Black Widow

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Since his award-winning debut novel Quite Ugly One Morning, Chris Brookmyre has established himself as one of Britain’s leading crime novelists. His Jack Parlabane novels have sold more than one million copies in the UK alone.

  Also by Christopher Brookmyre

  Quite Ugly One Morning

  Country of the Blind

  Not the End of the World

  One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night

  Boiling a Frog

  A Big Boy Did It and Ran Away

  The Sacred Art of Stealing

  Be My Enemy

  All Fun and Games until Somebody Loses an Eye

  A Tale Etched in Blood and Hard Black Pencil

  Attack of the Unsinkable Rubber Ducks

  A Snowball in Hell

  Pandaemonium

  Where the Bodies are Buried

  When the Devil Drives

  Bedlam

  Flesh Wounds

  Dead Girl Walking

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Little, Brown

  ISBN: 9781408707166

  Copyright © Christopher Brookmyre 2016

  The right of Christopher Brookmyre to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Little, Brown

  An imprint of Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Christopher Brookmyre

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One

  Voices off

  Her Day in Court (I)

  Role Models

  The Caring Profession

  Compassion Fatigue

  Mightier than the Scalpel

  Local Knowledge

  A Woman Scorned

  A Time to Cry

  Terra Incognita

  Black Water

  Easy Kills

  Wasted

  Kiss with a Spell

  Accidents and Aftermaths

  Back to the Future

  Different Selves

  Professional Demeanour

  Sibling Rivalry

  Whiff of Suspicion

  The Question

  Full Disclosure

  Part Two

  Storm Chaser

  Tale of the Tape

  Old Friends and New Lies

  Wives and Partners

  Man Talk

  Firewall

  The Height of Suspicion

  Mute

  The Road to Paranoia

  Target Acquired

  Ticket to Ride

  NSFW

  Contaminated Source

  Access Privileges

  Camouflage

  Gladiators

  The Preferred Outcome

  The Other Woman

  Returned Item

  Patient History

  Out of the Loop

  Self-Control

  The Fragile and the Damaged

  A Bested Rival

  Sharpest Edge, Finest Line

  Wannabes

  A Perfect Married Couple

  Driven by Instinct

  Sleeping with Strangers

  A Lethal Instrument

  Voices and Echoes

  Carpet Burns

  File Sharing

  Beginning of the End

  Wounded

  The New You

  Payback

  The Final Betrayal

  The Fatal Blow

  Part Three

  Fears and Confessions

  One Strike Policy

  Cornered Prey

  Aftershocks

  The Addressee

  Mating Porcupines

  The Departed

  Greater Crimes

  Springing the Trap

  Lockdown

  Illumination

  The Player

  Death Benefits

  The Silent Partner

  Exile

  Game Theory

  A Better Life

  Undone

  A Family Affair

  The Violent Kind

  Morning Sickness

  Her Day in Court (II)

  For Marisa

  PART ONE

  VOICES OFF

  There was a low background hiss as the courtroom awaited the playback, the volume on the speakers jacked up so much that Parlabane was bracing himself, expecting the soundfile to be booming and distorted. Instead it was surprisingly clear, particularly at the police end. He could hear the dispatcher’s fag-ravaged breathing during pauses, the rattle of a keyboard in the background.

  Nobody knows where to look when they’re listening to a recording. Parlabane glanced around to see how people were responding. Most were looking at the floor, the walls or any fixed point that didn’t have a face on it. Others were more pruriently taking the opportunity to look at the accused.

  Diana Jager had her gaze locked, staring into a future only she could see.

  The jury mostly had their heads bowed, like they were in church, or as though they were afraid they’d get into trouble with the judge if they were caught paying less than maximum attention. They were filtering out distraction, concentrating only on the words booming out around the court, anxious not to miss a crucial detail.

  They couldn’t know it yet, but they were listening out for the wrong thing.

  ‘I think I’ve just seen an accident.’

  ‘Are you injured, madam?’

  ‘No. But I think a car might have gone off the road.’

  ‘Can you tell me your name, madam?’

  ‘Yes, it’s Sheena. Sheena Matheson. Missus.’

  ‘And are you in your own vehicle now? Is it off the carriageway?’

  ‘No. Yes. I mean, I’m out of my car. It’s parked. I’m trying to see where he went.’

  ‘Where are you, Mrs Matheson?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Maybe a couple of miles west of Ordskirk. I’m on the Kingsburgh Road.’

  ‘And can you describe what happened? Is someone injured?’

  ‘I don’t know. This car was coming around the bend towards me as I approached it. It was going way too fast. I think it was a BMW. It swerved on to my side of the road because of the curve, then swerved back again when I thought it was going to hit me. I jumped on the brakes because I got such a fright, and I looked in my rear-view. It swerved again like he was trying to get it back under control, but then it disappeared. I think it went off the road altogether.’

