A Taste for Malice (6 page)

‘Dan, the eldest told us later that she used to play a trick on them. She’d pretend to answer the phone and then tell them the police had called to say that their Dad had just been killed in a car crash. Then she’d laugh at their tears and say she was only joking. Then she’d wait a few days and do it all over again.’

‘The wee souls wouldn’t have known if they were coming or going,’ added Liz still stinging with the cruelty. ‘The thing is,’ her eyes jumped from me to Alessandra, ‘and we can only see it now, she was a wonderful actress. Completely believable. She manipulated and deceived Douglas and me with ease. I was completely taken in by her. Two small children were like putty in her hands.’

‘So why didn’t either of the kids come and tell you what was going on?’ asked Alessandra. The same question was on my mind.

‘We’ve asked ourselves that same thing over and over,’ answered Douglas. ‘Dan, the older of the two, normally can’t keep quiet. He talks the way other people breathe. While Pete is the opposite. He has less to say for himself.’

‘Can’t get a word in,’ says Liz. This prompts a smile of sorts between the couple. ‘Dan doesn’t give the wee soul time to speak. So maybe,’ she pauses ‘…maybe Pete took his lead from his big brother.’

‘Dan did say something not long after Hepburn left,’ says Douglas. ‘At first when we questioned him he would shake his head and bite his lip. Then as he realised any imagined threats hadn’t materialised he began to speak about it.’

‘One night I was lying on Dan’s bed with one boy on each side telling them a story, when Dan said that he liked my stories better than Audrey’s.’ She put a hand over her heart. ‘I didn’t want to seem too keen, but I was dying to drag the words out of him. Then he went on to say that she only had one or two stories and they involved boys who couldn’t keep secrets and the terrible things that happened to them when they didn’t.’

‘From the reports we have it is clear that not all the abuse was mental,’ I said. Both of them flinched at the word “abuse”.

‘Nothing that we can prove though,’ answers Douglas. ‘Dan tripped and broke his arm. Pete managed to burn himself on the cooker. Neither’ll say what really happened. But we know, you know? And of course Audrey was blameless on both occasions.’

‘Then there were the bruises.’ Liz screws her eyes shut tight against the memory. ‘When I think of that innocent face she used to pull,’ says Liz. ‘I could slap her so hard.’ The stress she puts on the last word is so strong I almost expect to see blood drip from each nostril.

‘We can’t be thinking like that, honey,’ Douglas puts his hand on Liz’s. Again she moves hers out of reach. He gives a little sigh of frustration and looks at his wife as if to say he would keep on trying to reach her. ‘Buddha said that if you pick up a hot coal of revenge to throw at someone, you’re the one who ends up getting burned.’

‘Oh, fuck you and your little Buddha sayings. If you’re going to get religion, get a man’s one. One where you get to take an eye for an eye.’ Her face is tight with anger, her lips pale. She takes a deep breath. ‘Sorry, officers. Things just get too much for me sometimes.’

For a moment no-one knows where to look.

‘Thanks for that, honey.’ Douglas voice is barely above a whisper. The muscles in his jaw are wriggling like worms as he fights for control. He addresses us. ‘One of the things we didn’t admit on the last visit was the games Audrey played with us.’

Liz turns her head towards the fireplace to show her husband the back of her head.

‘She wrote a letter to Liz after she left. It was pushed through the letter box, so no postmark, I’m afraid.’

‘Do we need to do this, Douglas?’ asks Liz.

‘She wrote to Liz and told her that we had been having an affair. That while she had her mid-afternoon nap she and I would be on the couch …what were the words she used, darling.’ Douglas is a different man now. ‘Fucking like animals. That was it, wasn’t it?’

Liz shrinks from the words.

‘And my dear wife believed her. Over ten years together. Ten years when I have done nothing to put her trust in me at risk and one madwoman’s letter is enough to cast doubt.’

‘Mr Browning, did you sleep with Lucy Hepburn?’ I ask. This is a question I have to address. If this case ever gets to trial any defence lawyer worth his salt would be raising questions like this, looking for facts that might explain his client’s behaviour.

‘DC McBain, I will tell you, like the countless times I have told my wife. No, I did not sleep with Lucy Hepburn.’

