The Wife Before Me(78)
‘By all means, call them.’ He speaks softly so that only she can hear him. ‘Then you can tell them what you were doing at Billy Tobin’s house on the day he died. Or have you informed them already that you were the last person to see him alive?’ He shakes his head and answers his own question. ‘No? How very remiss of you. I can accompany you to Kilfarran Garda Station, if you like. It must feel like a second home to you by now.’
‘I wasn’t―’
‘You weren’t there?’ His forehead furrows in mock-surprise. ‘I apologise if I’ve made a mistake. I could have sworn I saw you driving away from the scene of a murder. Practice makes perfect, don’t you agree? And this time you succeeded. The only reason I’m alive is that you failed to find my heart.’
‘That’s because you don’t have one.’
‘Answering back now, I see. Found you had a backbone after all. Congratulations.’
‘Don’t you dare threaten me.’ Some of the drivers are clearly delaying their departure to witness this encounter and she, like Nicholas, speaks softly. ‘I wasn’t with Billy and you can’t prove otherwise.’
‘I certainly can. I photographed this car outside Billy’s house, so don’t waste my time denying you were there. I also have a video of you driving away – very erratically, I should add.’ He removes his phone from his pocket and holds it towards her. ‘Would you like a preview?’
‘If you have the proof, why haven’t you already reported me?’ She averts her eyes from the phone. He will not see her tremble, though she feels as if she is gripped by a fever. ‘You’ve done your utmost to separate me from my children. This gives you the perfect excuse.’
‘I’m a protective father. Do you blame me for worrying about their safety?’
Before she can step aside, he takes her in his arms. She gasps as she is crushed against him, his grip iron-like, his fists digging into her back.
‘You’ve been talking to a lot of people lately,’ he murmurs into her ear. ‘First Billy and now that poofter at the cemetery.’
It takes an instant before she realises he is referring to Mark.
‘Let me go.’ She struggles to break free, aware that they are still being watched by the onlookers. A teenager standing nearby raises his phone. A video for Facebook or Instagram; it will be uploaded within minutes.
‘All in good time, Elena.’ He is speaking faster now. ‘Billy Tobin was a demented old fool. I want to know why you were at his house.’
‘I wasn’t anywhere near his house.’
‘You’ve a big mouth on you, bitch,’ he whispers as he releases her. ‘Tell me the truth or I’m going straight to the police. You do know what that means? You’ll be placed on remand straight away but don’t think you’ll be cossetted in an asylum.’
‘This is the only truth you’ll get.’ To draw her hand back and slap his face is the wrong thing to do. Uncaring, Elena glories in the warm sting of satisfaction against her palm. She is aware of the effort it takes Nicolas not to retaliate. And something else, almost imagined, yet she sees it in the flicker of his eyelids. Why is he fearful when he has the upper hand, has always had it?
‘Showing your true colours, Elena.’ He holds his fingers to his cheek, then turns and walks away.
She gets into the car, her hands sweating as she holds on to the steering wheel. A video of an orange Citro?n leaving the scene of a crime. This time, she will stand trial for murder. Why should anyone believe her innocence?
She returns to Rosemary’s house and showers that feel of him from her skin. Cycling to work, she takes deep breaths, inhaling, exhaling, determined to be composed when she sees Rosemary, whose questions about Elena’s free time have become more probing.
* * *
She has gone viral. The Ice Pick Stabber strikes again. Her face twisted with hatred as she smacks his face. Nicholas looks stricken, wounded, forgiving. Elena reads the comments on social media and is sickened by the vitriol. No sense searching for comfort in the world of virtual reality where there is only room for opinion.
Forty-Three
She works late to make up for the time she lost at Billy’s funeral. No interruptions from couriers, no coffee breaks, no phones ringing. Climbing the stairs to Rosemary’s office, she leaves a stack of documents on the solicitor’s desk to be signed next morning. This house was once a grand Georgian residence and then a slum. Children sleeping four or five to a bed, a communal toilet that left the stench of poverty on their skin. Now, it is a business premises and, in the quietness of the hour, she hears a sound drawn from the old stone and wonders if the ghosts of those who once walked those stairs are stirring.
Back at her own desk, she finishes an email to Tara and sends it off. Her friend has flown from London twice to see her and emails her every day, as does Steve. Killian and Susie have invited her to stay on their farm until the date of the trial but going away is impossible; still, it helps to know they are concerned for her. She checks the time on her phone and is surprised to discover it’s after ten o’clock. She will turn off the computer and return to Rosemary’s house. Searching Facebook again is a destructive act but she is tormented by a voyeuristic curiosity about herself. The Ice Pick Stabber. The name will haunt her always. Decisively, she shuts down the computer and switches off the gas fire.