‘Have you got the tissues?’ Shap said, winding Lisa up. He’d know she was nervous, this the first time she’d given the death message. The sarky comments were maybe his way of trying to help – but they didn’t.
Norma Halliwell came out with a young lad and saw him to the door. ‘Bye bye, Jordan, see you next week, we’ll make up the time then.’
She closed the door and turned to Shap and Lisa. ‘Please, come in.’
The front room was spacious and well-furnished with a piano and paintings and tapestries on the walls.
‘Please sit down, Mrs Halliwell,’ Lisa said.
Norma Halliwell sat on one of the winged armchairs. She looked bemused, almost smiling, as though this might be some weird game they were playing.
Lisa’s chest felt tight and her face warm as she said, ‘We have some very bad news, I’m sorry to have to tell you that your husband, Dr Halliwell, has been the victim of a violent attack.’
‘He’s been hurt?’ Norma Halliwell looked stunned, her mouth hung open.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lisa said, ‘he’s dead.’
There was a beat, a little snort of disbelief from Norma Halliwell who frowned and shook her head quickly and said, ‘Sorry?’ as though she might have misheard.
‘Dr Halliwell is dead,’ Lisa said. She knew it sounded brutal but it was important to be clear, to leave no room for doubt.
‘Oh, no. Please, no,’ she said, ‘but how? What happened?’
‘He was found outside the surgery,’ Lisa said, ‘he appears to have been shot.’
‘Shot?’ Norma Halliwell seemed completely dazed. Lisa didn’t know how much time they’d have while the woman could still string two words together.
‘Mrs Halliwell?’ Lisa said, ‘Can you tell us when you last saw your husband?’
‘Erm, when he left for work, this morning. About, erm, quarter past eight,’ she said.
‘He took your car?’ Shap said.
‘Oh, yes. His… well, you’ve seen it?’ Norma Halliwell said. ‘I thought that’s why you were here.’
‘What happened to his car?’ Shap said.
‘We were asleep, last night, there was this almighty crash, terrible noise, then another and the sound of a car screeching away.’ Her voice shook. ‘Don went to look and someone had just driven right into it. Deliberately.’
‘Do you know who?’ Shap said.
Norma Halliwell shook her head.
‘Can you think of anyone who would wish him harm?’ Lisa said.
Norma Halliwell began to cry, covered her nose and mouth with her hands. ‘No,’ she sobbed.
‘Did your husband own a gun?’ Shap said.
‘A gun? No.’
‘I’m very sorry to ask you this but we will need someone to make a formal identification once the post-mortem has been completed. Probably later tomorrow,’ Lisa said.
‘No!’ Norma Halliwell gasped. ‘I can’t. I can’t do that. Don’t make me.’
‘Of course not,’ Lisa said. ‘I’m sure one of Mr Halliwell’s colleagues will be able to do it but we always ask next of kin first.’
‘I’m sorry,’ the woman said, tears on her face, ‘I just can’t.’
Lisa try to persuade Mrs. Halliwell to contact someone, a friend or relative or neighbour to come and sit with her but she steadfastly refused. It felt awkward, cruel, leaving her alone after dropping such a bombshell but Lisa couldn’t force the woman against her wishes.
Outside Lisa looked again at the damaged car. ‘If the same person as shot him did that,’ she said, pointing to the car, ‘then we might be able to find material from the culprit, or at least his vehicle, here and at the crime scene.’
‘Not a bad idea,’ Shap said. He got out his phone and selected a number. ‘We want a forensic exam on the victim’s car,’ he said, ‘which is currently at the home address. Full lift of the vehicle to the garage then cross reference and see if there’s any evidence linking this to the murder crime scene.’
Chapter 7
Norma lay on the bed. She wanted to turn over and open her eyes, to see Don there, solid, real. To make that real, not this. Not this appalling thing they had told her. Forty-four years together and now she was alone. would snap under the pressure, that her bones would crack like twigs and her head burst and her heart collapse. She had heard the adage that a woman had to be twice as good as a man to do half as well and here it was writ large. The lecturers, from the most junior to the professors, treated her in one of two ways: either she was invisible, ignored when tasks were allocated or opinions invited; or she was a dolly-bird for them to leer at or fondle. The first time her anatomy tutor slapped her bottom she felt a rush of shame followed by a sting of anger but all she did was giggle like some character in a Carry On film. And on the rare occasion that Professor Malkin spoke to her, he stared at her breasts all the while. She hated it but had to put up with it. She’d have been blacklisted if she’d tried to object or complain.
By the summer term of the first year she was close to dropping out. No matter how hard she studied, how many hours she spent reading in the library or memorizing schema and lists until the words danced and blurred on the page and her neck was locked stiff and her headache grew more nauseating, she was never more than mediocre in her tests and essays. She feared she would not get through her exams.
It was then, at her lowest point, that she first met Don. She was on campus, unlocking her bike ready to go home. It was windy and her hair was whipping in her eyes. She climbed onto the seat, pedalled a few yards and felt a jarring sensation. A puncture. She burst into tears, feet planted either side of the bike, hands covering her eyes. Then she heard him. ‘Give it a good kicking. That’s what I do.’
She didn’t know him, he wasn’t in her intake. She sniffed, wiped her face. Said nothing.
‘Or maybe not in those.’
Her shoes were open-toed. She wore flatties for rounds but kept decent shoes in her locker.
‘I can offer you coffee?’ he said.
She was about to refuse, not knowing if he would expect something in return.
‘Or bus fare home?’
‘I’ve got bus fare,’ she said.
‘Coffee then. Come on, it’s bloody freezing.’
She went with him, wheeling her bike, to the Italian coffee bar around the corner.
‘I’m Don,’ he said, on the way, ‘third-year medicine.’
‘Norma,’ she said, wondering if her mascara had run. ‘First year, but probably not for much longer.’ She meant to make a joke of it but it sounded like she was whining so she added, ‘Sorry, awful day… week.’
‘I could tell you it’ll get easier,’ he said, holding the café door open for her, ‘but I’d be lying.’
She groaned.
Settled with their espressos, he offered her a cigarette. She took it, grateful to have something to fiddle with, she felt so awkward.
He chatted away, making her laugh with his comments on the teaching staff. He seemed so confident, not at all ill at ease given he’d just seen her bawling her eyes out. He just seemed to believe everything was basically all right.
His company, the cigarette and the coffee, the warm fug of the place helped her to relax so that when he finally said, ‘So what’s the hardest thing?’ she could answer without welling up. ‘I can’t sleep,’ she said. ‘It just keeps going round and round and then I’m simply exhausted. And I get these blinding headaches. I’ve tried Pro Plus but I can’t see that it’s helping.’
‘You need a doctor.’ He smiled. He’d thick fair hair, just touching his collar, a slightly ruddy complexion like someone who enjoyed the outdoors. A hearty look. He didn’t walk her home but he did invite her to the pictures the following week. And when they met he brought with him something she could use for the headaches and something for sleeping.