I may be making the wrong judgement call on this, but I can see how a woman confined to a wheelchair might be riddled with fear that she would lose her able-bodied husband. Hepburn had picked up on that and as a final throw of the dice sent the accusing letter. Perhaps she thought that if the couple fought about this it would detract from the details that would emerge from the kids about how she treated them. What a manipulative bitch. That this continued to be a source of discord in this home was a testament to the power that woman still held over this household.

‘What’s wrong, Douglas? Weren’t you man enough for her? Did you try and she knocked you back?’ Liz’s expression is cold.

Douglas jumps to his feet and stares down at his wife. There’s a look in his eyes that suggests that he has had enough. Police presence or not.

‘She wasn’t my type, darling. I prefer cripples.’ He turns and leaves the room.

People do tend to save the worst of themselves for their loved ones and in my job I get to see plenty of such behaviour, but even I lost breath over the callousness of Douglas’s remark.

Liz is wearing an expression that is part profound tiredness and part self-loathing and stares at the glass of the window. Eventually, while Alessandra and I wonder what to do with ourselves, she speaks.

‘Sometimes, I think, despite what I really want, all I can do is push him away.’

Ben was doing his usual budgie impression when Jim collected him from the nursery. He kept up his soprano chatter from the backseat all the way home. He’d been looking at books of dinosaurs and they were the biggest creatures ever to walk on the world he told Jim, his voice tight with awe.

‘They’re bigger than our house, Daddy.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Much bigger. The biggest one was a brachiosaurus. He had a long, long neck.’ His tone was so emphatic Jim couldn’t help but get caught up in it.

‘Wow.’ If only life could be that simple for everyone: enthuse so completely about one thing and let the rest of the world take care of itself.

‘And he ate leaves from the top of giant trees.’ The word “giant” never received such great stress. ‘Will Mummy want to see me tonight?’

The abrupt change almost caused Jim to miss a red light. Braking in time, he searched for a suitable answer. ‘Mummy always wants to see you, son. She’s just a bit confused just now. Sometimes that happens when people are in accidents.’ He scanned his brain for a parallel in a child’s existence and couldn’t find one. ‘It’s like she woke up and found out she was suddenly married to me and had a new son called Ben.’

‘But she’s always been my mummy, Daddy.’ Jim could hear in his tone that Ben was doing his utmost to keep the tears at bay. The car behind blared his horn to let Jim know that the light had changed to green. He used his horn again. Jim shot him the finger and roared, ‘Piss off, prick.’

‘What’s a prick, Daddy?’

Christ. You need to keep calm, Hilton. He searched for a stupid reply. ‘It’s a kind of sandwich, son.’ Where did that come from? The good thing with that answer was that Ben hated bread, so he was unlikely to ask someone for a prick sandwich. If he did, they’d be on to the social department quicker than you could dial 999.

As soon as Jim could stop the car safely, he did. Then he clambered over into the back seat and sat beside Ben. He unlocked his seat belt and climbed into his father’s lap.

‘Why does Mummy not love me anymore?’ The tears that threatened earlier were now in full flow, the colour of his eyes washed into a pale green. Jim kissed his head and fought back the emotion that was tightening his throat.

‘Aww, Ben, Mummy does love you. She’ll always love you. It’s just that she’s not well just now. Remember when you couldn’t find your biggest T. Rex toy?’

Ben lifted his head from Jim’s chest and looked up into his eyes. A large tear shone, pre-slide, on the long dark lashes that curved on the rim of his lower eyelid.

‘Uhuh?’

‘Well. You put your T. Rex somewhere and you couldn’t remember where. Didn’t you?’

‘Uhuh.’

‘Well, Mummy had an illness that makes her like that. Except she can’t remember where she put you and me.’

‘That’s silly, Daddy. We’re here.’

‘Yes we are. And Mummy’s frightened because she wants to remember who we are, but she can’t right now. But we can help her can’t we?’ Jim was confused by his own logic, but Ben considered it for a moment.

‘Yes. I’ll say, hello I’m Ben. Every morning.’ He brightened at the thought that there was something concrete he could do to help.

Angela had a sleep after Jim made everyone dinner. Once Ben was in bed she stumbled downstairs. Her face lined with fatigue and her hair sticking out at odd angles.

‘Are you feeling up to a trip down memory lane?’ Jim asked trying to add a jaunty tone to his voice. Angela nodded, her eyes fixed on the floor.

