21

Paula barely made it back into the house before her strength gave out.

Going up to the bedroom was beyond her so she aimed for the sofa in the living room and curled up there. She had a stray thought that she should eat. This tiredness surely indicated her body needed fuel, didn’t it? But that would mean having to go through to the kitchen, raking through the freezer and making a decision about what she should prepare. Such effort was beyond her. As was raising the energy to chew, to swallow.

Then she recalled she had episodes just like this after Christopher died; of feeling that she was walking on the bare bones of her heels, that her knees weren’t solid enough to hold her, her mind struggling to compute everything around her.

So Cara’s brother was responsible for Christopher’s death? But did she really believe her? Why would the woman make something like that up? She must be aware how earth-shattering it would be for a mother. No, she clearly had an agenda against Thomas. Paula returned to her original theory that they had had an affair and this was Cara’s twisted way of getting back at him. So outlandish were Cara’s claims, an affair seemed preferable.

Or was the woman telling the truth?

It was too much. Too much to process. Too much to believe. She was just a middle-aged, middle-class housewife from the suburbs. Things like this didn’t happen to people like her. They happened to people in movies and books.

Everywhere ached. Everywhere.

Maybe she had the flu.

How long she lay there she had no idea. Daylight weakened, the streetlights on the pavement outside lit her room in amber hues. It made the room around her look cold. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself in a vain attempt to generate some heat. So cold. And somewhere … she lost track of her thought and closed her eyes because the illumination was making her head ache. But still the light made it through the paper of her eyelids, prodding hard fingers of muted colour into her brain.

Curtains. She should close them. She should pull them shut, but that required actually moving. And finding the energy to do that from somewhere was…

Thomas. She imagined him lying on the floor just below where she lay on the sofa. His shirt pulled open to show skin shining from the electric light. A shirt that had been opened to allow the medics to work on him.

She opened her mouth, fighting to breathe. Her need for oxygen was such that she was forced to sit up. A painful sob escaped, scouring her lungs and the soft tissue of her throat as it passed. Then she was taken over by grief so hard, so solid, she was surprised it didn’t sound like a siren as it forced her head backwards. She heaved air in and out of her lungs, filling her ears with the sounds of her own panic and loss. And guilt.

She should have been there with him. At the restaurant when he keeled over. In the ambulance when they tried to resuscitate him. At his side when they pronounced him dead.

‘Call yourself a wife,’ she sobbed, and wiped the saliva and mucus from her face with the back of her hand.

Aware of a pressure at her back, she reached round and felt the soft give of a fake fur blanket. She got a hold of it, lay back down and pulled it over her head to shut out the light.

Maybe someone would find her there in six months or a year, and they’d have another funeral. Poor Paula, they’d say, she just wasted to nothing. Because what was the point of anything now? No Christopher. No Thomas.

She slid over to the edge of the sofa and allowed herself to slip off, to fall onto the spot where she had just imagined Thomas had laid while waiting for a paramedic to save his life. She stroked the rug, trying to imagine that the fibres were the hairs on his chest. This action became a frantic tug.

Why aren’t you here, Thomas? Why did you go first? It should have been me.

It should have been me.

She woke to the sound of the bin men in the lane behind her garden. To her sleep-drunk mind it sounded like their footsteps were coming from inside the house. She sat up in a panic and realised she was in bed. How did she get there? Hadn’t she been on the sofa downstairs?

The noise continued and she thought: Kevin again. How had he got in? It was only when her brain registered the rumble of the plastic wheels that she realised what she was hearing.

She slumped back onto her pillows and forced open her eyes. They felt so heavy it was an effort to hold them open for more than a couple of seconds. Turning on her side, she brought her knees up to her chest. There. There was nothing more to do than to just lie here and pray for the annihilation of sleep.

But sleep resisted her this time.

She sat up. Rubbed at her forehead and slipped her legs over the side of the bed. Best get up, she thought, and then fell back from her sitting position to lie across her bed.

Get up for what? The day yawned ahead of her. Nothing in her diary. No purpose. And the constant ache of missing Thomas. The lovely, beautiful, big bastard.

Purpose. That’s what she needed. Something to occupy her mind.

And her thoughts turned to the matter of the string of bank accounts with, quite possibly, a huge amount of money in each of them.

Coffee. Perhaps that would help her focus on this new mystery Thomas had left behind him.

His dressing gown was hanging from a hook on the back of the bedroom door. She put it on, enjoying the warmth of it, the plush pile of it against her neck. She sniffed at the collar and found a faint note of his aftershave. She fastened the belt around her waist. There was enough fabric to go around her twice.

