Cath Staincliffe - Desperate Measures

There was no way Neil Langan could have returned to Manchester and shot the doctor.

Lisa went back across to the booth and got there in time to hear Langan protesting, ‘I don’t know what you’re wasting time with me for – it’s Norma Halliwell you want to be talking to. I tell her what’s going on, that her husband is shagging my wife, and next thing…’ He mimed someone shooting a gun, made a pow sound like a kid might. ‘I’d no idea she’d take it like that, shoot her own husband. That’s who you should be talking to.’ He stared at the empty glass in his hand, held it up to the light as if there might be more booze hiding somewhere inside it. ‘You should be talking to her. I spill the beans and she goes mental. Norma Halliwell. Unbelievable.’

Janine and Richard were on their way to the Halliwell house. Janine was trying to accommodate the new theory, relinquish Langan as a suspect given his watertight alibi and focus on Norma Halliwell. ‘She might have motive but how on earth would she get hold of a gun? She’s a piano teacher – her clientele aren’t likely to be toting small arms about,’ Janine said.

‘Hit man?’ Richard said.

‘I can’t see it, though I have been known to be wrong.’

‘Steady on,’ Richard said.

She cut her eyes at him. ‘A doctor’s wife, in her sixties. Can you see her hanging round dodgy pubs in search of a contract killer? Not in a million years. She only learned about the affair on Monday night. And how did she get to the surgery and back? Halliwell had her car, his was wrecked.’

‘Taxi?’ Richard said.

‘So how do we handle it?’ Richard said as Janine drew the car into the kerb outside the house.

‘We can’t put the gun in her hand,’ Janine said, ‘but she’s clearly been keeping things from us. Not a dicky bird about Langan’s phone call. So let’s push her a bit, see what we get, eh?’

Norma Halliwell took her time to answer the door and seemed unsurprised to find them there.

‘We’d like a few minutes of your time,’ Janine explained, ‘to try and clarify some points that have come to light.’

Norma gave a nod and they went with her into the front room again.

She sat in an armchair, her manner distracted, absent, picking at the piping on the chair.

‘Neil Langan rang you on Monday evening,’ Janine said.

Norma glanced at Janine then lowered her eyes.

‘He told you that Don was having a relationship with his wife, Dawn Langan,’ Janine said. ‘That must have been quite a shock?’

‘Not really,’ Norma said, ‘I thought there was someone.’

‘Did you talk to Don about it?’

‘No,’ she said.

‘You failed to mention it to us,’ Richard said.

Norma shook her head, ‘It didn’t mean anything.’

‘Has it happened before?’ Janine said.

‘Probably,’ Norma sounded tired. ‘I don’t ask.’

‘You must have suspected that Neil Langan was behind the damage to the car.’ There was an edge of disbelief in Richard’s tone, ‘possibly involved in your husband’s death, and you still said nothing.’

Norma let her hands fall into her lap. ‘When they told me he was dead, I just couldn’t think,’ she said. Then something occurred to her and she straightened up, frowning, and said, ‘Mr Langan – he didn’t do it, did he? Surely not?’ Sounding innocent herself, Janine thought, or was she outwitting them?

‘No,’ Richard said.

‘Is there anything else you haven’t told us about, Mrs Halliwell?’ Janine said.

‘No.’

‘Where were you between six and seven on Tuesday evening?’

Norma Halliwell stared at her, pain lancing through her eyes, then gave a hollow laugh, incredulous. ‘Here. I was teaching.’

‘We could verify that?’ Richard said.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘When did you last see your husband?’ Janine said.

‘When he left for work on Tuesday,’ Norma said.

Wearily Norma Halliwell provided them with the two phone numbers for the pupils who had come for lessons on Tuesday evening, one at six and one at half past.

Out in the car, Richard made the calls and got confirmation from the parents involved.

They never knew what had happened to the baby after the midwife had wrapped her in the sheet and left the room. The post-mortem, of course, a futile attempt to find a reason for the death but after that? Burial in some common grave, disposal like so much medical waste? In recent years, other couples affected like them had searched for their lost children, named them, had services and created memorials. The modern view was that acknowledging the life lost was a healthy response. But it held no sway with Don when she raised it, he regarded it as an indulgence at best and opening wounds at worst. She let it be.

They would never have another child. She hadn’t realized at first, couples were advised to avoid pregnancy too soon, so when she had clambered out of the pit and they began making love again she had gone on the pill, a new version. As the months went by her mother began to drop hints. ‘Don’t leave it too long,’ she said, ‘if you’re worried about the risks-’

‘I know the risks,’ Norma had said, ‘we just want to be more settled, it’s a hard year for Don.’

Don told her if they wanted to try again, she’d have to stop the medication, it would harm the baby. Even the thought of that, going a day without it, let alone nine whole months, made her feel panicky, a fluttering feeling in her chest, her mouth dry and her face hot.

‘Not yet,’ she said, ‘I’m not ready.’

Thankfully, Don didn’t seem desperate to have children unlike some men who wanted to make sure the family line continued. They discussed it on occasion back then, it was always Don who raised the issue. And then one time, just after he’d started his own practice, she had said, in response to his asking if she’d thought any more about babies, that she was happy as they were, just the two of them; that she didn’t think she could ever face another pregnancy after what happened. She’d taken a steadying breath, saying, ‘If a family is important to you then maybe we should think about separation.’

‘Norma,’ he said, looking exasperated and her stomach turned over. Then his expression softened. ‘You idiot. It’s you I want, first and foremost. That’s what matters most. The family, well…’ he shrugged, ‘… it might be nice but… I wouldn’t be the one dealing with it all and… it’s just not that important.’

‘You’re sure?’ She had stared at him.

‘Yes,’ he said.

She was so grateful. She ran the house and began to teach piano and went to parties with Don’s friends from work. In time as their friends had children, the friendships weakened and withered. They didn’t really need other people.

I was hiding, Norma thought, I’ve been hiding my whole life. Don had his work, his patients, his colleagues, his mistresses. And I had Don. Like Sleeping Beauty. But Norma’s prince had not woken her with a kiss, he pricked her with a needle, kept her drugged and docile and safe. Oh, yes, he tried to wean her off, now and again, but she felt that was to protect himself as much as anything. If it ever came out, he’d be disbarred.

The thought of relief brought saliva into her mouth, a lifting of the fear that gripped the back of her neck. But what about tomorrow, a voice in her head murmured. And the next day and the next? How long can you go on?

It was over. Don knew that, that was probably why he was still here, whispering her name, waiting in the corners where the shadows fell. He knew what was best. Always had. She was tired of hiding, exhausted by the fear of the future. Yes, she might last another three days but then what? The pit waiting to suck her back in. Or hospitalisation?