by Paula Daly
At this point DC Colin Cunningham walks into the office, a little out of breath. ‘Joanne,’ he says, ‘Colette from admin needs to talk to you. Pop down there when you’ve got a second, will you? She needs to sort out your hours.’
‘Thanks, Colin. I’ll have to do it tomorrow.’
‘Do it now if I were you,’ he warns. ‘There’s a glitch on the payroll. Your wages might not be paid in . . . there’s a few people playing hell about it now.’
Joanne heaves a heavy sigh. If her wages aren’t deposited into her account, she’s screwed. Her rent is transferred on Monday and she’s not had Jackie’s share of it yet. Jackie’s short this month on account of paying two hundred pounds to the vet after Ken Odell’s cat needed stitching up. And she won’t ask Natty Wainwright for the money – said it wouldn’t be right.
Joanne is pushing her chair out from her desk when something catches her eye.
Holland Park. London.
It’s the only notably affluent address the database has connected to the name of Eve Boydell. Joanne moves closer to the monitor and clicks on the link, opening the file.
It’s a staged suicide. Another suicide, thinks Joanne. They seem to be following Eve Dalladay about.
Jilly Bernstein was found by her eleven-year-old daughter after having, supposedly, cut her own throat in the bath. Eve Boydell, her husband’s mistress, had been seen arguing with Mrs Bernstein earlier that day at the Chelsea restaurant Aubergine – two miles from her home.
The coroner’s verdict was death by misadventure and Eve Boydell couldn’t be traced. She was still wanted in connection with the crime.
Joanne checks the date. Seven years ago.
‘Ron,’ she says quietly, ‘I think I may have something.’
Ron reads the description of Eve and turns to Joanne. ‘That sound like her?’ he asks, and she nods. ‘Best grab your car keys then,’ he says.
Joanne makes a quick trip to the loo, smartens herself up a bit. She sprays deodorant under her arms, washes her face in the sink and runs a brush through her hair before securing it into a ponytail. Noticing her shoes are dusty, she moistens a wad of tissue and gives them the once-over. They’ll have to do for now, she thinks, making a mental note to get the polish out this evening when she gets home. The whole clean-up takes less than two minutes.
Ron is in DI McAleese’s office, giving him an update, briefing him on what Joanne’s discovered about Eve Dalladay, telling him they’re on their way to question her with a view to bringing her in. Joanne hovers in the doorway, not wanting to get involved in the conversation – one, so that they can leave faster, and two, because she’s in the habit of speaking to McAleese only when absolutely necessary right now. She heard an ugly rumour about job cuts. Joanne decided avoidance was key.
McAleese looks at her briefly. ‘Joanne,’ he says, by way of acknowledgement, immediately returning his attention to Ron.
‘Sir,’ she replies.
McAleese tells them he’ll get Angela Blackwell on the Eve Boydell trail, see what else she can find before they bring her in. ‘Joanne, leave your notes with DC Blackwell, give her some idea where to start.’
‘Sir.’
‘Okay, get yourselves off to Windermere and . . .’ He pauses, keeping his eyes lowered on a stack of paperwork. Joanne shifts her weight from foot to foot. They need to go now. Without lifting his head, he says, ‘Have you got a minute, Joanne?’
She casts a worried glance in Ron’s direction. ‘Not really,’ she says awkwardly. ‘I fear Natasha Wainwright might be liable to do something silly if we don’t get back there sharpish. She told us she’d conducted her own investigation into Eve – if she puts two and two together about the fire . . . and comes up with—’
‘It won’t take long.’
Ron goes shifty and mumbles something before slinking away.
‘Close the door, if you wouldn’t mind, Joanne.’
‘Sir, I don’t mean to be difficult, but could we do this another time? I really think it’s important that Ron and I—’
‘The door?’ he repeats.
Joanne takes a steadying breath and does as she’s asked.
‘Have a seat.’
‘I’d rather stand.’
‘As you wish.’
He removes his glasses and rubs beneath his eyes. ‘I’m pretty tired,’ he says absently.
She smiles uneasily.
‘You may have heard that Phil Le Breton’s off to Durham in August?’