Down in the kitchen she made straight for the coffee machine and turned it on. Normally, she liked silence when she was in the kitchen, but today she turned on the small TV in the corner. Perhaps a voice from outside her bubble would help. The machine was a little indulgence for Thomas. When he was cooking – which was a once-a-month event – he liked to chop his vegetables with the sound of the TV for company. Thinking that perhaps watching the news would be a good idea, Paula clicked onto the news channel.

There was a serious-faced woman on screen, and a scrolling headline underneath her. Something about a murder in Glasgow. Paula cringed. That was not what she wanted to hear about. Then someone was talking about a money-laundering scheme involving shell companies that officials from a foreign country had used to steal money from their own government. There was something she couldn’t quite follow about the Scottish financial system making this possible. Just another excuse for the London media to have a go at the Scottish Government, thought Paula. Then they moved on to a bombing in the Middle East, showing a grief-stricken mother holding a dead little girl, her limp body covered in grit and dust.

With a shudder she turned it off. She was barely holding it together. Why compound her troubles by watching endless misery from another part of the world?

As she waited for her drink to brew she located her mobile phone and looked to see if she had any messages.

There was an email from one of the charities she worked with, reminding her about an imminent AGM, a whole bunch of spam emails, and one from a travel company suggesting that she and her husband would enjoy a trip to Venice or Rome or Paris.

She lingered over that one for more than was healthy, before deleting it. They’d never do that again. Go on holiday. And Venice was one of those places they’d never got round to. And now…

She put the phone down as if it was hot.

She needed something to keep her busy, she told herself. Distractions would help and it came to her that there was a mountain of paperwork she had to complete. The business of grief was a paperchain, or so it seemed. Bank accounts, the deeds on the house, companies who billed them to be informed to remove Thomas from the account. And so much other stuff. The death certificate. She quailed at the thought. She leaned forwards on the blue-marble work surface, rested her forehead on a cradle she formed with the palms of both hands. Tired. She was once again so tired.

Thankfully, their finances weren’t too complicated. She and Thomas had a joint will. The survivor was to get everything, and if they both died at the same time Father Joe was to put everything into a charitable foundation. As far as she knew the house was worth about half a million. And there was at least the same again in bank accounts and then whatever the business was worth.

Although now Paula wasn’t sure she wanted anything to do with the business. Judging by the state of Kevin, there was something horribly wrong there.

A text pinged through. It was from Joe:

Have you seen the news?

‘The news?’ she asked out loud. Why was he asking about the news? And, anyway, shouldn’t Joe be apologising for leaving her on her own? Then it came to her that he already had. And that was enough.

She sighed at last and pressed reply, considering what response she should send, when there was a knock at the door.

She should move to the cottage in Bute, she thought, then everyone would leave her alone. But then a series of images presented in her mind: the man on the ferry, standing in the doorway, sitting in the living room. Was he really who he said he was? Would she feel safe if she was in his company there? Alone. The cottage was fairly remote on that corner of the beach. Few people ventured that far round the bay.

The knock at the door came again. A solid rap, like a pronouncement.

With a sigh, she located the pocket of the dressing gown, dropped the phone inside and walked down the hall to the front door.

She opened it to see two people: a woman and a man, both wearing dark suits and looking incredibly official.

‘Mrs Paula Gadd?’ The woman said. She was pretty in a kind of stern way.

‘Yes,’ Paula said, automatically crossing her arms in front of herself.

‘My name is DS Alessandra Rossi. This is DC Daryl Drain.’ She held a card up, just long enough for Paula to see that it had a police logo on it.

Paula was instantly taken back to that moment when the police came to her door to tell her about Christopher. Then the day they came to tell her about Thomas.

Her eyes refocussed on the two people in front of her. It couldn’t be Joe who was dead – because it had to be about a death, hadn’t it? That was the only reason the police ever came to her door.

She felt her legs weaken and held onto the frame of the door.

‘May we come in, Mrs Gadd?’ asked the woman. Rossi? Was that what she said her name was?

‘Sure. Sure…’ Paula stood where she was as her mind continued to try to work out why they were here. Who else was there in her life that could be dead? Bill?

‘Mrs Gadd?’ The woman stepped forwards.

‘Aye, sorry, yes,’ said Paula. ‘Please, come in…’ She stepped to the side and let them both enter. ‘The coffee is on. Would you like one…’ she gave them a practised smile, aware as she did so that her cheeks ached.

‘Are you OK, Mrs Gadd?’ asked the man – DC Drain.

