Black Widow

by Chris Brookmyre

  He was pacing, his hands out in front of him like his frustration was an invisible object he was trying to crush between them.

  ‘I’m not the only one who works late and finds it hard to disengage,’ he said. ‘That’s why I thought you of all people would understand. I’m putting my heart and soul into this right now. I’m working harder than I’ve ever worked in my life, and I could use a bit of support and sympathy rather than being guilt-tripped because I don’t feel like recreating how it was six months ago, sitting there at the dinner table making plans for our future. This is that future. I’m executing those plans.’

  ‘Well, maybe if you could even talk to me about what the hell you spend your days working on, I’d feel more like they were our plans and not just yours.’

  Peter smashed his palms together, like the invisible object’s outer resistance had suddenly given. The resultant slap echoed off the walls of the former spare room that had become his man-cave.

  I felt a wave of something cold and instinctive pass through me. I wanted to tell myself that my reflexive response was mere startlement at the sudden sound, but deep down I knew that really I was bracing myself for violence.

  I thought he was going to scream. His eyes flashed and a shudder ran through him. But then he was calm, as though something had defused the bomb that had looked primed to explode.

  He closed his eyes for a second, then looked at me imploringly, a hint of a smile about the corners of his mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. You’re absolutely right, but that’s why I’m finding this so frustrating. I want to be that husband, that father, but I don’t think I can be either of those things if I fail at what I’m trying to create here. I want to become the person you made me aspire to be, but it seems the more I work towards it, the further I get from you. I was feeling so trapped right now, but then I suddenly thought: there is a way out of every box, a solution to every puzzle; it’s just a matter of finding it. Things are only impossible until they’re not.’

  I melted when he said that. My fear was instantly forgotten, retrospectively absurd, even denied. Something else flooded through me: warm and passionate. His words made me feel like I had made the right decision. It made me feel that together we could overcome anything, that he was the man I had believed him to be. I wanted him to father my children, and I wanted that process to start right that moment, up against the wall of his den.

  That was how it always went. We’d clear the air and it felt like everything was better: then after a few days, I would come to realise nothing was. All that happened was I cut him some slack and we had shagged a few times, but his own behaviour hadn’t changed. He hadn’t found a solution to any puzzle: he’d simply got me to stop bothering him for a few days.

  I tried to make my peace with what he said: biding my time, hoping to see signs that he had ‘broken the back of the start-up stage’ as he put it, and that our domestic arrangements would seem more like a married couple and less like flatmates with benefits.

  Then one night I finished late at work – massive complications meant a case that ought to have taken forty minutes ended up taking three hours – and I had a bit of an epiphany. My own working day having been arduously extended, I was feeling a sense of solidarity with Peter, and I realised that I was guilty of what used to annoy me about so many of my male colleagues. They saw their own jobs as all-important, expecting their wives to tolerate late finishes, on-call and all the psychological effluent that went with it, but at the same time regarded their spouses’ jobs as comparatively trivial.

  He was right: I ought to know what it was like to be in a demanding job with no option to dial down the intensity. My classically arrogant medic assumption was that surely his work wasn’t so important that he couldn’t slacken off if he really wanted to.

  I decided to surprise him at the office he had rented on my way home. I would show him that things could work differently by suggesting we go out for dinner. He could get a curry and a few beers, and I could get to sit down with him for a couple of hours.

  As he was effectively a workforce of one, I had initially queried why he was paying rent for an office when he had his den at home, but as well as (inevitably) the demands of the NDA, he said he needed an environment that was solely about work, away from the comforts and temptations of the house. Also, he needed a business premises for lots of other practical reasons, not least the larger computer systems he was running. He needed space for all his kit, and the energy bills alone were something that demanded to be accounted separately from any domestic tariffs.

  He got a cheap lease on a place in Sunflight House, an eighties-built block on the outskirts of a light industrial estate about ten minutes’ walk from the city centre and a five-minute drive from the hospital. At one point it had been the regional admin office for a travel firm, but the internet had done for them and now it was subdivided into individual units for small businesses.

  It was shortly before eight as I approached, but I could see no lights on in the building, and no cars in the car park. Typical: the night I decide to do this, he’s already finished up and headed home. However, when I got back to the house, Peter’s BMW was not in the driveway and the cottage was in darkness.

  I called his mobile and got bounced to voicemail.

  He showed up around eleven, with a pizza and a six-pack, the first can of which he had opened and was supping from even as he came through the door.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  I tried to keep my voice as neutral as I could. I wanted to sound interested rather than accusatory.

  ‘Look, don’t start tonight, please.’

  His words were imploring though his tone was anything but.

  ‘I had a major headache with the servers and I’ve been firefighting for about nine hours straight. That’s why my phone was off and why I didn’t ring back when I saw I had a missed call from you.’

  ‘You’ve been stuck in the office all night?’

  ‘Yes. Which is why I just want to eat my pizza and chill out, and I’d appreciate not being given a hard time about it after the day I’ve had.’

