Black Widow (44 page)

Ali was already watching closely, having anticipated where Ellis was going with this. She saw another tiny flash of emotion in Jager's stone-set features.

‘But of course, nobody's going to simply discover a car at the bottom of the river, so you need to make sure the police know to look for it. That's when you phone up on a disposable mobile, using the name Sheena Matheson, and say you've just witnessed a BMW going out of control. You even have a story as to why you can't hang around and wait for the cops: something about a sick kid at home. Perfectly plausible, except that it directed us to check the CCTV cameras in the twenty-four-hour garage you said you were going to.

‘The main thing is it gets the job done. PC Kazmi and PC Rodriguez are dispatched to investigate. All that remains for you is to get home, which admittedly is now problematic seeing as you don't have a car. Did somebody give you a wee lift? And was that
all
this somebody did? Who can you call for something like that in the middle of the night? It would need to be somebody you were close to. Somebody you trusted
intimately
.'

Ellis pressed this a little longer but Ali could tell he was pissing into the wind. Jager had reacted the first time he suggested the idea of an accomplice, but after that she had assimilated it into her calculations. And there were a lot of calculations going on, always. She never seemed distraught or scared or defeated or angry. Instead she was quite unsettlingly calm, in keeping with how Ali had witnessed her before.

‘Is it just me,' Ali asked, ‘or do you get the impression Jager is biding her time for something?'

‘No, I know what you mean. They're nailing her to the wall but it's as though she still has some genius move to make, a card yet to play that nobody is going to see coming.'

‘It would have to be a hell of a card. What we've got on her is looking pretty conclusive.'

‘Except there's still one important piece of the puzzle missing,' Rodriguez reminded her.

That was the real reason Ellis and Chambers had been talking about cooperation and pleading for decency in a concerted bid to get her to open up on one particular front. It wasn't for the sake of Elphinstone's bereaved relatives: it was that nothing is guaranteed in a murder case when you don't have a body.

Lucy was waiting for him in a café on Broughton Street, the same one where they had met for the second time. Parlabane spotted her through the window and felt something tingle inside him. He admitted it freely to himself; enjoyed the sensation, even. She was wearing a silver-grey coat and a mariner-style cap, her look a modern evocation of Victoriana that was definitely more steam than punk.

She looked up in response to the sound of him coming through the door. His breath paused in anticipation of her reaction, craving a sparkle in her eyes. Instead she gave him a sad and fragile smile.

The first time Lucy came to his flat, she had brought coffee and a copy of the
Daily Record
. Both things were present on the table in front of her, the latter seeming no less incongruous second time around, and once again it bore the reason for her mood.

BLACK WIDOW screamed the front page. It was his story, though he'd never have gone with that headline.

Diana Jager had been charged with Peter Elphinstone's murder. She had been interviewed by detectives in Inverness and was now being held on remand. The cloying report about tragedy striking fairytale newlyweds was recalled in a rag-out miniature of a previous page: ‘deception of a gullible tabloid' being an unofficial addition to Jager's charge-sheet.

They traded small talk as he ordered, tentative and cautious steps on neutral ground. It exclusively consisted of him asking about her.

‘When did you get back? What were you doing in London?'

That kind of thing.

The reciprocal questions about what he had being doing lately represented harsher terrain.

A waitress in a nose-ring and a Savage Earth Heart T-shirt put down his double espresso with a smile, then glided away like she was on roller skates. He took a sip and placed the cup down, his action an overture they both understood.

Proper questions now.

‘How are you?'

‘I'm okay. I'm fine. I'm okay.'

She nodded affirmation but her expression contradicted her: full of doubt, certain of nothing.

They both sipped at their coffees, conspicuously filling the silence. Parlabane could hear people at other tables having easy conversations. It served to underline how awkward this suddenly felt. Whatever had ignited between them a few doors down at the Barony now seemed a guttering flame. A draught from an open door could extinguish it.

She put down her cup, ran a finger along the rim.

‘Jack, the reason I called you here…'

He stiffened in his seat, swallowed involuntarily.

‘I want to say thanks. For everything.'

He loved the sound of her voice. That cinnamon scent. Her clothes. She'd never looked so good, in fact, as right then. But they say a woman never looks as beautiful as when she's walking out of your life.

‘You're welcome. I just wish I hadn't been so successful, if you know what I mean.'

‘Entirely. And that's why this is hard, but I need some space right now. I'm trying to come to terms with all of this. It's like my feelings have been on hold, or I've been having kind of placeholder emotions since Peter died. And now bang, here comes the real thing. Pain, anger, shock, and the grief of losing him all over again, only it's so much worse because this time I know she hurt him.'

He thought she might cry, but her voice remained steady, if feeble. His instinct was to reach out a hand, but it didn't feel right.

‘I understand.'

And he did. He understood that she was always going to associate him with this. He understood that the only thing to do was give her that space, let her find that distance.

They finished their coffees in silence. Someone at a nearby table was talking about the story: the usual mixture of speculation and judgement, an ideal accompaniment to a mid-morning cuppa. It was a stark reminder to him of how much harder this was for Lucy. It wasn't a story to her, or a paycheque. It was her world. He had delved into the darkness for her, but now she was the one who had to live there.

‘I'd better go,' she said.

‘I know.'

He watched her walk out, felt a draught as she opened the door; pictured that flame going out.

That was when he realised it was only over if he allowed it to be. He wasn't going to make the same mistake he did with Mairi, appreciating what had been in his grasp only once he'd let it go. This was worth fighting for.

He stood up and looked out his wallet, putting down a tenner. He wouldn't wait for change. He was going after her.

