Black Widow (43 page)

I grew up with two boys. Rough and tumble was a part of living with my brothers. Throughout most of my pre-teen childhood my arms and legs were seldom free of bruises. We would all lash out at times: loss of temper, loss of control, a desire to strike back, a desire to punish. It was usually a thump on the upper arm that I was on the receiving end of, sometimes a kick to the shin.

A girl at school once slapped me on the cheek. I can't remember why, but I do remember that my outrage was greater than my pain.

I had never been hit in the face with a closed fist before.

Peter punched me on the cheek, below the eye socket. There was a flash of light then a dull, solid pain, a pain that was putting down foundations and starting to build.

I fell against the car, knocked off balance in that narrow channel between my A5 and the wall. My hand shot out and grabbed the edge of the workbench before I lost my footing altogether. Some instinct took over, dictating imperatively that I must not end up on the floor.

I recall turning around, gripping the workbench with both hands as I steadied myself. I recall seeing the wall rack and its rusted tools. A pair of pliers. A hacksaw. A claw hammer. A monkey wrench.

I worked a year in A&E when I was a house officer. I remember treating a woman who had ‘fallen down the stairs' late on a Saturday night. She had a broken nose, a hairline fracture to her cheekbone and a number of bruises on her forearms indicative of a defensive posture against further blows.

There was a nurse working with me that night who I will never forget, a redoubtable Irish woman by the name of Dymphna Flaherty. She asked the woman calmly if she wanted us to call the police, to which the patient responded with an insistence that it wasn't what it looked like.

The husband had brought her in, all shocked concern over this dreadful accident, and was outside in the waiting area while we treated her. His performance was authentic enough that I bought it at first, until I saw her arms. I was sure his contrition and promises that it would never happen again would be equally convincing.

Dymphna sat on the edge of the bed and spoke to her gently but firmly.

‘What I've got to say doesn't really apply to you,' she told her, ‘because you only tripped and fell down the stairs. And we can all have a nasty accident, can't we? Nobody knows that better than us here in Casualty, because we deal with it every day. None of us sees that nasty accident coming. None of us thinks it'll happen to us. But seeing as you're sitting there a moment, let me say this anyway: this thing that doesn't apply to you.

‘If a man ever hits you, it's over. That's what my mammy told me, and it was good advice. Not that it applied to me either, if you know what I'm saying. But good advice nonetheless. No second chances. No matter how much he apologises, the truth is it's only become more likely – even inevitable – that it will happen again. Once the line has been crossed, it only becomes easier to cross it the next time. And I remember saying to my mammy that everyone deserves a chance at redemption, and that maybe unique circumstances can contrive to make a good man lose control. She asked me this: if it was a twenty-stone, six-foot biker with five mates that he was angry with, would he lose control then?

‘So it's sad, because you don't want it to be over, and you think it doesn't have to be. But it is, and it does. It's like he's died or he's dumped you, or cheated on you: turned out not to be the person you thought he was. Do you hear what I'm saying?'

The woman nodded, weeping silently as she did so, but when we finished treating her, she went home with her man.

I can still see her walking through those double doors towards the street, his muscular arm supportively placed around her tiny shoulders. I knew Dymphna was right. I knew that same arm would be driving his fist into her face again: it was only a matter of time.

As I watched them leave, I vowed that I would never be in similar denial about Dymphna's advice. If a man were to raise his hands to me
once
, I would ensure the bastard could never do it again.

Appropriately for a surgeon, in the end it was blood and bone that gave away Diana Jager.

Ali had been part of the team combing every inch of her property for the proof of what had really happened to Peter Elphinstone. She had seen the tents erected in front of Jager's house and garage, flagstones hauled up to give access to the drains, but it was actually in the boot of her A5 that they found the most crucial forensic evidence.

She had been present at the arrest too: her and Rodriguez. Once Catherine McLeod had informed Sergeant Glaister about what was about to appear in the newspaper, the whole picture changed. It was made known that their insubordination hadn't been forgotten, but was at least being backgrounded for the moment.

