Conversation

“I guess sitting on a man’s lap one time, some thirty five years ago, doesn't really count as knowing him, but still upon seeing his obituary, I felt some regret.”

“Regret?” I studied the woman sitting opposite me closely, noting the distant glaze in her eyes, the slightest of smiles pulling the corner of her thin-lipped mouth upwards, creasing the hollow of her sunken cheek. “Not sorrow then? Not grief?”

Those blue eyes focused on me and the smile broadened.

“No, not sorrow or grief. Just regret. Like I said, I didn’t really know him.”

“But you sat on his lap.”

She shrugged. “Everyone needs to earn a living.”

I said nothing, thinking back to when I had first watched Sarah Wheelstone walk into the room. I couldn’t deny that even now, in her fifties, she had the body to earn a living that way. Thirty five years ago she must have been amazing. It wasn’t hard to imagine a man like Ernest Hardiman, heir to the Hardiman millions, being unable to resist her. Of course, people’s fortunes change over the years.

“He lost all his money you know.” The eyes had glazed again but the turn in conversation unnerved me. It was as if she could read my mind.

“I know.” It wasn’t the most sparkling of replies but it served to cover my unease.

“Didn’t take him long once his father died.”

“Bad investments I heard. Bad advice from the hangers-on.”

“Too many hangers-on. All he wanted to do was live the life of a playboy and let someone else run the business. They ran it into the ground!”

She said the last with a sneer, the first strong emotion I had seen from her since we began this conversation over half an hour ago.

“You sound bitter.”

“Most of my money was invested in Hardiman. When it went under, so did I!”

“You must have wanted revenge.”

She smiled again, shook her head, the slight movement freeing a long strand of black hair from her ponytail. It curled languidly against her cheek and I realised I was staring at it, finding it strangely erotic, disturbing. There was a lot about this conversation that was disturbing.

“No, not revenge. Not against him. He was a fool, a playboy like I said. That was all he was guilty of. He suffered as much as I did when everything collapsed. Possibly more. At least I still had a job.”

We were interrupted by a light tapping at the door and the entry of Officer Alison Huston, carrying two cups of coffee. I smiled cautiously, not wanting to seem any friendlier than two colleagues should. That we had been seeing each other outside of the Station was a well-kept secret. Those higher up the food chain than either of us frowned on personal relationships between a uniformed officer and a detective.

“Thanks,” I murmured as she placed one cup before me, her fingers brushing mine as she pulled away. I watched in silence as she gave the other cup to the outstretched hand of Miss Wheelstone and then left as gracefully and gently as she had arrived.

When I looked back across the table, Miss Wheelstone was smiling.

“That was nice.”

“What…?” I tried to deny it, but she interrupted me.

“It’s obvious there’s something between you two. I think it’s nice.”

The smile slipped, a look of deep regret pulling her face into lines and shadows I hadn’t seen before. I actually felt sorry for her.

“You never married?”

She shook her head, that loose strand of hair sliding sensuously against her cheek. It drew my attention again.

“By the time I left the job no man wanted me, or I didn’t want a man. Not quite sure which.”

“But you have a daughter?”

A wry smile lifted some of the darkness from her face.

“Even thirty five years ago that wasn’t uncommon.”

I tried not to show how embarrassed I was at my clumsiness. I wasn’t exactly in the position of moral judge here. Or any judge for that matter

“I’m not quite sure how all this fits in with the death of Mr Hardiman?”

She sat back in her chair and took a sip of her coffee.

“No, sorry. There’s no reason you would.”

“So explain it to me.” I sipped my own coffee and wished I hadn’t. Machine coffee. Not my favourite. “You asked to speak to a detective working on the death of Mr Hardiman…”

“The murder,” she cut in, a sudden fierce look hardening those blue eyes.

I hesitated, regrouping my thoughts. We had not released to the press that it had been a murder. Not yet.

“You asked to speak to someone and here I am, but I still don’t understand your connection.”

“You arrested a girl for the murder.”

I almost spilt my coffee. How much did she know? Who leaked the information? After all this was she some kind of reporter digging for an exclusive?

“We are still investigating the exact circumstances surrounding Mr Hardiman’s death.”

I hoped I sounded calm and convincing. We had arrested a girl and she had all but confessed, but I wasn’t about to give out any of that before the official press release. I valued my job too highly. It seemed a good time to try and draw this conversation to a close.

“I understand that thirty five years ago you sat on Ernest Hardiman’s lap, but I really don’t see what that has to do with anything now?”

She actually laughed. Only a short snort of a laugh but a laugh nonetheless.

“Does the word ‘euphemism’ mean anything to you?”

She was beginning to irritate me. Of course I knew what ‘euphemism’ meant. I wasn’t stupid. It’s when you say one thing as a replacement for what you actually…. Oh! I got it. When she said she sat in his lap….

“The girl you arrested is my daughter… his daughter!” She was crying now. “I made the mistake of telling her who her father was, how it happened. I didn’t realise she would…. didn’t know until I read the paper… until she phoned me to tell me she’d been arrested.”

She looked straight at me, watery blue eyes focused on mine sending a shiver down my back

“So you see, it was really me who killed him.”

She pulled a folded paper from her bag and slammed it onto the desk between us.

“That’s my signed confession. If I’ve confessed you’ve got no reason to hold Rachel have you?”

What could I say? I tried to think of something reasonable, logical, but then logic and reason collapsed about me.

I didn’t even see her pull the gun from her bag, only saw the black barrel press against the side of her head, bending that loose strand that had so fascinated me out of shape. I felt suddenly nauseous and knew I had lost all control of the situation.

“Miss Wheelstone…”

“I think we can consider that a death bed confession, don’t you?”

She pulled the trigger.