Mrs Paton’s eyebrows knotted as she sank deeper into a pit of uncertainty.
‘I don’t see how I can. I’m… Well, yes. If I can.’
Something niggled inside Narey and she wondered if Irene Paton really did know things about her husband he didn’t know himself, did he have giveaway ‘tells’ that only a top poker player or a wife would recognise?
‘How long have you thought there was something he wasn’t telling you?’
More tears. This time they escaped and ran in thick streams down the woman’s face.
‘Since I met him. I didn’t know it at the time, maybe I convinced myself it wasn’t true, but it was always there. I loved Laurence so I looked beyond it. But “it”, whatever it was, was always there.’
‘What do you mean?’ Narey coaxed.
‘He’d go quiet, disappear off into himself for no apparent reason and then just as suddenly come out of it. He didn’t sleep well either. He was always having these terrible dreams. Nightmares, I suppose.’
Narey tensed. ‘Did he tell you what the nightmares were about?’
Irene shook her head.
‘He never said. He told me he never remembered them.’
‘Did you believe him?’
‘No. He’d wake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Anyway, he would speak while he was sleeping, while he was dreaming. So I knew what he was dreaming about even if he didn’t.’
‘Will you tell me what it was?’ Narey asked her, desperately trying to keep the excitement out of her voice.
Paton nodded sombrely, gathering herself together before answering.
‘It was always the same dream. He would shiver in his sleep as if he were cold, rubbing his hands over his arms to warm them. Sometimes he would say how cold he was, or how he was worried about the ice. It was always about ice. Except…’
The woman’s voice faltered.
‘What else did he say?’ Narey prompted her.
‘Sometimes he’d say, “I can’t leave her.” I assumed he meant me. That he couldn’t leave me for this other person.’
Narey hesitated, reluctant to ask the question she most wanted an answer to in case the answer was no. She took a deep breath and asked it anyway.
‘Did your husband ever mention a name when he talked in his sleep?’
Irene’s gaze fell to the table.
‘Yes.’
Narey’s heart thundered against her chest.
‘Barbie — like the doll. He would sometimes, no… lots of times, he’d mention someone called Barbie.’
‘Did he ever use Barbie’s surname?’
‘No, never. He would say Barbie and then say, “No, no, no.” Sometimes he’d say, “I mustn’t. I mustn’t.” I’d lie there and watch him, wondering what it was all about. Wondering who Barbie was and if he’d ever tell me.’
‘And you never confronted him about it? Asked him who she was?’
Her eyes closed and she swayed slightly from side to side.
‘No. Never. I suppose I was afraid to hear the answer. Do you know? Do you know who Barbie was?’
‘Perhaps. I think she was someone from your husband’s past — from before he met you,’ Narey told her, not quite lying but not quite telling the truth.
‘Only from his past? Not from his present?’ Irene asked her doubtfully but with a glimmer of hope.
‘No, very much from his past,’ Narey replied. ‘I really don’t think he was having an affair.’
The woman sat back in her chair and breathed out hard, looking almost set to collapse with relief.
‘Thank you, Sergeant. And I’m sorry I thought… well, you know. I hope I’m not in trouble for following you.’
‘That’s okay, Mrs Paton. You’ve been through a lot. And no, you’re not in trouble. Tell me, though, your neighbour, Mrs Haskell, did she actually see your husband fall from the ladder?’
‘Well, yes, she told the police she saw him fall.’
‘And she was there quickly after he fell?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mrs Haskell is the kind who likes to know everyone’s business, I’m guessing. The first with the gossip, maybe keen to be the centre of attention?’
Irene Paton smiled for the first time and made to get up from the table. ‘I think you just described her to a tee, Sergeant.’
As she stood, a thought occurred to her and she suddenly stopped.
‘Sergeant, there was something else. I heard Laurence on the phone, not long before he died. I think he thought I was in the garden and couldn’t hear him but I did. I don’t know who he was speaking to but he was saying it was all his fault. It confused me because he said it was his fault but it wasn’t him who’d done it. Does that make any sense?’
CHAPTER 37
The heating in the SPSA office in Pitt Street wasn’t up to the job of keeping the cold at bay and Winter had decamped to the canteen for some heat and crap coffee served in a plastic cup. He’d been cornered at the drinks machine by a couple of uniforms, Jim Boyle and Sandy Murray, and the three of them had inevitably got into an argument about football.
Boyle was a Celtic supporter like Winter but Murray was a Rangers fan and took delight in winding the other two up at any opportunity. Sometimes the arguments came dangerously close to getting out of hand and they’d make a point of avoiding each other immediately before or after a derby match, all knowing there might be no going back if something was said that crossed the line.
‘What a surprise for you lot to get a penalty,’ Murray was saying now. ‘It’s in the rules that you get one at least every second game, isn’t it?’
‘It was a stonewaller,’ Boyle countered. ‘But given that the ref was, by definition, a Mason, then I suppose we were still lucky to get it. And you’ve got a cheek talking about us getting penalties. Your manky mob does more diving than a fleet of submarines.’
‘Ah, here we go. The old paranoia again. It’s all the Masons’ fault, eh?’
‘You’ve been cheating us for a hundred years,’ Boyle bit back. ‘Sitting around in the Lodge with your goats and your trouser legs rolled up, finding ways to keep the uppity Fenians down. Just because we’re better looking than your lot. It’s just jealousy.’
‘Aye, that’s right. We’re all out to get you. We arra people.’
‘What does that actually mean, anyway?’
Murray’s answer was cut off by the Airwave on his lapel rumbling into life. The constable pressed the response button and a voice from the control room boomed into the canteen.
‘Murray?
‘Yes, Sarge.’
‘Get yourself and Boyle over to The Rock on Hyndland Road. And no, before you ask, it’s not an invite for a pint. Some halfwit’s taken a tumble down the stairs by the side of the pub and you need to get over there before some other eejit does the same. The guy that fell is in intensive care so see if the local punters know him. His name is Deans. Gregory Deans.’
As soon as he heard the name, Winter was halfway out of his chair. Danny had been right as usuaclass="underline" never trust anything that looks like a coincidence.
Greg Deans. There was no way this wasn’t to do with the Lake killing. He texted Rachel so that she had the chance to elbow her way onto the case too. Now he was ready to jump over anyone in the SPSA to make sure he got to take the photographs.
Deans had been carted off to hospital immediately. His injuries were life-threatening so there was no question of him being photographed at the scene. The area had been cordoned off, as much to prevent anyone else from falling down the stairs as to protect the scene. As far as the police were concerned, the blame lay with the snow and ice rather than anything untoward. Winter had already made it clear that he would go to The Rock after the Western although he wasn’t particularly bothered if anyone else took photographs at the pub — as long as he got to take them as well.