Theo followed her into the hallway. As he watched her climbing the stairs, he imagined the things that she had up there, the things she wanted to show him. Daniel’s things, presumably. More pictures, perhaps? Notes? Text messages? The thought turned his stomach. Theo started up the stairs after her. He imagined the look on her face when she showed him, pitying, but with a hint of triumph, a hint of I told you so. Look at your beautiful wife. Look at what she does with my son. A few steps from the landing, he stopped. Angela was waiting for him, looking down at him, and she looked afraid. He remembered how she had cowered in front of him, the day that Ben died; he remembered how he had longed to grab her, to throttle her, to dash her head against the wall.
He felt nothing of that now. He turned away from her, starting back down the stairs. He heard her crying as he opened the front door and closed it behind him. He stepped out into the bright afternoon sunlight, pausing to light a cigarette before he set off toward home. As he walked along the lane, toward St. Peter’s churchyard, he was overcome with longing for a time when he didn’t hate Angela, when actually he had loved her very dearly, for the time when his heart used to lift when he saw her; she was always so much fun, such enjoyable company, she always had so much to say. Such a very long time ago now.
* * *
“Can you tell us about that, Mr. Myerson? Can you tell us what happened when you went to see her?”
Theo wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He wasn’t going to tell the police about that, about his longing. It wouldn’t serve his purposes now, would it, to tell them that he had loved her once, as a sister, as a friend?
“She told me that there was something going on between Daniel and my wife. We argued about it. Not . . . I didn’t touch her. I wanted to. I wanted to wring her scrawny neck, but I didn’t. I didn’t push her down the stairs either. As far as I’m aware, Angela’s death was an accident.”
As far as he was aware. And he was not about to admit to the police that for the rest of his days, whenever he thought of Angela, he would think of her as she was that day, crying at the top of the stairs, and he would think of the words he spoke to her, when he called her lazy and neglectful and a bad mother, and he would wonder whether those were the last words that anyone ever spoke to her. He would wonder if, when she teetered at the top of the staircase or lay dying at the bottom of it, his was the eulogy she heard.
“So you argued, you left. . . . Did you confront your wife? Did you ask her about what Angela had told you?”
“I did not.” Theo shook his head. “There are some questions,” he said softly, “which you don’t want answered. Which you never want answered. In any case, it wasn’t long after that conversation that Angela died, and I was hardly going to bring up the conversation with my wife then, while she was grieving. But I suspected . . . I felt sure that Daniel would use his mother’s death to try to get closer to Carla. I couldn’t bear that. I just wanted him gone.”
Detective Chalmers paused the recording. She and Barker got up from the table and said they were going to take a short break; they offered him coffee, which he refused. He asked for a bottle of water instead, fizzy if they had any. Chalmers said she’d do her best.
* * *
It was over. The worst was over.
Then it struck him that the worst wasn’t over at all. The newspapers! Oh, God, the newspapers. The things people would say, on the internet, on social media. Christ almighty. He hung his head, his shoulders heaving, and he wept. His books! No one would buy them any longer. The only good thing he’d ever done—apart from Ben, apart from loving Carla—was his work, and it would be tarnished, forever, along with his name. His books would be taken from the shelves, his legacy ruined. Yes, Norman Mailer stabbed his wife with a penknife and William Burroughs fatally shot his, but times were different now, weren’t they? Times had changed; people were so intolerant, you couldn’t get away with that sort of thing any longer. One step out of line and you were canceled.
* * *
By the time the detectives came back to the room, Chalmers carrying a bottle of Evian, which was, of course, not fizzy, Theo had collected himself—wiped his eyes, blown his nose, steeled himself. Reminded himself of what was truly important.
The detectives had something else to show him—a photograph this time, of a young woman. “Have you seen this person before, Mr. Myerson?” DC Chalmers asked.
Theo nodded. “She’s the one you charged with the murder. Kilbride, yes?” He looked up at them.