Читать книгу Bad Things - Michael Marshall - Страница 19

I turned on my stool so she could see my face when she came in. ‘Ellen?’

She didn't reply, didn't even look my way, but came straight over to the next stool. Then changed her mind, moved to a table in the centre of the room. I took a deep breath, went over and sat on the other side of it.

‘This isn't a good place,’ she said.

She didn't unbutton her coat. Her voice was as it had been on the phone, clipped and very precise. She was of medium build, with glossy blonde hair, brown eyes, and the kind of cheekbones and neat, symmetrical features that cosmetics companies like to use to promote their wares. Her own make-up was well applied, and either Black Ridge had a better hair salon than I would have credited or she had it cut elsewhere. She looked maybe thirty.

‘Seems pleasant enough,’ I said. ‘Didn't spot a Hilton anywhere in town, otherwise I would have—’

‘For me, I mean,’ she said, irritably.

‘So let's go somewhere else.’

She shook her head. ‘I don't have long.’

Just then Kristina arrived with my beer. ‘Getcha?’ she asked, with a brief smile. Ellen shook her head.

‘So let's start with that,’ I said, when we were alone again. ‘The I-can't-speak and I-haven't-got-long routine, and sitting away from the window in case a passer-by sees you. What's up with that? You were the one who got in contact with me, remember?’

Before she answered, she reached across the table and picked up my beer. Took a sip, and replaced it neatly on the bar mat. I found this annoying.

‘I'm in a difficult position,’ she said.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘My husband died four months ago,’ she continued, negating all the assumptions I'd just made.

‘I'm sorry to hear that.’

She smiled quickly, in the way you do when someone expresses a condolence that, while polite, is too generic to make any difference.

‘He was not an unwealthy man.’

‘Okay. So?’

‘He has family in the area.’

Each moment I spent in this woman's company made me less convinced she had anything of interest to tell me. But I realized she perhaps wasn't doling the information out this slowly for the sake of it, or at least not solely. Her hands were twisted together, the knuckles white. I took a swallow of my beer and put it down in the middle of the table. She noticed this but did not reach for it right away.

‘How “not unwealthy” was your husband, exactly?’

‘Eighteen million dollars,’ she said, matter-of-fact. ‘Not including the house. So it's not like he was Bill Gates. But we had a pre-nup anyway. No one's arguing with how the money was distributed, well, except that I got any at all, but that was Gerry's choice and there was nothing they could do about it, and we were married for four years.’

‘Where are you from?’ I asked.

She looked thrown. ‘Boston. Why?’

‘So how did you meet Mr Robertson?’

‘On vacation. What is it to you?’

‘I have no idea,’ I said. ‘Right now it doesn't seem like any of this bears relevance to me. So if the money's not the issue, then what is?’

‘I think I'm in danger.’

‘You said. You also brought up the death of my son, which made me fly a distance to be here. I'd like to believe I didn't waste a few hundred dollars and a lot of time. So far that isn't happening.’

‘Something happened,’ she said. ‘To Gerry.’

‘He died.’

‘Yes, he did,’ she said, as if I'd implied otherwise.

‘How did it happen?’

‘He'd been out for a run. He ran six miles every afternoon, starting around four o'clock. About twenty past five I thought, “That's strange, he's usually back by now”, and so I went out onto the porch and … there he was, in the chair he often sat in after he was done. But usually he'd call out, you know, say he was back. I thought “whatever” and was on my way back inside and then I thought it was strange that he hadn't said something, because he must have heard me come out. We'd had … we had a fight, earlier in the day. It was no big deal, but I wanted to make sure things were okay. So I went back to where he was sitting. He was drinking from a bottle of water. He looked hot, and, you know, puffed up, like he'd run further or faster than usual. But he turned and saw me coming, and he started to smile. Then …’

She held her hands up in the air in a gesture that reminded me of the one Ted had made, when trying to convey the degree of damage the restaurant had suffered. How much damage? Enough. Too much.

‘Heart attack?’

She nodded.

‘I'm sorry,’ I said.

I was. However irrelevant this woman's problems, there are those who have lost someone they care about, and those who have not. If you have, then you understand that the people who die drag us along for the ride, as if we are tied to the back of their hearse by a rope. Ask someone who has lost their mother how they feel about Thanksgiving. But one day you realize that you're still alive, and you pour someone else's gravy over your turkey and are thankful there's any at all. If you want to stay sane, anyhow.

‘Are you okay?’

I realized I'd been staring down at my hands, and glanced up to see Ellen looking at me. She seemed a little less tense than she had.

‘I'm fine. So …’

‘Not everyone believes that's what happened.’

‘Why?’

‘I don't know,’ she said. ‘I loved Gerry. We were happy.’

‘How much did you get?’

She looked annoyed at the question. ‘Two million dollars. Is that enough?’

I shrugged. Enough to kill someone for? Yes. But as people will whack each other over sneakers or an iPod, there's an argument that adding zeros doesn't constitute motivation. Money is neither a necessary or sufficient condition for murder, and two million dollars is not as much as it sounds.

‘Ellen,’ I said, firmly. My beer was almost done and so was I. ‘I came up here because—’

‘It's the house,’ she said.

‘The house?’ I said, confused. Part of my head was still processing having revisited my own property, and for a moment I thought that's what she was talking about. ‘Your house? What about it?’