of him for god’s sake!’
‘Even that last statement could be used by the police against you. They’ll twist your words if you let them. Now listen, erm Tessa, the police do have to see the relatives, and they do have to suspect everybody. But having a motive is not enough, there has to be some evidence against you. Don’t open your mouth unless your sister is with you. Just to be on the safe side.’
Erica was thinking, with someone of Tessa’s passive Pulsatilla character, repeated questioning and browbeating for long enough might get a false confession out of her. Kingston like many abusers had trained her to accept not only abuse, but the blame for it. Somehow she had to protect Tessa; she trusted Erica, needed her. She couldn’t fail her, not like in the past, that other time at school, that other girl who needed and trusted her. She should have saved her from the bullies, but she’d failed her in the worst way, all because she was overweight. The same urge to make amends for that childhood betrayal kept her running, and starving, and swimming, and rushing in to save a series of protégées. She had the will power to give up almost anything but getting involved.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Erica sent Tessa back to Tara’s in a taxi, after giving her a suitable remedy and some to take with her. As she picked up snotty tissues and washed the cups, she thought ruefully that Tessa had credited her with enabling her to leave the marriage, but she hadn’t trusted Erica enough to tell her about her husband’s abuse. Or even her own real name. Did I fail her in some way? The thought nagged at her.
Maybe Tessa was still not telling her everything. The police might have the wrong motive for her leaving her husband, but if she told them about his abuse, if they did believe her, it would only give her an even stronger motive in their eyes. She could understand why Tara had told her to say nothing to the police just yet. If forensic evidence was found pointing to someone else, there’d be no need for Tessa to expose her victimisation.
Could Tessa have done it? She had a passive vulnerable personality. But she was a fit young woman. She went to a gym even if it was only to make her look slimmer and more toned rather than to build up muscular strength. She might be able to hit him, knock him out, and hammer in the nails.
And his hands. The hands that broke her arm, nailed down and harmless. Soft, blonde, pretty, Tessa didn’t look like a killer. But you never know. Even a worm will turn, they say. Erica had dreamed of Pulsatilla, the pasque flower, Jesus and his nailed palm, the flowers curling around the spike. She’d assumed it was the association of ‘pasque’ with Easter and the crucifixion, the crown of nails. Tessa was a classic Pulsatilla type. Had Erica’s subconscious made the connection between Beccy and Tessa in her intuitive dreams?
Then she thought of the obituary she’d been writing for Kingston. That bucket of whitewash to be thrown over his name. She’d been so careful to bleed all her antipathy out of it. Now, knowing what she knew of him, she was left with even more of a travesty. But what could she do about it? She could just imagine the editor’s face - Robert Kingston, surgeon, wife-beater... it just wasn’t the right time and place for an expose. And, as he would be quick to point out, they only had Tessa’s word for it anyway. Easy to malign the dead.
Her broken arm would be a matter of record, but she had gone along with the falling down stairs story at the time. Would she feel betrayed when she realised that Erica had written the positive obituary? Too late to worry about that.
Nails through his hands. Hands could do so many things, bring so much pleasure, healing, and pain. Was there blood on Tessa’s hands? And did Erica even blame her if so?
Battered wives had before now been provoked into murder, and badly treated by the judicial system. It had seemed at times that a man could murder his wife, and as long as he said he loved her, but she’d laughed at him in bed or he thought she was having an affair, he’d get off with a short sentence or even probation. For a wife who’d gone through hell and f
inally hit back, knowing the bastard would kill her one day, it had often been life imprisonment. The fact that the judges were usually public school men, and had been basically isolated from women since infancy, was purely coincidental of course.
Usually nowadays judges and juries were more sympathetic to abused wives and partners. And of course men were sometimes victims of domestic violence. But Tessa’s case was a bit different. She’d left him. To go back and kill him in that savage way, in cold blood, was harder to sympathise with. He hadn’t apparently stalked or pursued her since she left. Or not in any provable way. Everyone else would say the guy was a saint. She’d probably get life, even if she pleaded provocation.
Suddenly a thought occurred to Erica. Would everyone say he was a saint? She hadn’t spoken to anyone else who actually knew or worked with or under him. If Tessa was telling the truth, the man was a sadist, though very much in control of his sadism. A control freak. In control enough of himself to really enjoy it, long term. Was it really likely Tessa was the only one he had ever hurt? With all the power he had at the hospital, the temptation would be strong to misuse it. Maybe there were other people, colleagues, patients, out there who could tell a similar story even if broken bones were involved in a very different way. They too hadn’t told anyone because they believed they were the only ones and no-one would believe them... Maybe Erica could put the record straight. Once the obituary was printed, the funeral service held and so on, she could tell the other side of the story, the dark side of Kingston.
The idea of bad-mouthing a dead man felt distasteful, but the living mattered more. If she could show what Kingston was really like, it would help Tessa if she did end up on trial and used his abuse as provocation and it would also show that there were other people who had a motive for hating and killing him. As a homeopath Erica could give Tessa remedies for her state of mind and body; as a reporter, she could perhaps help her situation. Put a whole bunch of suspects between her and the police. She emailed Ian Dunne at the Guardian, asking him to add a couple of lines to the obit to the effect that they were going to be doing a follow-up piece on Kingston, filling out the portrait warts and all; that they wanted anyone with personal memories of him to get in touch with Erica through her Guardian email address.
