Desperate Measures (13 page)

They never knew what had happened to the baby after the midwife had wrapped her in the sheet and left the room. The post-mortem, of course, a futile attempt to find a reason for the death but after that? Burial in some common grave, disposal like so much medical waste? In recent years, other couples affected like them had searched for their lost children, named them, had services and created memorials. The modern view was that acknowledging the life lost was a healthy response. But it held no sway with Don when she raised it, he regarded it as an indulgence at best and opening wounds at worst. She let it be.

They would never have another child. She hadn’t realized at first, couples were advised to avoid pregnancy too soon, so when she had clambered out of the pit and they began making love again she had gone on the pill, a new version. As the months went by her mother began to drop hints. ‘Don’t leave it too long,’ she said, ‘if you’re worried about the risks—’

‘I know the risks,’ Norma had said, ‘we just want to be more settled, it’s a hard year for Don.’

Don told her if they wanted to try again, she’d have to stop the medication, it would harm the baby. Even the thought of that, going a day without it, let alone nine whole months, made her feel panicky, a fluttering feeling in her chest, her mouth dry and her face hot.

‘Not yet,’ she said, ‘I’m not ready.’

Thankfully, Don didn’t seem desperate to have children unlike some men who wanted to make sure the family line continued. They discussed it on occasion back then, it was always Don who raised the issue. And then one time, just after he’d started his own practice, she had said, in response to his asking if she’d thought any more about babies, that she was happy as they were, just the two of them; that she didn’t think she could ever face another pregnancy after what happened. She’d taken a steadying breath, saying, ‘If a family is important to you then maybe we should think about separation.’

‘Norma,’ he said, looking exasperated and her stomach turned over. Then his expression softened. ‘You idiot. It’s you I want, first and foremost. That’s what matters most. The family, well …’ he shrugged, ‘ … it might be nice but … I wouldn’t be the one dealing with it all and … it’s just not that important.’

‘You’re sure?’ She had stared at him.

‘Yes,’ he said.

She was so grateful. She ran the house and began to teach piano and went to parties with Don’s friends from work. In time as their friends had children, the friendships weakened and withered. They didn’t really need other people.

I was hiding, Norma thought, I’ve been hiding my whole life. Don had his work, his patients, his colleagues, his mistresses. And I had Don. Like Sleeping Beauty. But Norma’s prince had not woken her with a kiss, he pricked her with a needle, kept her drugged and docile and safe. Oh, yes, he tried to wean her off, now and again, but she felt that was to protect himself as much as anything. If it ever came out, he’d be disbarred.

The thought of relief brought saliva into her mouth, a lifting of the fear that gripped the back of her neck. But what about tomorrow, a voice in her head murmured. And the next day and the next? How long can you go on?

It was over. Don knew that, that was probably why he was still here, whispering her name, waiting in the corners where the shadows fell. He knew what was best. Always had. She was tired of hiding, exhausted by the fear of the future. Yes, she might last another three days but then what? The pit waiting to suck her back in. Or hospitalisation?

Outside, the aspens sighed in the wind and the house creaked in reply.

There was nothing else to do. No one to tell. Norma climbed upstairs and got things ready. She lay on the bed, let out a sigh.

‘Norma,’ he said.

‘I know,’ she answered, ‘I’m coming.’

She tried to think about the happy times, that first coffee with him, their honeymoon in Edinburgh, the happiness of easy routine and affection and comfort, of restyling the house and pouring her love into it. Don never left the house without kissing her goodbye. The wind blew again, stronger, so she felt the house shaking. Was that possible?

‘Norma.’

She couldn’t wait any longer. It was time to go.

The case kept shifting shape, Janine thought, every time they believed a line of inquiry was gaining legs, something would come along and kick them away, leaving them winded.

First they had the prospect of a robbery turned violent, then all the merry dance that Fraser McKee took them on, the hunt for a patient with a grudge, then Halliwell re-cast as a drug dealer, next the prospect of a crime of passion. And now, she thought, where are we now? What was solid?

‘With Langan and Mrs Halliwell out of the picture where do we go?’ she said to Richard as they drove towards the police station.

‘Aaron Matthews is all we’ve got,’ Richard said.

