She’d thought there would be a mention of her husband’s death in the trade magazines, and perhaps a line or two in one of the nationals, but she was unprepared for what actually appeared.
Three of the tabloids ran two-column stories (one with a photograph) while even
She hadn’t slept much the previous night and what rest she’d managed had been fitful. She’d woken twice from a nightmare but had been unable to remember the images that had shocked her into consciousness.
Car crashes, perhaps?
Funerals?
She didn’t go near Ward’s office that day; she feared what she might find in there. The letter she had discovered had only reinforced her conviction that her husband had been having an affair with Suzanne Regan. What Donna was aware of was how little she had cried since finding the letter. More and more of the emotion she felt was tinged with anger now.
She ate a bowl of soup and some bread at about two o’clock and sat staring at the Valium bottle. She thought about taking one of the tablets but decided against it.
The phone was silent now. As she dropped her bowl into the sink, Donna decided to check the messages before a new batch came in.
The house seemed very quiet as she walked through the hallway and flicked the switch marked ‘Incoming Message’. She heard a high-pitched squeal, a cacophony of indecipherable noise as the tape rewound quickly then began with its catalogue of calls.
A reporter from the local paper.
Diana Wellsby, Ward’s editor, offering her condolences.
Nick Crosby, Managing Director of his publishers, also offering his sympathies.
No message.
Chris’s accountant; could he ring him? (Obviously not everyone read the papers, Donna thought.)
Her mother, who said she refused to speak to a machine but would ring back.
Donna smiled thinly when she heard her mother’s voice.
Jackie. Ring her, just to let her know how things were going.
‘Mrs Ward, this is Detective Constable Mackenzie. I’d appreciate it if you could call me as soon as possible. Thank you.’
Donna chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. The policeman had called yesterday, too. What was so important? She reached for the pad and pen beside the phone, rewound the tape and took down the number he’d left.
‘Donna, it’s Martin Connelly,’ the next voice announced. She smiled at the warmth in the tone. It was Chris’s agent. ‘I realize what you must be feeling and I’m very sorry about what’s happened. I’ll call you back later. Take care, gorgeous.’
One more call.
She waited for a voice but there wasn’t one.
A wrong number, perhaps?
She could hear breathing on the tape, slow, rhythmic breathing. No background noise. Nothing but breathing.
Then the message was brought to an abrupt end as the phone was put down.
Donna flicked her hair from her face and was about to walk away from the phone when it rang again.
Her hand hovered over the receiver. She thought about picking it up but finally allowed the machine to click on.
Breathing.
The same breathing as on the message she’d just listened to.
Donna stared at the phone, listening to the breathing. Then finally she heard, ‘Shit.’ The phone was put down,
Donna backed away from the machine as if it were some kind of venomous serpent. If it was a crank call, it was either bad timing or a particularly sick bastard getting his rocks off at the other end of the line. She suddenly felt very lonely and vulnerable.
It was then that the doorbell rang.
For long moments she hesitated, standing rigid in the hallway.
The chain was off.
Donna swallowed hard and took a step towards the door as the two-tone chime sounded again. She gently eased the chain into position and finally peered through the spy-hole.
She saw her younger sister immediately.
Donna hurried to open the door, throwing it wide and holding out her arms.
When Julie Craig embraced her the two women clutched each other tightly, unwilling to be parted. Finally Donna pulled back slightly, with tears in her eyes.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she whispered.
‘Nothing would have stopped me,’ Julie told her. They embraced again. ‘Donna, I’m so sorry.’
Both of them were crying now, weeping softly against each other’s shoulders. At last Donna guided her sister inside the house and pushed the front door closed:
‘I’ll get my stuff out of the car in a minute,’ Julie told her, wiping a tear away. She touched her cheek and shook her head gently. ‘You look so tired.’
‘I haven’t been sleeping too well,’ Donna said, smiling humourlessly. ‘You can guess why.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Julie.’
When she’d finished telling her story Donna didn’t even raise her head. She merely shifted slightly in her seat, running the tip of her index finger around the rim of her teacup.
Julie watched her sister seated at the other end of the sofa, legs drawn up beneath her. She reached out a hand and touched Donna’s arm, gripping it.
‘Why didn’t you call me as soon as it happened?’ she wanted to know.
‘There was no point. Besides, I could hardly remember my own name, let alone call anyone,’ Donna explained, running a hand through her blonde hair. She looked at Julie and smiled. ‘Little sister helping big sister out this time.’
‘You’ve helped me enough times in the past,’ Julie said.
There was only two years’ age difference between the women. Julie, at twenty-six, was also a little taller, her hair darker, chestnut brown compared to her sister’s lighter, natural colour. They were dressed similarly too, both in black leggings and baggy tops, Julie wearing white socks, Donna barefoot. They had always dressed similarly. They had similar views on life, men and the world in general, too. Best friends as well as sisters, they had shared a closeness throughout their lives most siblings only discover with advancing years. There had been no teenage rivalry between them, only a bond of love that had grown deeper as they’d developed. It had intensified when Julie left home first to attend photographic college and Donna had moved into her own flat after securing a job with a record company. The very fact that the women saw less of each other made their closeness more palpable when they met.
Julie had married when she was twenty-two. It was a doomed relationship with a man ten years older,