While Jim pulled a photograph album from a cupboard, his actions were haunted by this image of his wife. Where had the vibrant woman he’d fallen in love with gone?

A conversation he’d had with Dr Bodrum popped into his mind.

‘I want you to understand what might happen while your wife is in recovery, Mr Hilton,’ his sad, brown eyes fixed on Jim’s face. ‘People in this situation often have dysexecutive problems. This means they struggle with planning and organising their activities, or solving problems and making decisions. In common parlance, the steps that you and I go through in order to make a cup of tea might even be beyond her.’

‘Any more good news, Doctor?’ asked Jim. He cursed himself for this flippant remark. The doctor was only trying to help, but the implications of all of this were

mounting on top of him.

‘It’s just at this stage, Mr Hilton, you need to be aware that the problems your wife may encounter could have a profound impact on her capacity for independent living.’ At this point Dr Bodrum pulled a file out of his drawer. The paper inside was clipped together and headed “Exercises”. The first one was a drawing of a maze with instructions for the carer to help the head-injured person complete it.

Jim looked at the Doctor as if to say, are you kidding me.

‘This is how far back to the basics we have to go Jim. Make sure your wife is rested. That the room is well lit and you give her plenty of rest. Oh,’ he smiled, ‘I already said that.’

Side by side at the kitchen table, Jim went through the early years of their relationship. A holiday by the Mediterranean, a friend’s engagement party, an author event at the bookshop. As he talked Angela’s eyes roved over the pictures. Here and there her hand would slide over the colours and the people as if the act of touching them would make them come alive in her mind.

While he spoke, Angela’s gaze eventually made it to Jim’s face, something that made him feel more than a little uncomfortable. As he spoke he was aware of the opportunity that this presented: he could give her the Disney version of Jim Hilton. She could discover the nose-picking, farting, real-life version as their relationship deepened, but just then, he had the chance to really sell himself.

But that would be manipulative, a wee bit underhand, and no matter how much he feared it the truth had to be told. And there was no time like the present. He took a deep breath…

‘I’m so sorry, Jim.’ Angela interrupted his thoughts.

‘What?’ he exhaled like a trumpet player whose instrument had been whipped away from his mouth.

‘This. What a horrible situation to find yourself in. You must really love me. And I’ve been so …unappreciative.’ She leaned towards him and pressed her hand against his knee. A surge shot from there to his groin.

Whoa. This was not in the script.

‘Angela, I’m not a saint or anything …’

‘Jim, you’ve been wonderful. Patient, understanding … you haven’t even tried to … make a pass at me. I really appreciate it.’ The line of her eyes was soft now. She looked so much like the girl he had met ten years previously. Her hand moved a millimetre forward on to his thigh. Another millimetre and he would be all over her like a clumsy teenager. Oh shit, it was too nice. He sat back in his chair and watched with equal parts of dismay and relief as she placed her hand back on her own thigh.

‘Angela. We need to talk. There’s something …’

‘DAAAAD!’ Ben screamed as if a T. Rex had him in his claws and was about to drop him into his huge mouth. Jim took the stairs three at a time.

Ben was sitting upright in his bed, hair spiky and mouth wide in alarm,

‘Dad, I had a horrible dream.’

‘But you’ve only just fallen asleep, son.’

‘It was horrible, Daddy,’ he answered in his most indignant voice.

Jim spoke in a hushed and soothing tone to the boy and he was soon fast asleep. He rose from the bed and turned to see Angela in the doorway. He made to walk past her.

‘What did I do to deserve you?’ She placed a hand on his cheek. Jim stepped back.

‘Angela. This is too complicated.’ She had that
look
.

‘Did you feel it when we were downstairs?’

‘That was a heavy lorry. We get a lot of traffic in our …wee… cul de sac.’

Angela laughed, then grew sombre. ‘When we were close together downstairs I felt something,’ her face flushed and she examined her shoes. She found some certainty and looked back into his eyes. ‘A nice something.’

A gallon of blood flooded south from his brain.

‘Yeah. Me too. Let’s talk about it over a coffee. You want a coffee?’ Jim sloped his shoulders in the direction of the stairwell.

She took a step towards him and put a hand on his chest. ‘Were we … good together?’ The word
good
had never been imbued with such frisson. The gallon from his head was joined by several pints from his thighs. Feeling that he was about to fall, Jim leaned against the wall. He couldn’t remember ever being quite so horny.