‘Are we losing staff, sir? Is that what this is about?’
‘Not exactly. We’re losing officers, but not from this department . . . yet. I’ve asked you in because I wondered if you might consider filling Phil’s place? Naturally, it would mean immediately tackling the sergeant’s exams – you wouldn’t have a great deal of time to prepare. And it may mean you’ll miss your’ – he pauses again, looks down – ‘your rescheduled operation.’ Quickly, he adds, ‘But I think it would be an excellent opportunity for you, Joanne. And I put your name forward, thinking you would be up for the challenge.’ He makes an attempt to smile, but it doesn’t quite come off.
Joanne must look stunned because he says, ‘Would you like to take a few days to mull it over?’
‘What?’ she says, more abruptly than she means to. ‘What? No. Of course not. No. I’ll do it. Thank you, sir. Thank you for the opportunity.’
DI McAleese reaches across his desk and shakes her hand. ‘Good,’ he says. ‘That’s good.’
They regard each other in a clumsy moment of silence before Joanne says, ‘Right. Fantastic. So, I’ll go now, shall I?’
And he clears his throat.
‘There is another thing, while you’re here, actually, Joanne. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, if it’s common knowledge – don’t really go in for office gossip myself – but my wife and I are’ – he swallows – ‘getting divorced.’
‘I had heard, yes. I was sad to hear it didn’t work out.’ Joanne had met his wife only once, a couple of years back at the Christmas party. Seemed like a nice enough woman. McAleese travelled in from Preston, so his home life was kept quite separate from work.
‘Well, the truth of the matter is we’ve been living apart for close to a year, but I didn’t want to . . . you know.’
Joanne doesn’t know, but she smiles sympathetically.
‘And Carmen, my wife, took a job in Bristol, which, to be honest, was the reason we began to have problems in the first place . . .’ He stops. Shakes his head to get himself back on track. ‘Anyway, the upshot of this is that my daughter will be boarding weekly, in Windermere.’
‘Oh,’ says Joanne, not at all sure where this was leading. ‘It’ll be great for her to have some security.’
‘Yes,’ he agrees. ‘That’s what we’re hoping. She’s had a difficult time, what with the hours I work, and her mother being the way she is and . . . anyway, I’m dropping her there this evening, I’ll stay on a little while to make sure she’s settled in.’
‘I’m sure she’ll love it, sir. The school’s right on the lake, she’ll be able to sail and kayak and—’
‘Yes,’ he says, cutting her off. ‘But I wondered if, perhaps, when I’m done, if you’re not too busy with this case, or it’s not too late for you, I wondered if I might take you out to dinner?’
38
THERE IS A SCENE in Rain Man where Dustin Hoffman has to really lose his shit. It’s the moment at the bathtub when he relives burning his baby brother with the hot water and was institutionalized as a result. Hoffman dreaded this scene. He knew he couldn’t do the thing justice, and what you see on film is not what it appears to be. It’s not great acting that gets him in the right space of mind, but frustration at what he perceives as his lack of ability. His torrent of anguished screams, which has such a profound effect on the viewer, is actually Hoffman’s frustration at his own weakness, his failure as an actor.
I mention this because, right now, I have a knife, an iron and a hockey
stick laid out on the kitchen table, and I am staring at each, frustrated with my inability to come up with a coherent plan of action. I’ve had three shots of whisky and, this is how my girls found me, five minutes ago, when they came in from school: shouting and pacing, sobbing, unable to think this thing through, to put an end to Eve without putting an end to myself in the process.
Alice and Felicity are certain the wheels have finally come off. That their mother has lost her mind, and as a consequence, out of sheer fear and with no other option, they’ve called Sean.
I appear mad, though I am not.
I am frustrated. I am angry beyond measure. But I don’t know how to communicate this to them.
They want to approach but are giving me a wide berth, and all the while my lips are moving as I play out scenario after scenario. How can I kill her and get away with it? How can I win justice for my dad?
I can just hear that industrious detective in the aftermath: So, Mrs Wainwright, you have no idea how Eve Dalladay could have sustained such an injury? No idea how she managed to trip down the stairs?