Then his mobile rang: a number he didn't recognise. To other people, that aspect would immediately bump it down the priority list. To Parlabane, it was always a potential lead, a story waiting to be told, a summons he was compelled to obey.

He pressed Answer with his right thumb as his left hand reached for the handle on the café door.

‘Hello.'

It was a woman's voice, querulous and uncertain.

‘I was looking for Jack Parlabane?'

‘Speaking.'

‘Oh, right. Okay. Well, my name is Keira Stroud. I'm Diana Jager's lawyer.'

That stopped him where he stood, quickly running a mental fact-check on everything he had filed.

‘I think it's the polis you should be worrying about. My story stands up one hundred per—'

‘She wants to talk to you.'

‘Aye, very good.'

He was already searching for some kind of legal trap.

‘Listen, I'm not finding it any easier to believe than you do. I'm the one supposed to be defending her and she's giving me absolutely nothing. Instead she says she wants to speak to you, in person.'

‘About what?'

‘She said to tell you – and I am quoting precisely here – “you alone will discover the secret of what happened to my husband”.'

‘Sounds like a set-up.'

‘Sounds like an exclusive, but that's not my call. I'm only the go-between, it would appear.'

‘Why would she tell me? I'm the one who dug up all this stuff that helped put the bite on her.'

‘No point asking me, Mr Parlabane. Diana's the one person who can answer your questions. And good luck with that, because she's answered precious few of mine.'

When morning came around, I called in sick as soon as I knew the department secretary would be there to answer the phone. I was in no condition to go to work: mentally or physically. I wasn't ready to face anybody, and nor did I expect to be for a while yet. My hands were still trembling, for one thing, so there was no way I could hold a scalpel.

I hadn't slept and I had to deal with the police on my doorstep before I was even dressed. I remember feeling like a zombie, totally detached from the moment. They ushered me gently into my own living room like I was an invalid, then told me about Peter's car.

One of them – PC Kazmi – asked me about my face, which I'd actually forgotten about at that moment. I suddenly realised how it might look, to say nothing of how embarrassed I felt to be sporting a black eye from my husband. I lied, gave them a story I had already thought up to tell my colleagues, about bashing myself while opening a parcel. I thought it sounded stupid and embarrassing enough to be true.

It felt like they were there for ages. I couldn't understand why they wouldn't leave. I desperately, desperately wanted to be alone, to sit in silence and gather my thoughts about what had happened. They asked if there was someone who could sit with me, which was when I remembered how different it must look to them. From their perspective they had just told me about the likely death of my husband, but from mine, I hadn't learned anything new. I remember a cold part of myself thinking Peter had been dead to me for weeks. I wanted them out of my house. I wanted the future to start as soon as possible, the rest of my life to commence.

I went back to work after what some would consider an unseemly brief period, but when you're in distress, you go to what you know. Work is always where I've sought refuge, and I knew it would be easier if I was busy than stuck at home. It wasn't without its trials, of course. I was forced to play the widow, a role I never envisaged for myself. The hardest part was the awkwardness of having to endure people coming up to say how sorry they were for my loss. I didn't feel bereaved. I had already got over being cheated of the husband I thought I had married; I had long since come to accept that he never existed.

But then a few days later, the police came back. It was about seven in the evening. Dinner was in the oven and Calum was about to open a bottle of wine. I had to usher him out, telling him I'd give him a ring when the coast was clear. I had recognised that it was the same two cops, including the woman who had asked about my black eye. I told them he was a junior colleague solicitously popping by to make sure I was okay. I didn't want to provide fuel for her imagination by spelling it out that my lover was round for a romantic evening only a matter of days after she'd told me my husband was dead.

They were there on the pretext of returning a photograph, but when PC Rodriguez asked me to retrieve the Liston knife he had seen in the picture, that's when I knew I was in trouble.

I called up the Assistant Chief Constable, Angus McLean. I work with his wife, Janice, and I'd actually operated on him, so I had some leverage; or at least his home number. He said he knew nothing about me being under investigation, though I guessed he wouldn't tell me if I was. I wanted to lay down a marker: let them know that if they were going to investigate me, I wasn't going to make it easy on them.

But then there was the newspaper article. Front page, no less, digging up what happened to poor old Agnes and my revenge on young Evan. Once I saw that, I knew it was only a matter of time before I was in custody.

They didn't haul me out in my underwear, at least. It happened by degrees.

First they showed up with a warrant to search the place. I was taken away to be questioned, informally. I knew that while I sat there in the police station, drinking rotten tea from a plastic cup, they would be scouring through my home, taking the place apart. I hoped I'd done as good a job as I had assumed in cleaning up.

I guess not.

That informal interview was when they began asking me the questions they would return to over and over, from different angles, different interlocutors. Despite the official caution about it ‘harming my defence', I knew it was easier to remain consistent if I didn't tell them anything.

You might argue that it's easier to remain consistent if you're telling the truth, but I knew the police weren't going to listen to the truth. They were never going to understand what I needed to say. As I sat in a succession of waiting areas, interview rooms and cells, I came to realise that if I was ever to get out of this, I was going to have to take unexpected measures. Some might say desperate measures.

I needed to tell my story not to these detectives who already thought they knew everything, but to somebody who would relish the idea that there might yet be one more twist in the tale. Someone with a sharper ear for nuance. Someone who appreciates that the morality of these things can be, shall we say, fluid. And someone who believes that it's possible to be deceitful in the service of honesty.

With all of that in mind, I gave specific instruction to my lawyer, Keira Stroud, to make contact.

And now here you are, Mr Parlabane.

He could almost feel the air electrified by Jager's presence, a centred energy about her that quietly filled the room. Parlabane had seldom sensed such a controlled strength of will emanating from a person, a constant reminder not to be misled by her clothes or her circumstances.