‘You got lucky this time,' Hazel warned them. ‘Your instincts were vindicated, but that doesn't mean your conduct can be excused. We don't work on the basis of instinct in this job any more than we rely on luck.'

The sergeant's tone had been as stern as Ali had ever heard, underlining the importance of the lesson she wanted them to learn. Nonetheless, she interpreted it as something of a pat on the head that she and Rodriguez were asked to sit in on the interviews, watching on a monitor in an adjacent room.

Admittedly a larger consideration in this was probably the fact that they had been the primary point of contact with Jager throughout. It was they who had broken the news of Elphinstone's accident to her and seen how she reacted; or more significantly, seen how she barely reacted. As such it was hoped they would be a useful barometer for Bill Ellis and Tom Chambers to refer to as they braced their suspect.

It was always odd watching on a relay. Even though the interview was taking place right then, only a matter of yards away, they could have been watching a recording from a station in London filmed ten years ago. It was disempowering not to be able to contribute or intervene, but that didn't spare them the tension, or the feeling that Jager knew she was being watched.

She was as cool and detached in the interview suite as she had been in the comfort of her living room, and little Ellis or Chambers said appeared to penetrate her façade.

Only the mention of the sex tape had made an impact. She kept her expression impassive but Ali saw her eyes fill as the implications sank in: these men had seen it.

‘Have
you
seen it?' Rodriguez asked.

Ali could hear the sympathy in his tone, though whether this was for Ali's sensibilities or for Jager's suffering remained unclear.

The answer was yes. She guessed he had too, and she was suddenly grateful she had seen it alone. Watching it with someone else in the room – someone male in particular – would have made it even worse.

‘Working Traffic, I've been to RTAs that made me less queasy,' she said. ‘And it's not because I'm prudish: I've seen my share of porn.'

‘No, I hear you. It made me feel horrible too. It felt like something beyond voyeurism and beyond betrayal. It was consensual sex and yet I was watching a violation.'

Ali nodded. She had been with guys who asked to film it and she always refused. This was what happened when they didn't take no for an answer: a different kind of rape. She thought of how she had felt when Martin pretended not to notice that he'd come inside her. Multiply that by a thousand, she thought, and you'd get how it would feel if he had leaked a non-consensual sex tape.

‘No wonder Jager killed the fucker,' she said.

On the monitor, Ellis was in full flow, speaking with his signature calm and slightly patronising authority.

‘We have found a small quantity of blood and powdered bone fragments in the boot of your car. DNA analysis has proven both to match that of your husband. A wee drop of blood, we couldn't get ourselves too excited about that. A scraped knuckle opening the boot, helping you in with the shopping, perhaps. Any number of reasons why that might be found there. But it's the powdered bone mixed in with it that really intrigues us, Dr Jager. Apparently it's the human equivalent of sawdust. Do you have any ideas as to how that got there?'

Jager didn't respond, didn't look to her lawyer, didn't even shake her head.

‘Well, as you're feeling a wee bit reticent, why don't I have a go? You argued, quite understandably, about this sex tape Peter had made: this surreptitiously obtained and mercilessly candid video of things that should be kept between two trusting people. It must have been more hurtful than any of us can imagine, and you must have been uncontainable in your anger. But then to make it worse, rather than get down on his knees and plead for your forgiveness, he hits you. He punches you in the face, leaving you with the black eye that PC Kazmi and her colleague PC Rodriguez observe the following morning.'

Jager glanced up briefly. Did she look to the camera, Ali asked herself, or was she imagining it? Did she even know the camera was there? It certainly felt like it, but maybe this was merely a hangover guilt from her previous compulsory voyeurism.

‘That was what pushed you over the edge,' Ellis went on. ‘You were angry and you were probably scared too. Who wouldn't be, in your position, having learned what depravity your husband had stooped to? You had no idea what else he might be capable of. So you had to take drastic steps. You had to act on the spot, in fear and in the heat of the moment. Did you grab what was to hand? Where did it happen? Did you hit him on the head with something, then realise you'd hit him harder than you meant to? Did he maybe hit his head on something as he fell?