I play with the option of hiring someone. But who would do such a thing? How does one hire a hit man? I don’t know anyone even vaguely dodgy.
The girls are still standing in the doorway.
‘She killed Grandad,’ I tell them quietly, so they can hardly hear, and they back away. ‘That woman killed your grandad.’
I stare at them, expressionless.
‘Do we call an ambulance?’ Alice whispers to Felicity.
‘No,’ she hisses. ‘Wait for Dad.’
‘But what if she kills herself?’
‘She won’t. And lower your voice, you idiot, she can hear you.’
‘If she can hear me, why is she looking at us like that? Possessed. I say we call an ambulance . . . or at least the doctor.’
‘Dad will be here in a minute. Just wait, will you?’
‘I don’t want to wait, Felicity. I’m scared. What does she mean, “She killed Grandad?”’
‘Shut up. Go and sit in the lounge if you have to.’
The front door opens and I hear the murmur of hushed voices in the hallway. Alice goes to greet Sean, and Felicity remains where she is. Before Sean makes his way through to the kitchen Felicity says, quietly, so only I can hear, ‘Hold it together, Mum, will you?’ Her eyes are pleading.
Sean appears, with Eve behind him. They are smartly dressed, like they’ve been out for lunch. Sean is wearing his Italian charcoal suit – my favourite – over a white, heavy cotton shirt. Eve wears a red dress. It’s short and fitted but very classy. She has a single thread of pearls at her throat and nude-coloured platform shoes – the type the Duchess of Cambridge often wears.
‘We came as quickly as we could,’ Sean says gravely, to no one in particular. His eyes move from the knife to the iron to the stick, and back again to the knife. ‘Felicity, why don’t you go and wait through there with Alice? Let us talk to Mum alone.’
Eve is hovering uneasily a few feet away, looking down at the floor. Felicity regards her coldly before saying, ‘No. I think I’ll stay.’
Sean steps towards me. ‘Natty? Are you okay? What’s going on here?’
I pick up the knife. ‘She,’ I say, pointing the blade towards Eve, ‘she started the fire.’
Sean swallows. Glances briefly at Eve.
‘Natty,’ he says carefully, eyeing the empty tumbler over by the microwave, ‘are you drunk?’
‘Drunk? No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Fuck off, Sean.’
Eve takes this as her opportunity to swoop in. ‘What makes you think I started the fire, Natty?’ she demands, and Sean tries to shush her. He tells her now is not the time for confrontation, that I’m in no fit state to discuss this with her.
‘Sean,’ she persists. ‘If Natty is accusing me of something, I really would like to know on what grounds,’ and she lifts her brow, tilts her head to one side as if to say to me: Well, bitch? What have you got?
I shake my head slowly, make like I don’t owe her any explanations.
She struts towards the kettle, and for a second I think she’s going to begin making tea. She picks up the whisky glass and holds it to her nose. She rolls her eyes at Sean before walking to the sink and rinsing the glass beneath the tap. ‘How about you tell us, Natty, because I’d really like to know.’ Her tone is mocking, sardonic. She’s banking on the fact I don’t have any clear proof.
‘Why are you all dressed up?’ I ask them.
‘We’ve been viewing a new car,’ she replies.
‘It looks as though the Maserati might be a write-off, after all,’ Sean says softly, no hint of reproach.
‘And we looked at a new house that’s come on the market,’ Eve adds. She’s like a child, showing off.
‘That’s nice for you,’ I reply.
‘We’ve not made an offer or anything, Natty,’ Sean says, trying to lessen the blow. ‘It’s early days yet.’
‘Don’t play it down, Sean,’ Eve snaps. Her posture is confrontational, reprimanding of Sean. ‘There’s no point keeping it a secret. We won’t be able to rent for ever.’
‘Yes, don’t play it down, Sean,’ I mirror nastily. ‘You’re going to need more room for that family Eve’s so keen on having. You’ve been longing for a baby for such a long time now. Isn’t that right, Eve?’
My words register, but she brushes them off, pretends I’m a babbling fool. Faltering a little, but only enough for me to notice, she regards the table. ‘What’s with all the weapons?’ she scoffs. ‘Surely you’re not planning to use them on me?’
