Shaun Hutson: Heathen/Nemesis

Mackenzie clasped his hands together and looked evenly at the distraught woman.

‘One of the reasons we couldn’t identify your husband after the crash was because he had no ID on his person. No driver’s licence, no credit cards, no cheque book. Nothing.’

‘He always got me to carry his credit cards for him,’ she protested.

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Mrs Ward. He did have credit cards and his cheque book but he wasn’t carrying them. After we’d taken the bodies from the wreckage we found your husband’s cheque book and credit cards in Suzanne Regan’s handbag.’

Six

‘What are you trying to say?’ Donna demanded angrily.

‘I’m not trying to say anything, Mrs Ward. You merely asked me for some information and I gave it to you,’ Mackenzie told her.

‘I want to see her,’ Donna said flatly.

‘That’s impossible, Mrs Ward.’

‘You could be wrong about her. It might not be Suzanne Regan. I’ve seen her; I could identify her.’

‘That’s already been done. Her brother confirmed it earlier.’

There was an awkward silence, which was finally broken by Donna.

‘Why was she carrying his credit cards?’

‘We don’t know that, Mrs Ward,’ Mackenzie said, almost apologetically.

‘What else did you find in her bag? Anything that belonged to my husband?’ There was a trace of anger in her voice now.

‘I can’t disclose information like that, Mrs Ward.’

‘Was there anything else?’

‘There was a photo of your husband in Miss Regan’s purse, and we found two letters from your husband to Miss Regan in her bag as well.’

‘Where are they?’ Donna demanded.

‘Her brother took them. He took all her belongings with him.’

‘And my husband? Did he have anything of hers?’

‘Not as far as we can tell. There was a card - it looks like a business card - in his wallet, but it was blank apart from a phone number and the initial S written on it.’

‘Suzanne,’ she hissed, her jaws clenched.

The silence descended again and Donna sat back in the chair. Her mind was spinning. First dread, then shock, now confusion. What was next? What other revelations were to be revealed to her?

Why had Suzanne Regan been in the car with him?

Why had she had his photo in her bag? Why was she carrying his credit cards?

Why?

Letters. From Ward to her .

She raised a hand to her face once more, covering her eyes.

‘I will need to speak to you again, Mrs Ward,’ Mackenzie said. ‘Once everything has been taken care of.’

‘You mean after the funeral,’ she said, quietly.

‘I’ll be in touch.’ He moved towards the door, pausing before he left. ‘I’m very sorry.’ And he was gone.

‘I want to go home,’ Donna said, her voice quivering. She sounded like a child, a lost child. And lost she most certainly was. She felt more alone than she could ever remember.

Seven

She’d been alone in the house often, but until now Donna had never felt truly lonely.

The silence and the desolation crowded in on her almost palpably. The clock on the wall opposite showed 1.32 a.m. She cradled the mug of tea in her hands and sat at the breakfast bar, head lowered. The central heating was turned up to full and Donna was seated close to a radiator, but she still felt that ever-present chill. She wondered if it would ever leave her.

The policewoman had offered to stay with her for the night, to call a relative. A doctor at the hospital had recommended sleeping pills. She had declined all the offers, accepting only the one to drive her home around midnight.

Home.

Even the word had an empty ring. How could it be home without Chris there? She sniffed back a tear then thought about what the nurse had said: ‘You have a right to your grief’ . It was one of the few things from that interminable evening she did remember.

That, and Mackenzie’s revelations that her husband had been in the car with another woman when he’d been killed.

Donna thought how her mind was trying to dismiss this particular piece of knowledge now in the same way as she had tried to shut herself off from the possibility that her husband was dead.

Another woman?

There was an answer, there had to be. There had to be a reason why Suzanne Regan had been in the car with her husband when he died. Had to be a reason why she was carrying his credit cards and cheque book in her handbag. Had to be a reason why she had two letters from him, and a photo.

There had to be a reason other than the most obvious one, that they were involved somehow.

Involved.

What a pleasing euphemism. It sounded so much more civilized to say that Christopher Ward, her dead husband, had been involved with another woman. So much more civilized than saying he was having an affair.

Was that what she was trying to deny now?

First his death, now his infidelity.

For now she had only nagging doubts, doubts which became more tangible the more she considered the matter. She got to her feet and wandered out of the kitchen, holding her mug of tea, snapping off the lights as she went. She walked into the hall, her footfalls soft on the carpet as she headed for the sitting room. She pushed open the door, flicked on the lights and the room was illuminated.

It seemed no more hospitable than the kitchen had done.

Over the fireplace hung the framed covers of three of Ward’s books.

He’d written fifteen novels in the last twelve years, each one a massive bestseller. Two had been turned into badly-made and unsuccessful films, but he’d been well paid for the rights; Ward had washed his hands of the adaptations and continued writing.

How long ago had he met Suzanne Regan?

Donna sat in the chair where he always used to sit and where he would never sit again.

Never.

She gazed across the room at the television and saw herself reflected in the blank screen. There were videos beneath the set, her husband’s chief form of relaxation.

When he was alive.

Donna felt a tear roll down her cheek.

Had he described the house to Suzanne Regan?

Donna got to her feet and walked out of the sitting-room, leaving it in darkness. Back across the hall she walked, to the dining-room with its large dark wood table and its bookcases where Ward’s own books were displayed. She took one from a shelf and turned it over, studying the photo on the back, running one index finger over it. He had been an attractive man, It was hard to believe that this was the same man whose face she had seen earlier, gashed and bloodied by the crash. She studied his features carefully, the steely blue eyes, the shoulder-length brown hair.

Was that what had attracted Suzanne Regan?

Donna replaced the book, still crying softly, aware that she would never see that face again in life, never feel the touch of his hands. The unbearable chill seemed to close tightly round her, like a freezing glove.

It followed her into every room.

In the bathroom she touched his razor and ran her thumb across the blade, scarcely aware that she cut the pad. She watched blood well up from the small gash, forming a globule before running down past the first knuckle.

Every room she walked into and looked around, she picked out the objects which were Ward’s, objects which made her think of him even more strongly. And the more she thought about him, the stronger the pain became. The chasm in her soul expanded with every recollection.

She paused at the door to his office.

Her hand quivered over the door handle.