‘Or was it more instinctive than that: you're a surgeon after all. Even without thinking, your hands would know where to put a blade to inflict the most damage in the shortest space of time: a small woman with a limited window of opportunity against a bigger man who was bound to strike back. Again, were the consequences greater than you had intended? Because we could easily be talking manslaughter, self-defence even. But I need your input, and so far you're giving me nothing.'

Jager simply stared at him with unnerving detachment, like she was the one in Ali's role: listening intently, observing, taking mental notes.

‘Whatever happened, you realised it had gone too far. Though it surprises me someone of your experience and resources wouldn't take steps to recover the situation. If there was a man lying there who had received a life-threatening injury, the one person most people would want on the spot would be a surgeon. But maybe it happened too fast, or you froze in shock and didn't recover your faculties until it was too late.

‘Again, if it had been a regrettable accident or a heat-of-the-moment reaction with unexpectedly dire consequences, this is when I'd have expected you to phone for help. Maybe you did, though, eh? Just not 999.'

That got a glimmer of reaction, Ali noticed: the tiniest flinch.

‘I think we just spied a chink in her armour,' said Rodriguez, confirming he had picked up on it too.

‘Because here's what I think happened,' Ellis resumed. ‘You're a smart woman, quick at thinking on your feet. You decided you could cover this up, and you came up with a plan. First priority would be getting rid of the body while it's still dark. It's not easy to move a dead weight, one that's heavier than yourself, and not easy to dispose of it either. But you're a surgeon, and you've a Liston knife just sitting there: damn handy for lopping off limbs.

‘You dismember your husband, probably wrap the parts in plastic, and put them in the boot of your car. You clean up the mess – Officer Kazmi smells the bleach the next day – but there's one wee drip oozes out, maybe in the tiniest hole in the plastic. So small you don't notice it, especially not in the dark. Dries in practically the same colour as the fibre in the lining of the boot. Nobody's ever going to see it without Luminol and a blacklight.

‘You take the Audi wherever and you dispose of the contents. Can't be too far, because we know you had other things to be getting on with. Now, this is the part where we could really do with a wee bit of decency from you, Doctor. Believe me, it will go easier for you if you tell us where we can find the remains. It's the one area of cooperation a judge is always going to look favourably upon.'

Chambers leaned forward, making one of his rare contributions. He spoke in that warm, reassuring baritone of his: a voice that always promised the suspects understanding, catharsis and absolution after Ellis had softened them up with his snarky hectoring.

‘Where is he, Diana? Just tell us that much. Because however angry you were with him, whatever he did to you to force your hand, Peter meant something to other people, and those other people did you no wrong. They deserve to have him back so that he can be laid to rest.'

It was the one time she spoke.

‘I don't know. That's the truth. I don't know where he is.'

Chambers sighed, laying on the air of disappointment. He wasn't guilting this one into anything, though: Ali could see that.

Ellis took it as his cue to wade in again.

‘Never mind. We'll find him soon enough. What you did with the body is only half the battle though, isn't it? Because you can't simply tell people Peter walked out on you when you know he's never going to be heard from again. You need a better story. Drowning. That's worked before, hasn't it? People can have terrible accidents when water is involved, can't they, Doctor?'

There was no flinch this time. Jager had been pre-warned by reading the news story.

‘So you drive Peter's car to a known accident blackspot: one you happen to mention to PC Kazmi a few hours later, as a matter of fact. “This happened at Widow Falls,” you said initially. Then you had to backpedal to explain why you knew the location. You told her Peter had almost lost control of the car there recently, when he was upset. Must have stuck in your mind: a plausible spot for a wee tragedy. Again I'm wondering quite how spur-of-the-moment this all was, but maybe that's for the jury to decide. The point is, you fake the accident. You drive Peter's car to the edge of the embankment and then roll it into the river. I wonder at what point you realised you had forgotten to slide the seat back?'