I scowl at her. ‘Where were you the night of the fire?’
‘Here. Why?’
‘Are you sure she was here?’ I ask Sean.
‘Yes,’ he replies uneasily. ‘Where else could she have been?’
‘Anyway, regardless of that, Natty,’ Eve objects, ‘even if I wasn’t here, what possible reason could I have to set fire to your dad’s house?’
‘You tell me.’
She shoots Sean a look: See? she implies. See how crazy your wife is?
‘Maybe you wanted me dead,’ I add quietly.
Sean closes his eyes briefly before walking over to the drinks cupboard. He pours himself a shot of vodka and drinks it.
‘I’d like a drink please,’ I say to him but, for now, he ignores me.
‘Natty,’ he says, as he pours himself another, ‘I don’t know what’s happening, but you’re becoming paranoid. Please can you stop with the accusations,’ and he pauses, glances towards the door and sees that Alice is now beside Felicity. Both girls are watching intently, so he refrains from speaking further.
‘Sean, why did you cancel my credit cards?’
‘I didn’t,’ he replies, full of indignation. His eyes are wide, and I can tell this is the first he’s heard of this.
‘Well, somebody did.’
‘Not me,’ he says again and, when it’s clear from my expression I’m not about to let it drop, adds, ‘Honestly, I wouldn’t do that. There must have been some sort of mix-up at the bank.’ He looks at me sadly, as if he can’t believe what I’ve become. ‘You can’t continue on like this, Natty, or people’ll think you’ve lost your mind. Let’s get you some help.’
‘Perhaps I have lost my mind,’ I reply. ‘You and Eve have driven me insane and—’
At this, Felicity steps forward.
‘Or what if she’s right, Dad?’ she announces, and for the first time Eve’s self-satisfied expression drops noticeably; there’s a hint of fear in her eyes. ‘Maybe Mum’s right about Eve sneaking out on the night of the fire. I mean, you weren’t here. You were at the hotel, so you don’t know for sure what Eve was doing. Maybe what Mum is saying is not so completely outrageous.’
Alice blusters at this and gives her sister a quick shove. ‘Felicity, don’t be ridiculous! Why on earth would she do that?’
‘Yes, Eve,’ I mimic, my voice dripping with sarcas
m, ‘why on earth would you do that?’
Eve turns and walks towards me, places both hands on the table so that we’re opposite each other, and leans in. ‘Don’t make me do it, Natty,’ she warns, and stares at me hard, her eyes full of hate.
Quickly, I go to say, ‘No, don’t!’ but without a moment spared she spins around, spreading her hands wide as if to signal the start of a performance.
Terrified, I look to Sean and see that he, too, has been caught unawares. ‘Eve,’ he says aghast, ‘now is not the time to do this.’
But she ignores us, and we know what is to come.
It’s that moment we’ve circumvented, sidestepped, the moment we thought we’d never have to face. I watch Sean as his shoulders slacken. I can tell by his stance, by the defeatism in his posture, that he never expected her to actually go through with it. His breath shudders as he realizes he has caused this outcome. He, in the pursuit of a pretty new life with Eve, instigated what is to follow.
I ask her to stop; try to plead with Eve’s human side. But just as Mad Jackie warned, the gloves are off.
I’m about to ask for mercy, but Felicity has heard our words. ‘Don’t do what?’ she’s asking.
Eve smiles in a way to suggest that this is as painful for her . . . She really doesn’t want to have to do it but, sadly, there is just no other option.
‘All of this nonsense you’re witnessing here with your mother, girls,’ she says, addressing them both, ‘is because she’s trying her damnedest to cover up something she doesn’t want you to know. She thinks that by painting me as the bad guy, she won’t have to atone for the mistakes of her past.’
‘What mistakes?’ asks Alice, a little worried now.
‘See that man there?’ and she points to Sean, ‘that man is not your father, Alice. I’m so sorry to be the one to break the news but, under the circumstances, what with your mother flinging about accusations, which have no foundation whatsoever, I think it’s time you knew. You should have been told a long time ago, in my opinion. Secrets cause problems within families and, left to fester, they can build and build until there is—’
