The Black Widow (6 page)

"I don't know, but I'm keen to find out what she's so eager to tell us since we're working on the assumption that this was an accident."

Carl regarded him thoughtfully before turning and walking to the front door, Mike following closely behind. Before Carl could knock, the door suddenly swung open.

A woman stood blinking at them, her eyes red and swollen from crying. An older woman, she had a startling round face; it made Mike think of a bowling ball with a face on it.

"Officers," she said in a voice that sounded heavy with a bad cold. "Please come in."

She turned and both men followed her in. Mike noticed that this house was identical in layout to the house the victim lay in, except in colour and furniture.

"Cheryl is through there." The woman gestured to the living room, its door closed. "But you will take it easy on her, won't you? The girls had a terrible shock, losing her husband that way. And she's so young..." The woman's voice trailed of and Mike cleared his throat. "I'm very sorry," he began, "but we need to do this now. We need to find out what happened and what led to the fire."

The woman shook her head as fresh tears filled her eyes. "If Dave hadn't drank so much, Cheryl would've been in that room. We may have lost them both. But then, if Dave hadn't drank so much, then this probably wouldn't have happened in the first place." She jabbed a tissue at her eyes as she took an emotional shuddery breath. "They had a party tonight. Myself and my husband attended, along with a few other people. Dave drank an astonishing amount of alcohol and Cheryl said she wouldn't be sharing a bed with him because his snoring would be unbearable. She actually brought blankets and pillows down as we were all leaving."

"I see," Mike said, the scenario beginning to make sense.

"It was my husband, James, that saw the fire," the woman continued. "He was enjoying a cigar at the front door since I don't allow smoking in the house. He noticed smoke pouring from the bedroom window and yelled at me to ring the fire department and the police. We knocked and shouted on the front door until Cheryl answered. She looked confused but okay. James then ran upstairs to help Dave, but, he couldn't get to him."

"Where is your husband now Mrs...?"

"Nicole," she stammered. "Nicole Harrison. Goodness my manners—"

"No, no. It's quite alright." Mike laid his hand on Nicole's broad, dressing-gown covered shoulder. "May we speak with your husband please?"

"He's being treated for smoke inhalation." She looked at Mike with both grief and shame in her eyes. "I thought he wasn't going to come back out. I could hear the fire roaring like some hell-dwelling monster and all I could think about was my James as Dave was burning alive."

Mike squeezed her shoulder, unsure of what to say. She would remain haunted by the horror of this night for many years to come and no words from he, or anyone else, was going to change that.

No longer crying but staring ahead as if in a daze, Nicole didn't seem to be aware of his hand upon her shoulder. He squeezed once more then let go.

"We'll be brief, Mrs Harrison," he told her, and she nodded. She turned and shuffled towards the living room door, her shoulders hanging and her head down. She knocked quickly then said "Cheryl?" When no answer came she turned to Mike and shook her head as fresh tears filled her eyes. "The girls in an awful state."

Just as Nicole was about to open the door, the sound of a sobbing woman came from the left. Turning his head Mike saw a young woman standing in the entryway to the kitchen, her hands clutched tightly in front of her as large tears rolled down her cheeks.

In spite of the horror and grief surrounding him and the fact that less than 15 minutes earlier he had been looking at a dead man's burnt body, Mike felt a jolt in his chest as his breath hitched. A warm feeling stirred in his groin as he stared at the woman, a small voice whispering in his mind about how inappropriate it was to be aroused at this moment in time.

The woman wasn't quite simply attractive, she was absolutely gorgeous. Her hair was a dark yet vibrant red and shone to where it hung past her shoulders. She wore a tight glossy dressing gown that only reached mid-thigh and Mike wondered if she wore anything underneath it. His face flushing with shame he faced forward and waited for Nicole to open the living room door. She was also staring at the sobbing woman, her face a mask of sympathy.

"Arrest me," the young woman suddenly shrieked, causing Mike, Carl and Nicole to jerk in surprise. "It's my fault, I killed Dave. Arrest me!"

She ran at Mike as a man appeared in the kitchen entryway, a stricken expression on his too-handsome face. He ran after the woman just as she reached Mike. Clutching his shirt, she shook him. "Arrest me! It's my fault he's dead, I killed him."