Janine rang Butchers. ‘We’ve hit a brick wall with the jealous spouse angle,’ she said.

‘Maybe not,’ Butchers said. ‘Halliwell called at Roy Gant’s at two o’clock but he told Gant he was going home before he went back to work. Perhaps things started going sour then.’

‘Norma’s just sworn to us that she last saw him in the morning,’ Janine said.

‘Unless Halliwell was lying to Roy Gant?’ Butchers said.

‘Why bother – why raise it at all?’ Janine said. ‘It’s more likely she’s lying to us. Again.’

Janine ended the call. ‘Halliwell told Roy Gant he was calling home,’ she said to Richard, ‘you just heard her say she last saw him that morning. Why lie about that?’

‘He comes home, she confronts him with the affair, he’s not sorry enough, he taunts her, tells her he’s leaving her maybe. She decides to punish him.’

‘But she was here when he was shot,’ Janine said.

‘She had help?’ Richard said.

‘I don’t know,’ Janine said, ‘but at the very least let’s challenge her on the last sighting.’

There was no answer when Richard rang the bell again.

‘Perhaps she hopes we’ll go away if she leaves it long enough,’ Janine said.

Richard walked down the steps and along to peer in the front room window.

‘No sign,’ he said,

Janine tried the windows at the side. She wasn’t visible anywhere downstairs. Janine felt a chill inside. ‘I don’t like this,’ she said, ‘we need to get in there.’

Richard didn’t hesitate. When the front door wouldn’t give under sustained kicks, he picked an edging stone out from the flower border and used it to smash through the stained-glass sidelight. He reached in and undid the latch.

Janine kept calling out, ‘Mrs Halliwell? Norma?’

After double checking the ground floor, they took the stairs.

The master bedroom was at the front. She lay there on the bed, comatose, a band tied around her arm and sharps and ampoules on the bedside table.

‘Oh, God,’ Janine said. She picked up one of the ampoules and read the label. ‘Diamorphine.’

Janine grabbed hold of the woman’s shoulder, shook her hard, her head fell to the side. ‘Can you hear me, Norma? Norma?’

Janine placed two fingers on the angle of the woman’s jaw, felt a faint pulse in her neck and nodded to Richard who was already calling an ambulance.

‘Now we know why Halliwell was stealing drugs,’ Janine said.

‘Help’s on its way,’ she said to Norma, ‘there’s an ambulance coming. You’re going to be alright.’

She thought of Adele Young then, of her desperate battle to save Marcie. How many times had she found her daughter like this? And then to have finally got her help with Dr Halliwell, with the hope of being weaned off the heroin only to find that the dose reduction was too savage, was unbearable for the girl. Knowing that she would relapse, go in search of one more proper high, with deadly consequences.

The hospital notified Janine when Norma was conscious and out of danger. Janine needed to talk to her, to try and establish if she had played any part in her husband’s murder but she was also aware that Norma Halliwell was extremely vulnerable, grieving and suicidal. Had the police questioning prompted her attempt on her life? Had the suicide bid risen from guilt? And given she couldn’t have pulled the trigger, that she was teaching at the time, was it possible she had engaged someone else to kill her husband?

A nurse was coming out of Norma’s room as Janine arrived.

‘She’s still awake?’ Janine checked and the nurse nodded.

Norma was sitting up in bed. Her eyes glanced at Janine then away again, indifferent.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Janine said, ‘but there are questions I have to ask.’

The ethereal quality that Janine had noticed in Norma before seemed even more pronounced after her ordeal, her skin paper thin and porcelain white.

‘Mrs Halliwell, can you tell me anything about what happened to your husband?’

‘No,’ Norma said.

‘Are you sure about that?’ Janine said.

She raised her eyes to meet Janine’s. ‘I could never hurt Don,’ she said, ‘he looked after me, I depended on him completely.’

‘But the affair with his work colleague was a threat, and you got jealous?’ Janine said.

‘No,’ Norma said, ‘he’d never leave me, he loved me. She stroked the bed sheet, her long fingers pale, tapered, here and there a liver spot. ‘You know, when they told me he was dead, the first thing I thought of, before anything else, was: how will I get my medication? The very first thing.’ She made a little sound, breathy. ‘I lost my husband and I lost my supplier too. I couldn’t go on without him.’