‘Sorry.’ Paula held a hand to her heart. ‘I don’t think I can take any more bad news. It’s bad news, isn’t it?’

‘Is there somewhere we can sit?’ asked Rossi.

‘Yes, sorry to keep you out…’ Paula rallied a little. ‘The kitchen.’ She turned and walked back down the corridor.

She took a seat on the stool at her kitchen island, placed her hands round her mug to stop them shaking and faced the police officers. Waited.

‘You know Kevin Farrell and Elaine Teenan?’

‘Yes, of course. Kevin is my husband’s business partner and Elaine is their secretary. Why do you ask?’ Paula found herself blinking.

There was a long pause. Then Rossi spoke: ‘They were found in the early hours of this morning – in his car. I’m afraid to say both of them are dead.’

‘Oh, dear God,’ said Paula. For a second she thought she might slip off the stool.

Then she became aware that her mouth was hanging open. She closed it. ‘Poor Elaine,’ she murmured, holding a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh my God.’

She looked down at the countertop for a moment and then raised her head, blushing, aware of the scrutiny of both the officers.

‘And Kevin…’ And then it hit her: he was terrified the previous night. An image of him popped into her mind; he was running his fingers through his hair. The skin tight on his face. Veins bulging. He had looked desperate. And what was it he had said – something about them – about she and him being ‘fucked’.

What the hell had he and Thomas been up to?

‘How…’ Her throat was dry. ‘How did they die?’ asked Paula.

‘We can’t say at this point in the investigation,’ said Rossi.

‘My … my husband only recently died,’ she said. And then stopped herself. But why – why shouldn’t she just tell them everything? What did she have to hide? Within her though, there was some kind of deep reluctance. And she thought of the codes in the notebook.

‘Yes, we know about your husband,’ said Drain.

‘Bit of a coincidence,’ said Rossi.

Paula was pulled out of her thoughts. There was an accusation in that comment.

‘If you knew my husband had died, you also knew he died of a heart attack,’ she said. ‘So I don’t see what the coincidence is.’

‘Just … two prominent businessmen – business partners – dying so closely together, it makes you wonder.’ The way Drain said the word ‘partner’ made Paula think they were angling at something.

Paula shifted so that she was on the edge of the stool. ‘Do you think Thomas’s death wasn’t caused by a heart attack?’

‘We’re not implying anything, Mrs Gadd,’ said the woman as she shot her partner a look. Then the woman’s eyes softened a little. Paula wondered what she saw. A small woman in a giant towelling dressing gown that must have belonged to her dead husband. Dark circles under her eyes. Hair limp and tangled from sleep.

Paula sat upright in her seat. Squared her shoulders. She would not accept anyone’s pity.

‘What can you tell me about how they died – Kevin and Elaine?’ Paula asked.

‘I’m afraid we can’t tell you anything at the moment,’ Drain said.

‘But the news is going with a lovers’ suicide pact,’ Rossi added.

Paula laughed. It was involuntary. The sound shot out of her mouth before she could stop it.

Both officers were looking at her with a question in their eyes.

‘I’m sorry. It’s just, no way was Elaine Teenan having an affair with Kevin Farrell. She had far more respect for herself than that.’

‘How well did you know them?’ Rossi asked.

‘I’ve known Kevin for years. He went to school with Thomas. Thomas was very much the public face of the company. Kevin was in the background. And I’m afraid … well, it’s just my opinion, but I’ve always thought he was a bit of a fool…’

Rossi raised an eyebrow and exchanged another look with her colleague. ‘Did you ever socialise with him? Do you know much about his private life?’ she asked.

‘No. Definitely not. Thomas knew I … let’s just say I didn’t like Kevin. I made it clear that I had no interest in spending any more time with him than was necessary.’

‘What can you tell us about Elaine Teenan?’ Drain asked after a moment.

‘Not much really. I mean, I’ve known her all these years but I’ve actually no idea if she was married and even if she has kids.’ Paula felt her face heat. ‘But she was a good sort, from what I could see. Smart. One of those women who make themselves indispensable. But, as I say, if she was having an affair with Kevin I’d be amazed.’

She paused. They seemed to be waiting for more.

‘Where are the news getting the suicide pact idea?’ she asked at last.

‘Information already in the public domain is that Farrell cut Ms Teenan’s throat and then turned the knife on himself.’

Rossi suddenly looked tired.

Drain chewed his lip and looked out of the window.

‘Somehow the press got hold of that fact that…’ Rossi stopped to look at Drain as if looking for someone to blame ‘…Farrell drew a love heart on the inside of the windscreen using Ms Teenan’s blood.’