David Kessler - Mercy

“That’s right.”

“And then when you got married you took precautions?”

It didn’t make sense.

“I don’t understand.”

“I mean, what makes you so sure that it was him? This stranger? How do you know it wasn’t your husband?”

“Trust me, I know.”

“What, you did a DNA test? Or just a blood group test?”

Esther Olsen’s voice rose for a moment.

“ It’s … not important. The fact is, I know.”

“And you don’t know who the man was? His name, I mean.”

“No. Like I said, it was at a party. I didn’t know many of the people there. We’d both had too much to drink and he was one of the few people who didn’t become obnoxious when he drank. Most men do.”

A thought entered Alex’s head.

“You said you didn’t have an abortion when you had to make the choice?”

She was looking at him, silently. Alex pressed on.

“So the child was…”

“Dorothy,” she confirmed.

“Did she know?”

“It’s not important.”

“Did your husband know?”

“It’s not important.”

“Help me here … I need to understand.”

“Why does it matter? She was my daughter, even if she wasn’t Edgar’s. And I loved her, even if he didn’t.”

“Can you give me his contact details?”

“You’re a bit late for that.”

“He’s dead?”

“Suicide.”

Alex’s mind was reeling. Could this have something to do with the estrangement from her daughter?

“Did he do it at home?”

That would explain why Esther Olsen didn’t want to talk about it. Alex wondered how many secrets had come out in the Olsen household before he died.

“Not at my house. He’d moved out already.”

“Why?”

“We’d broken up by then. He moved out so he could enjoy his independence.”

“No, I mean, why did he kill himself?”

“He was a troubled man — even before the marriage. He’d lost a son from a previous marriage. He blamed himself for that and he never really recovered from it. It had always haunted him. I think it’s what led to the break-up of his first marriage. Finally the burden got too much.”

“How did he do it?”

Alex wondered if it was something violent, like slashing his wrists, or something more prosaic, like tranquilizers or a hosepipe through the exhaust.

“With a revolver. He blew his brains out.”

David looked at his watch. Time was moving on and he realized that he wasn’t making progress. He’d passed on all the information he’d got, but his father had indicated that it wasn’t enough. They needed some form of documentary evidence that Dorothy was alive — or that someone else had killed her. He could hardly expect to find that on a computer that she had left behind before she went to England. But it might give some indication of where to look for her.

They had used the bank statement evidence, but the judge had declined to grant another restraining order. Apparently they’d have to argue it out at a full hearing, scheduled for half past eight. And even the evidence they had, only showed that Dorothy had been alive a year or so after her disappearance. While this clashed with the original theory that Clayton Burrow had killed her on the night of her disappearance, it didn’t undermine the technical basis of the charge.

The charge was that on some date between Dorothy’s disappearance on Saturday May 23, 1998 and the discovery of the physical evidence on Tuesday October 19, 1999, Burrow had murdered her, dismembered her and buried the body. The latest date when they could prove that she was alive was about the middle of June 1999. That still left a four-month window of opportunity for Burrow to have committed the crime.

Of course, it was possible — notwithstanding the physical evidence — that Burrow was innocent. But the evidence was strong. What mattered was not when he killed her, but if he killed her. And the evidence still said that he did.

But the one thing that was becoming increasingly apparent was that Dorothy Olsen was a deeply tormented soul and the torment came from more than one quarter. The evidence at the trial suggested that Dorothy was dead. But was Clayton Burrow the murderer or merely the fall guy?

If he had raped her before her disappearance, then he would have been the perfect fall guy for the murder. And who might have framed him? Obviously the real murderer. But who was the real murderer? David didn’t know. But what he did know was that Dorothy appeared to have had another tormentor in her father. The extracts from the poem that he had found added credence to this theory.

David decided to phone his father now. Maybe it was nothing. But it was for his father to decide what to do with the evidence.

“Yes, David?” Alex answered. David could tell by the background sound, and by the tone of voice, that his father was driving.

“I’ve found another verse.”

“Surprise me,” said Alex.

David read back the last stanza, placing particular emphasis on the line: “No wonder you felt guilty.”

“Yes, I was just talking to Esther Olsen about that.”

“What did she say?”

“She said he blamed himself for his son’s death. That’s why he committed suicide.”

“What?”

“Apparently he killed himself.”

“Good God. What a family.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“But was it definitely over his son’s death?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well the death of his son by his first marriage would have been years before. Why kill himself after all that time?”

“It’s not so unusual. Guilt and torment often mounts up. Besides, what else could it be?”

“Maybe something to do with Dorothy?”

“Where are you going?” asked Juanita.

Nat realized that she was probably surprised to see him on his way out. On a normal day this wouldn’t have been so unusual. But today was hardly a normal day.

“I need some fresh air. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He would have said a cigarette break. But she knew that he didn’t smoke.

As soon as he got outside, he whipped out his cell phone and put in a call to the Finchley Road Medical Centre. A nurse answered.

“I’d like to talk to Stuart Lloyd please,” said Nat, remembering the name on the letter from the center.

“Who is this?”

“My name is Nathaniel Anderson. I’m calling from the United States.”

He regretted using his real name now. He didn’t know who this woman was or what her status was.

“I’m afraid Mr. Lloyd isn’t here. He’s gone home.”

“Home?”

“Yes, it’s half past two in the morning.”

Nat realized that she was right. He hadn’t thought about that.

“So … I mean … like when did he leave?”

“I don’t know. He usually leaves round five thirty or six o’clock.”

“That’s impossible! He sent a fax to my — He sent a fax less than half an hour ago.”

“Well not from here. I started my shift half an hour ago and he wasn’t here. At least I don’t think he was. It would have been most unusual for him to be here at this time.”

“Well it might have been a bit longer than half an hour ago. It was stuck in the memory of our fax. The machine had run out of paper, so it might have been sent before that.”

“Like I said, I’ve been on a double shift since ten last night and I got here a bit before that and I didn’t see him. I also didn’t see any lights on in the offices or other departments. There’s only one small ward here, the rest is out-patients. I suppose he could have been here though.”