  The room seemed to alter around me. So much had changed in one small moment. Logic dictated that I challenge him with what I knew, but I said nothing, as I was reeling too hard from the implications of what had happened.

  I felt my face flush, and worried that he would register my response, but there was no danger of Peter paying me enough attention to do that. Instead I took myself off to bed, where I lay in the darkness and didn’t sleep.

  THE HEIGHT OF SUSPICION

  Peter Elphinstone’s black BMW 3 Series was sitting on its own inside the open-fronted workshop building at the far end of the depot, a few yards in front of a hydraulic lift. It looked like it was waiting to be worked on, but the whole point was that it hadn’t to be worked on.

  Lynne McGhee was in charge of examining it. She was waiting in the warmth of the workshop’s back office when they arrived, spotting them through the grimy window. Lynne was a petrolhead who drove in forest rallies in her spare time, so Ali pitied any bloke who had tried to patronise the wee woman from Forensics with advice about examining a car.

  Ali’s role here was to be walked through the report on-site before signing off on the vehicle’s release.

  ‘Isn’t it technically a write-off?’ Ali asked.

  ‘That’s between the insurance company and the owner: or in this case the owner’s wife. Theoretically it should run okay once it’s had time to dry out, though it really depends on the electrics. They might need completely replaced. Freshwater means fewer long-term concerns over the bodywork, but if it was me, I’d want nothing to do with it.’

  ‘I can’t see Dr Jager wanting to hold on to it,’ Ali mused. ‘Any indicators as to what might have happened? Dodgy treads, worn brake-shoes?’

  ‘No. The car had passed an MOT a few weeks ago and appears to have been well maintained. The treads indicate the rear tyres have been replaced
since the vehicle was purchased, as I’d expect a lot more wear going by the mileage on the clock. That’s moot if there was black ice on the road that night, but I’m not led to believe that was the case. In fact I’m not inclined to think that skidding was an aspect of this.’

  She squatted down next to the rear driver-side wheel and pointed to the outer rim of the tyre, drawing an imaginary circle all around it.

  ‘A major skid caused by going around a bend too fast would leave damage to the tyres – nothing huge, but visible if you know what you’re looking for – and the lateral momentum would put particular stress on one side. I’m not seeing that.’

  ‘The witness said the car swerved on to her side of the road,’ Rodriguez told her. ‘Then over-compensated and swerved again.’

  The witness who also said she was going to the garage to get Calpol, Ali thought: the witness we now can’t find.

  Lynne made a face.

  ‘Rear-wheel-drive vehicle like this, there’s a danger of fishtailing if you over-compensate in a dramatic steering correction. I’d still expect to see some evidence of skidding.’

  Lynne opened the driver’s door, affording Ali a clearer view inside. There was a musty smell, sediment coating the floor, the seats and the material of the deflated airbags. It looked like the dashboard had been sick. Ali now understood why Lynne was in overalls: it wasn’t always about protecting the evidence from contamination by the forensic tech, but sometimes the other way around.

  ‘You couldn’t take this one down the local car-wash and expect a full valet job for twenty quid,’ Lynne said.

  She climbed inside and sat behind the wheel.

  ‘As you can see, both airbags deployed upon impact with the water. The car flooded and became submerged. The driver may have accelerated this process by opening the door in a panicked attempt to get out. What we do know is that he did get out at some point, either by opening the door once the pressure equalised or through the window, which was rolled down. In the latter case he was lucky that the electrics didn’t short out before that, but I suppose under the circumstances “lucky” is not the appropriate word.’

  Lynne talked them through some more details regarding the state of the interior. Most of these were obvious to the untrained eye, but that wasn’t why Ali had stopped listening. She was looking at Lynne, tucked neatly behind the steering wheel, and was reminded of Rodriguez earlier that day, sliding the seat back to accommodate his greater height.

  ‘Nobody’s adjusted this seat, have they? I mean, could it have been moved as a result of the retrieval process?’

  ‘No. These things are designed to stay in place even in a crash. They won’t move unless you release the lever.’

  ‘How’s the position for you if you were driving? Can you reach the pedals okay?’

  ‘Fine, yeah. A wee bit close, if anything.’

  ‘What height are you, Lynne?’

  ‘I’m five foot three. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because Peter Elphinstone was five nine.’

  MUTE

  I tried to convince myself to let it go, that I was doing myself no favours by allowing this to grow in significance in my mind. As you’re taught in medical school, when you hear hoofbeats, look for horses, not zebras. This didn’t have to mean all that I was worrying it might. Besides, did I really want to admit to myself what the worst-case explanation entailed? Because the moment I did was the moment I had to start living in that reality, that version of my marriage.

  I couldn’t bring myself to broach the subject with him, partly out of fear of what I might learn and partly because of the arguments we already had over trust. It was eating away at me though, so I called him on the office number the next time he was working late.