‘How long has this been going on, the drugs?’ Janine said.

‘Since we met practically. Every few years, Don would try and persuade me to go into rehabilitation but I couldn’t face it. At medical school I’d needed stuff to keep me awake, stuff to help me sleep. I was always, strung out – I suppose. Then I got pregnant. We got married. But we lost the baby. Morphine made things bearable. Don helped me. And it got so there was no way back.’

‘He enabled your addiction,’ Janine said. ‘As long as he was around, you didn’t have to worry about it, deal with it.’

‘So you see, I could never have hurt him – even if I had wanted to – because then I’d have no way of getting my medicine.’ Tremors flickered in the muscles round her mouth.

Forty years, Janine thought, forty years of dependency. And the sheer hypocrisy of Halliwell. The same man who had kept his wife supplied with heroin had insisted on a rapid treatment plan for Marcie Young, against her family’s wishes. Could that have been because he’d seen how persistent, persuasive addiction was first hand and feared Marcie would go the same way that Norma had? Or had he been rigid as a reaction against his complicity with Norma – compartmentalising his approach? Norma’s addiction could be contained because she had money, access to safe drugs, privilege. Marcie’s addiction killed her.

‘What do I do now?’ Norma Halliwell said, sounding lost. ‘It’s all gone.’ She looked steadily at Janine, ‘ I wish you’d left me there,’ she said.

Janine took a breath. ‘People do it,’ she said, ‘they turn their lives around – it’s not impossible.’

Norma turned away, her hands no longer smoothing the sheets but one set of nails digging into the flesh at the base of her thumb.
              Norma Halliwell had been living in a cocoon, Janine thought as she walked along the corridor to the exit. A comfortable life as the doctor’s wife, teaching piano and looking after the house. Respected, cosseted. Putting up with his dalliances because she had no option. It was a prison of sorts, trapped by her addiction. And the drug was the one true love of her life.

Janine found Richard, Shap and Butchers at the pub, the two sergeants half way through a game of pool. They paused to hear what the trip to the hospital had produced.

Shap shook his head, mouth twisted. ‘Who’d have pegged her for a junkie?’ he said.

‘You didn’t see that one coming, did you, Shap?’ Janine said. ‘Me neither. Well, this time, Norma took the lot. She wasn’t getting high, she was getting out.’

‘Guilt?’ Butchers said.

Janine shook her head. ‘She’d never hurt him. No matter what she felt about the affair, all that really mattered to her was where her next fix was coming from. He was her source. No way would she jeopardise that.’

Shap nodded to Butchers and they returned to the pool table.

‘No Lisa?’ Janine said.

‘She knows we’re here,’ Richard’s tone was cool.

‘Make her feel welcome, did you?’ Janine said.

‘Look, it’s sorted,’ he said. ‘I spoke to her this afternoon. But until the case is cracked she doesn’t know exactly how much damage she’s done. She probably wants to see how it plays out.’ He shrugged.

Janine studied him. ‘You can come across as very harsh, you know?’

‘Harsh? Hah! Harsh? You’re calling me harsh? Is this a staff appraisal or what?’ His eyes were gleaming, was he teasing her or spoiling for an argument? It wasn’t how she would have managed the situation, coming down so heavily on Lisa. Lisa knew she’d made a mistake, a basic one and was obviously beating herself up about it. She would need to improve her performance, regain her reputation for being conscientious and reliable, which Janine believed her to be. But a cold shoulder from her line manager, exclusion from the inner circle of the team, was nothing less than petty. Janine wondered if there was anything else going on, other problems in Richard’s life that were causing him stress and making him more judgmental. Teamwork was crucial to their job, to the possibility of success, and Janine prided herself on commanding the respect and loyalty of her troops but it could easily be jeopardized if schisms started appearing. She didn’t feel now was the right time to go into it any more with Richard. She could only hope they got to solve the case because if Lisa’s mistake put it out of reach then everything could collapse.

Richard was still looking at her. Janine held her hands up, letting it go.