  ‘The Kingsburgh Road, you said?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m going to see if I can get some officers out there as soon as possible. You’ve parked your car, that’s good. If you can wait beside it but not in it…’

  ‘No, that’s the thing. I can’t stay here. I’ve a ten-year-old at home alone. She woke up with a temperature and we had run out of Calpol. I told her I’d nip out to the garage for some. I said I’d only be away half an hour. My husband’s on nights.’

  ‘Okay. Can you give me
a wee bit more detail about where you are, then?’

  ‘Sure, but I need to warn you: the battery’s almost dead on this thing.’

  ‘Tell us whatever you can. Anything you might have passed that our drivers could look out for.’

  ‘There’s a signpost right here. It says Uidh Dubh viewpoint and picnic area half a mile. The car disappeared just past the sign. I’m crossing the road now, in case I can see anything over the other side.’

  ‘Please be careful, Mrs Matheson.’

  ‘There are skid marks on the tarmac. I think I can see tyre tracks on the grass. It slopes away after that, and it’s too dark to see down the slope.’

  ‘No. Stay back from the edge. Our officers will look into it.’

  ‘I can’t see any lights. I’m worried it might have gone into the river.’

  HER DAY IN COURT (I)

  My trial has barely begun, and no testimony heard, but already I know that in the eyes of this court, I am an abomination.

  As I gaze from the dock and take in all the faces gazing back, I think of the opinions they have formed, the hateful things they have written and said. I think of how once it stung, but my skin has grown thicker over time, and I have worse things to endure now than mere words.

  They have to be respectful in their conduct within these walls: no shouting and barracking like when the van with its blacked-out windows pulled up outside the prisoners’ entrance, a desperate photographer extending a hopeful arm and firing blind with a flash gun as he pressed himself perilously close against the moving steel.

  One of these days the vehicle is going to run over one of those reckless idiots’ feet: several tons of G4S hardware degloving the flesh from crushed and shattered bones as it rolls across his instep, all in the service of striving for, at best, a blurry low-contrast image of some scared and wretched prisoner cowering inside. It would be a valuable illustration of the risk-benefit equation pour encourager les autres.

  To them, I am someone who ought to have been grateful for all that life apparently gifted me, not asked for more. I should have settled for what I was dealt, as it was generous enough in other people’s estimation. The actions I took in pursuit of my desires, to better my lot and to extricate myself from an intolerable situation, these were unforgivable, depraved.

  Society’s judgement is always harsher upon a woman who has done grave deeds to get what she wants: a woman who has challenged their values, violated the accepted order of things. It’s a crime against society, a transgression of unwritten rules that are far more precious than those inscribed in law.

  With this thought I glance across the room, and to my surprise feel a sorority even with the woman I came to regard as my enemy: the woman who laid me low, brought my deeds to light. In our own ways we both acted for the purest of reasons. Her I respect. Everyone else is merely white noise to me now.

  I do not expect anyone’s sympathy. I do not seek forgiveness from people who have never been tested like I was. I may be guilty, and I may be sentenced, but I will not be condemned: not by those who cannot understand. Nobody here can judge me until they know the whole truth.

  Until then, their opinions are no more than impotent angry words, and my, haven’t those been in spate since this business first came to light. Just think how they were exercised by the revelation that this bitch murdered her husband.

  The tone was one of boiling anger, and at the heart of it all was one single rhetorical question:

  How dare she.

  How dare she.

  There’s a thought: nobody ever asks ‘How dare he?’ when a man kills his wife. The coverage is coloured by sombre tones, its language muted and respectful. It’s like they’re reporting on a death from disease or calamitous mishap. ‘It’s dreadful, but it happens. Poor thing. So tragic,’ it seems to say.

  And like disease or disaster, the follow-up is about asking whether more could have been done. What signs were missed? What can we learn?

  By contrast there’s a conspicuous shortage of victim-blaming when it’s a husband who lies slain.

  ‘Why didn’t he leave her? He must have known what she might be capable of. There must have been indications that she was dangerous. I’m not condoning it, but surely he was aware of her triggers. There’s no excusing what she did, but it wouldn’t have happened unless he did something to provoke her.’

  Said nobody ever.

  See, that’s what chills them. They can just about handle a crime of passion, a moment of madness. But a clever, calculating woman who can plan something elaborate and deceitful is a far more galling prospect.

  I glance at the reporters in the gallery, poised to take their notes. I think about what it looked like from their perspective.