  ‘Hello?’ Peter answered, sounding surprised to be disturbed this way, before the caller had even identified herself.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Em, no. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to call. I hit the wrong button on my phone.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I realised afterwards that this gambit was as futile as it was pathetic: Peter probably had the office landline set to divert to his mobile when he wasn’t in anyway, so he could have been anywhere. I thought I heard music in the background. Did he play music while he worked? He didn’t when he was working at home. Did that mean he was somewhere else? I came close to getting into the car and driving past the office to check he was there, but it felt too overt an act. I told myself this isn’t me. This isn’t who I am and this isn’t what we are.

  But not all acts are so overt, or require the level of agency that makes you feel you are crossing a line. Some acts can be a matter of omission. That is where true temptation lies when one is in a state of suspicion, and I did something unworthy, whose dividend was also its punishment.

  It was the following Saturday morning when the phone rang. Peter didn’t hear it at first because he had headphones on, sitting in his office playing some game on the computer. He usually left the phone for me to answer anyway, as most of the calls to the landline tended to be for me.

  I picked it up on a handset in the kitchen and heard a confident, cultured male voice that sounded familiar and yet tantalisingly hard to place.

  ‘Oh, hello, I assume I’m speaking with Dr Jager?’

  ‘That’s right. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, firstly, you can very kindly forgive me for my rudeness when we were previously introduced. This is Hamish Elphinstone.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I was not at my best, given the circumstances, though that is not to make excuses.’

  Except you just did, I thought, resisting the easeful temptation to be politely reassuring.

  ‘Relations in our family have been … a trifle complicated, particularly between myself and Peter. I allowed my feelings to get the better of me that day, and for that I apologise.’

  ‘It was your wife’s funeral.’

  I chose my words carefully. It was as much an acceptance as he was going to get, particularly as I noted that he still hadn’t acknowledged my status as his daughter-in-law.

  ‘That’s very decent of you.’

  His reply inferred a response I hadn’t actually given. That was the aristocracy for you: they assume a version of the world and then proceed as if it were true.

  ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to speak to Peter, if that’s possible.’

  ‘I’ll go and see.’

  I deliberately left the outcome ambiguous. I had absolutely no way of knowing how Peter was going to respond.

  I pushed the Mute button with my thumb and knocked on the door. Peter turned in his swivel chair and slipped one headphone off.

  ‘It’s your father on the phone.’

  He looked surprised, confused and then rather grim, all in the space of half a second.

  ‘I’ll take it here.’

  Peter lifted the handset that sat in a charging dock next to the modem router.

  It was as he turned away again, rotating in his chair that I realised what an opportunity was dangling before me. My thumb was still on the Mute button in the handset I held.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I said, closing the door as I withdrew.

  I knew I should press the red button to disconnect, but I also knew that as long as I kept it muted, Peter wouldn’t be aware that I was listening in.

  I justified it to myself in any number of disingenuous and morally contorted ways, but my thumping heart was proof that I knew it was wrong. It was beating hard with anticipation and with the fear of somehow getting caught. I had kept the phone muted so that neither my breathing nor the sound of background echo gave me away, but I imagined Peter would have heard the cadence in my chest if I hadn’t gone all the way to our bedroom at the far end of the hall.

  Initially I feared the extension had automatically disconnected when he picked up, as I was met with silence. I’m not sure whether Peter was making Hamish wait or
preparing himself to speak.

  ‘Hello, Daddy.’

  His father ignored the sarcasm. His tone was stiff and formal. He was like a cabinet minister giving a statement about an unpopular but obstinately maintained policy. There was no attempt at small talk, no query after his son’s well-being, his new progress into married life.

  ‘Peter. I feel it’s your right to know that Cecily and I are engaged to be married. We are planning our wedding for the spring of next year.’

  ‘So should I check the post for an embossed invite?’

  His father’s patient silence said they both knew the answer to this question.

  ‘Why spring? Do the etiquette manuals stipulate a statutory minimum time after your first wife is cold before you can marry again without anyone’s moral disapproval?’

  ‘I am doing you the courtesy of informing you, Peter.’ Hamish sounded stoic and unrattled. ‘I am not looking for your blessing.’

  ‘I appreciate it. To be honest, I’m surprised you and Cecily didn’t announce it at the funeral while you had everyone assembled. I’m sure all Mum’s relatives were in no doubt that you were already shagging her, so they’ll appreciate this concession to propriety.’

  ‘Your mother’s relatives understood our situation a lot better than you did.’

  ‘Yes, no doubt it was a great comfort to them knowing that you weren’t alone of an evening while she wasted away down the hall.’

  For the first time, Hamish sounded a little testy.

  ‘Well, none of us gets to choose the circumstances under which we fall in love, do we?’

  His tone remained measured but the temperature was unmistakably hotter.

  ‘I didn’t think you were interested in who I fall in love with, Father. I got married, remember? I have a wife. You may recall being an utter thundercunt towards both of us when I introduced you recently.’

  ‘I apologised to her for that a moment ago, but it was my earlier apology that remains most pertinent. She has no idea what she’s got herself into. If you had any honour you’d … well, that’s it precisely, isn’t it? If you had any honour we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’