Mike held the woman by the shoulders, still shamefully aware that a beautiful woman was so close he could feel the warmth of her body and smell the Listerine on her breath.

The man reached them and Mike looked at him questioningly as he pulled the sobbing woman to him.

"We were at their house tonight," the man said. "Ella made cocktails, her own recipe. They're quite strong and Dave drank a couple, in addition to other drinks." The woman sobbed louder. "It's my fault," she wailed. "God, Dave I'm so sorry."

"You are?" Mike asked the man who was obviously her husband.
Of course he is,
Mike thought nastily.
Bloke looks like he just stepped of the cover of a magazine.

"I'm Richard. Richard Reed, this is my wife Ella. We live at the bottom of the street."

Mike nodded. "We will need to speak with you. But not now. Take your wife home and calm her down."

Richard nodded and put his arms around Ella. "Come on darling." She released her grip on Mike's shirt and allowed her husband to lead her out of the front door, her sobs fading as they staggered up the garden path.

"The poor girl," Nicole muttered before turning and knocking once more on the closed door. "Cheryl?" she called. She opened the door and gestured Mike and Carl to follow.

***

They entered the lamp lit room and found a woman huddled on a black leather sofa shrouded in a blanket. Her blond hair draped her face as she held herself and rocked back and forth, crying softly.

"Cheryl?" Nicole said softly, crouching in front of the woman. "The police need to ask you a couple of questions, darling. They won't be here long." The young widow's face crumpled and fresh tears raced down her cheeks. "There, there," Mrs Harrison soothed. "It'll be okay." She sat down beside Cheryl and looked at Mike. "Please make it brief."

Mike nodded. "I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs Turner. My partner and I need some information off you. Do you feel up to that?"

Mrs Turner raised her eyes and looked at him. Nodding, she lowered her head and stared at the coffee table.

Mike felt terrible. The dark feeling that had gripped him in the dead man's bedroom was no longer as strong as it was as he observed this young beautiful woman's grief.

But it was still there.

Whether anyone liked it or not, he had some tough questions to ask. Okay, it was beginning to look as though Mr Turner had put away a lot of alcohol this evening. Perhaps he'd gone to bed and lit a cigarette and poured himself a drink. The glass had tipped sending the alcohol all over the floor before he dropped his cigarette, therefore igniting the liquid.

Yes, he could see how that could happen.

But the deodorant bottles stored in the bedside cabinet. Flammables present directly at the point of origin— he didn't like that.

That this woman had stated she didn't want to share a bed with her husband who's snoring would be terrible due to the amount of alcohol he'd consumed, he could buy that.

But why had she chosen to sleep downstairs on the sofa, and within feet of the front door, when there were spare rooms upstairs, one room with a double bed in it which he'd seen as they headed downstairs.

Something,
something
just wasn't right. Perhaps it had nothing to do with this young woman. But something just wasn't right.

Of course, his bad feeling could be nothing more than denial or some twisted subconscious need to prove that the man's death was indeed intentional because if it wasn't and was a terrible accident, then something terrible could happen to him, or Mandy. It made him aware of his mortality, of how quickly your life can end.

He was also aware that he was still reeling from the fertility test results. What had he done that so was terrible that fate had felt it appropriate recompense to deny him fatherhood?

But then, what had Dave Turner done to deserve such an agonizing death?

But what would he and Mandy do now? His heart lurched as the thought that had lain hidden since learning the results leaped into his mind; another woman could give him a child.

Carl suddenly cleared his throat, tugging Mike from his thoughts. Embarrassed, he realised both Carl and Mrs Harrison were staring at him.

Mike cleared his throat. "I'm very sorry for your loss but we do need to ask you some questions. Do you feel up to that?"

Mrs Turner's face crumpled and fresh tears gathered in her eyes. "It's my fault," she whispered. "I did this to him."

Mike's heart hammered in his chest and even Carl raised his eyes to look at Mrs Turner with suspicious interest.

"Now Cheryl," Mrs Harrison said gently. "Why on earth would you think that?"