Butchers potted the winning ball, shouting, ‘Yes!’ and Shap groaned with disgust.

‘Doubles?’ Butchers said.

Richard signalled to Janine and then to himself.

Janine picked up a cue.

‘You break,’ Shap said.

Janine took a sip of her drink and chalked her cue. ‘If Norma Halliwell didn’t shoot her husband, then who the hell did?’ she said.

She lined up her sights and drew back the cue, hit the ball, breaking the triangle and potted a shot.

Janine waited until Tom had gone to bed to call Pete, Charlotte already down and Eleanor ensconced in her room. He actually picked up the phone. ‘Can you come round now, we need to sort this out?’

‘Bit tricky, I’m afraid, I’ve got Alfie.’ He sounded pressured, like he was the only person in the world who had ever had to deal with a small baby. But she wasn’t going to let him wriggle out of it.

‘He is portable, isn’t he?’ Janine said, ‘You’ve not super-glued him to his cot? I’m in the rest of the evening.’ She kept her tone frosty hoping he’d realise how pissed off she was and that he needed to face the music.

When Janine heard the door and went to answer it, Pete was there on his own. ‘Managed to get him down,’ Pete said.

‘Good.’

They went in the kitchen, the scene of so many discussions, traumas and celebrations, throughout their married life.

‘I need you to pull your weight with the kids. I end up making excuses for you. They don’t want to hear it. I know Alfie wasn’t exactly planned but it’s not fair on our kids if you don’t find a way of maintaining that contact. We knew it’d be a bit difficult when Alfie first arrived but he’s two months old now. You need to make time for them as well.

‘It’s not that easy—’

‘I don’t care, Pete. You promised me and you owe them. They don’t need you any less because they’re bigger.’

‘I know,’ he rubbed at his face. He looked shattered. Janine knew the feeling.

‘In some ways they need you more,’ she said, ‘Tom especially—’

‘Janine,’ he interrupted her, ‘Tina’s got post-natal depression.’ He looked at her, then away. Was he serious? She saw him swallow, the slump of his shoulders as he exhaled.

‘She can’t get out of bed half the time. She can’t even feed him. It’s all I can do to keep turning up for my shifts and look after her and the baby. We’re really struggling.’

‘Oh God, Pete.’ She stared at him for a moment, taking it in. ‘Has she seen a doctor?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘be a while till the medication kicks in.’ He sounded defeated. Janine had come across women suffering from the condition over the years, even one of them through work, a case of infanticide. Heart breaking. She could barely imagine the enormous strain of dealing with the illness alongside the demands of a new baby.

‘You should have told me,’ Janine said, ‘why didn’t you say anything sooner?’

He shrugged, ‘Hoped she’d improve.’ She felt sorry for him, a novel experience. She knew the baby had not been part of Pete’s game plan, as he put it. When he moved in with Tina he’d been hoping for a different life, unencumbered by kids and their demands. Now here he was starting out on parenthood all over again.

‘Right,’ Janine said, ‘I’ll explain to the kids. At least they won’t think you’ve traded them in for a younger model.’

He shot her a look.

‘You want a drink?’ Janine said.

He gave a wry smile. ‘I’d love a drink.’

They chatted over a glass of wine, Janine filling him in on Eleanor’s current mood and Charlotte’s antics. He promised that once things were on an even keel he’d be back on his regular visits.

‘You can always bring him here,’ Janine said, surprising herself, ‘bring him with you, if Tina’s OK to be left.’

‘That’s not a bad idea.’

‘I’m sure Tom would love to teach him the finer points of Call of Duty or whatever,’ Janine said.

Pete laughed.
              She felt a moment’s poignancy, missing this, the company, the shared humour though after four years she was used to dealing with the kids, with the house, on her own. And it seemed to be all she could fit in her life. No space for romance. There were times when it looked like Richard and she might rekindle the flame that had flared between them briefly at the start of their careers, but she’d stepped back from the brink, realising she would rather have the certainty of his friendship than a risky shot at being a couple. And Richard’s track record with women wasn’t particularly persuasive if she was honest, he liked pastures new. Best all round, she thought as she saw Pete out, single, celibate, shattered.