  They saw a woman who found love when she was beginning to think it was too late. She had given the best of herself to her career, and had come to sorely doubt whether it was worth the price she paid. But then out of nowhere she met her Mr Right, and suddenly everything seemed possible. Suddenly she got to have it all. A whirlwind romance, two ostensibly mismatched but surprisingly complementary personalities who found each other at just the right time: it was the stuff of rom-coms and chick-lit.

  So much good fortune came her way, so much goodwill, and after that, so much sympathy. The rom-com turned out to be a weepy. The singleton surgeon who found love late was left heartbroken after her husband of only six months lost his life when his car shot off the road and plunged into a freezing river.

  Let me tell you, once they’ve doled out tragedy points, you’d really better conform to their expectations, because the widow pedestal is a high one to fall from. She denied them first a happy ever after and then a poignant end to a tale of doomed romance. She desecrated their church, and so she had to face their judgement.

  What else would they see? What else could they see?

  Only one person looked closer, and he was my undoing. I know I’m not the first person to curse the day I heard the name Jack Parlabane, and I sincerely doubt I’ll be the last. In my case I don’t simply regret what he did to me. I regret what I did to him too. I know that in the eyes of this court, I am an abomination, but I am not the monster I will be painted.

  I regard the police officers standing next to me. There are no cuffs on my wrists but I can still feel the cold steel like I can still feel the sting of humiliation that comes with wearing them. It clings to me every second I remain in the dock. There is a burning coal of moral opprobrium in the black pupil of every eye focused on me.

  As the trial proceeds, the court will hear how a driven woman acted out of the oldest and sincerest of motives: to be with the man she was destined for. My crime and my actions will seem cold and heinous to everyone else because they can never know what I felt.

  I think of all the anger and hate I have gone through since my arrest. It has taken time, but I have come to realise I must make my peace with what I have done. I need to take ownership of it. I need to forgive myself, because nobody else’s forgiveness matters.

  In the end, regardless of how my actions are judged, I know that this is about love.

  ROLE MODELS

  A handsome, loving husband and a minimum of two apple-cheeked children of your own: that’s what you’re supposed to want first and foremost in life, isn’t it? That’s the paradigm you’re offered as a little girl, the playtime template that’s intended to shape your aspirations for future happiness.

  Sometimes the paradigm doesn’t take, however. Sometimes the template is damaged. Such was the case for me, Diana Jager.

  I had a doll’s house when I was a child. I think it came from a relative, because it was old and wooden and hand-painted; nothing like the mass-produced moulded-plastic ones I saw in the big thick mail-order catalogue with its treasured and much-thumbed toy pages at the back. It had ivy picked out in oil on the outside, climbing the walls to the steeply pitched roof. It didn’t look like any house in my neighbourhood but seemed to belong to an older, grander world, one that belonge
d in my parents’ past rather than my own future. The front swung open on hinges, revealing three storeys of also hand-painted rooms. It didn’t come with furniture, but my parents bought me a set intended for one of the aforementioned plastic affairs. It always looked wrong.

  That wasn’t the real problem, though. There was a scale mismatch. None of my dolls would fit inside it: they were all too big. Not that a better size compatibility would have made it ideal for playing happy families, because here’s the thing: who was going to be the husband? All the dolls I owned were girls or babies, and all the dolls I ever saw in my friends’ bedrooms, notably the ones that matched those modern plastic houses, were girls or babies.

  This reflected the reality of my home. It was Mummy and the babies who were round the house most of the time. Daddy was out having a career, and what little girl needs a doll to represent that?

  My doll’s house was never a home. Why would I want a toy version of a home? I already had a full-size one. I didn’t get the mini-figure set that went with the plastic furniture: didn’t ask for it. Instead I asked for a hospital playset, so that’s what my doll’s house became, most of the time. Sometimes it was a school, sometimes it was a museum, but mainly it was a hospital. My playset comprised ten figurines: two of them were doctors, six of them were nurses and two of them were patients.

  Both of the doctors were men. All of the nurses were women.

  I tried making a little green tabard out of crepe paper to drape over one of the nurses so that she could be a doctor too: a surgeon like my father. It looked rubbish and it kept tearing and crumpling, so eventually I gave up and made the female patient the surgeon, and put both of the male doctors in beds.

  I remember one day asking my mother why women couldn’t be doctors too. I must have been about six. That was when she told me that she was a doctor.

  Let me warn you now that this was not the inspirational epiphany you might be anticipating.

  My parents met at university, where they were both studying medicine. Early in their final year, they decided to get married, arranging to have the ceremony a couple of weeks before graduation. Sounds quite romantic, you might think: tying the knot before striking out together on this path they had both aspired towards, the shared ambitions they had studied so hard to realise. But here’s the thing: somewhere along the path of that final year, they decided that my father would pursue his medical career, and my mother would be a housewife.