"I shouldn't have let him out of my sight! I knew how much he'd had to drink. I knew there were cigarettes and a lighter by the side of the bed, but I thought he'd just go straight to sleep. He drank so much, and mixed his alcohol, why didn't he just go straight to sleep?"

"Was he sleeping when you went upstairs for the blankets and pillows?" Mike asked her, watching her carefully.

Looking startled for a spit second, Mrs Turner regained her composure and nodded.

"So he must have awoken after you checked on him, lit a cigarette and fallen back to sleep. Unusual really; when someone is that drunk and they fall asleep, they usually stay asleep for the next few hours."

A wariness that Mike wondered if he was the only one seeing appeared in Mrs Turner's eyes, blanketing the grief for a couple of seconds before she lowered her head. Mrs Harrison glared at Mike, a stern expression on her face while Carl scribbled notes furiously in his pad.

"Mrs Turner, why did you choose to sleep on the sofa tonight? Why didn't you sleep in the spare bedroom in the spare bed?"

"It's comfortable," Mrs Turner muttered, no longer sounding upset but annoyed.

"Now, detective. What're you—" Mike held his hand up to silence Mrs Harrison's question.

"Mrs Turner," he said, staring right at her eyes. "How was your marriage?"

Mrs Harrison, her face red from anger suddenly jumped to her feet, startling both himself and Mrs Turner. "Just what are you implying?"

"My marriage was wonderful," Mrs Turner blurted. "We've just started trying for a baby!"

Dramatically flinging the blanket from her shoulders, the reason for which escaping Mike at first, she then buried her head in her hands and sobbed loudly. When Mike glimpsed the see through negligee she wore, and her bare breast that had fallen out of the neckline, he knew that was why she'd shrugged the cover off.

Is that how a bereaved widow acts in the presence of police officers questioning her about the death of her husband in their own marital bed?

Insult and anger flooded Mike at the knowledge that she was trying to manipulate him. He pointedly looked away as Mrs Harrison draped the blanket back around the stricken young woman's shoulders.

"I want you to leave," Mrs Harrison said, her tone clipped with barely controlled anger. Thinking that maybe he'd gone a little too far too early, Mike stood and Carl followed suit.

"We'll be in touch, Mrs Turner," he said.

"And I will show you out." Mrs Harrison stormed past both men, her eyes narrowed and lips tight. As Mike followed her, feeling somewhat ashamed, he glanced back at Mrs Turner—and that was it. The moment that not only did he now for sure that she'd killed her husband in cold blood, but the moment that would remain with him for years to come.

And all it was, was a look.

It only lasted a couple of seconds, but that was enough. As Mike had glanced back at Mrs Turner, they had locked eyes. She remained slumped in the same position; hunched forward, the blanket draped loosely around her shoulders where Mrs Harrison had placed it and sobbing loudly into her hands—but her eyes bore no grief as she glared at Mike's back. The sobs she emitted sounded like the grief-stricken sobs of a young widow, but the hate and rage etched on her face was not. Her lips were tight in barely controlled anger—anger she had been directing at Mike's back until he turned and saw her.

He knew then she was enraged because he was onto her, he knew that with absolute certainty. He felt as though he was on the verge of some sort of revelation; a revelation he had gone through already. The strongest sense of deja vu hit him and he shuddered.

He continued to stare at Mrs Turner, who had since covered her face and lowered her head.

Mike's skin crawled as he looked her over. In his years with the police, he hadn't handled a case like this before.

She was his first black widow.

He turned his back and followed Carl into the hallway, vowing that she wouldn't get away with the horrific and agonizing death she had subjected her husband to.

Mrs Harrison held the front door open for him as Carl waited on the porch. Mike stepped out then addressed Mrs Harrison. "I'm very sorry, but we have to conduct a thorough investigation."

She slammed the door in his face.

"Jesus, Mike," Carl said. "You were a little rough, don't you think? What the hell was all that about anyway?"

"She did it, Carl." Mike strode down the garden path. "She killed him."

"We don't know that—"

"I know it. She did it. And I'm gonna prove it."

"Look Mike, I know you're going through a rough time right now—"

"This has nothing to do with it." Mike faced Carl. "I know she did it, Carl. When have you ever known me to make hasty decisions or pass judgement?"