Death of a Butterfly Read online

  My left eye twitched and I pressed my hand against the eyeball to stop it. I looked up at Pride and nodded.

  There was blue and white tape marking out an area around the front door. We entered. I felt awkward. It was as though my home and I had been very close, but we had experienced something so awful that just seeing each other conjured up a terrible reminder. I felt an icy crevice between us. I pushed my hands into my pockets and kept myself away from the walls and furniture. My only contact was my tentative steps on the floor. Pride introduced me to Derek Sopwith. Mr Sopwith took my fingerprints to eliminate mine from the crime scene.

  “Have you got anything, Derek?” Pride called out.

  “Not yet, Inspector. I don’t think we will find any DNA here. There’s nothing on the wallet. I think the victim must have handed any money over himself. Just a smudge on the front door, made as the attacker left.”

  Pride took a call and asked whether there was any news from interviews with neighbours.

  I started in the living room. A plastic sheet covered the area where Mathew had been shot. I noticed our big orange cushion on the floor with holes in it. There were black marks spreading out from the holes. The feathers had floated out across the room and into the hallway.

  I experienced a flash of frustration thinking of cleaning it all up. I took a deep breath and looked at the rest of the room.

  Everything seemed to be in place. Mathew was the tidier of the two of us. Sometimes I would find him straightening all the books on the shelf or rearranging the clock, candles and photos on the mantelpiece. He had a piercing eye for detail. I found it slightly intimidating. It felt more like his house than mine.

  I remember, after a year or two of living together, starting to experience a discomfort when I finished dressing, and he cast his critical eye over me. He never made any comments, just observed with an intense expression. My friends smiled when they saw Mathew picking a hair off my jumper or flicking a piece of dust off my shoulder.

  Recently I had begun to put on a little weight. I had filled out around my hips and my legs were chunkier. I began to feel uncomfortable undressing with Mathew in the room. I felt he would be quick to notice any new bulge, cellulite or wrinkle.

  “Where was the wallet when you found it?”

  “Derek, can you show Mrs Blake where the wallet was?” Pride called out.

  Sopworth came in with a laptop. He squinted as he searched through files until an artificially bright photograph appeared with the brown wallet on the smoked glass living room table. It was placed close to the corner so that the two nearest edges of the wallet were parallel and equidistant to the edges of the table. Only Mathew could position his wallet in such a way after handing over money to someone pointing a gun to his chest.

  I tried to look at the room with Mathew’s sense of precision. The symmetry of the mantelpiece was unbalanced. I put my hand to my mouth and gasped.

  “The photograph of us in Paris is missing.”

  “Can you describe the photograph and the frame?”

  “We were standing on the roof balcony of the Pompidou Centre with Paris behind us. It was in a plain wood frame.”

  Pride wrote in her pad.

  “Can you notice anything else?”

  There was a slight gap on the bottom bookshelf. My copy of Practical Wabi Sabi was slumped at an angle and pulled out slightly. Our old photograph album should have occupied the empty space. Mathew had made up a printed album of all the best photographs of the two us for our fifth wedding anniversary. I checked the other shelves. Pride encouraged me to search the rest of the house. I looked for the album in all the obvious places but it was not there. I noticed I became slightly frantic, as though finding the photographs would bring some sense of security.

  I walked back into the living room and reported that the album was missing. I felt a chill run up through my abdomen to my heart. I began to feel invaded, exposed and vulnerable. The killer had too much information. Pride looked perplexed. Sopworth was the first to speak.

  “Mr Blake lets someone into his home having eaten lunch, and they come to the living room. He takes out his wallet and possibly gives the intruder cash, puts his wallet on the table, kneels down here and is shot three times in the chest at close range. The killer removes and takes his wristwatch, grabs a photograph from the mantelpiece and finds and removes the family photo album. Bizarre, don’t you think.”

  “Perhaps Mr Blake gave the intruder the album, Derek. Otherwise it would imply the killer spent time searching for the album after he shot Mr Blake and knew of its existence. Stealing a photo album is unlikely to be a random act, but I can’t imagine the killer had murdered for the album.”

  “Looking at the neatness and precision of Mr Blake’s placement of his wallet, I wonder whether he would have held the other books in place as he removed the album.”

  I swallowed and nodded.

  “Yes, I’m sure he would, even if he was about to be shot.”

  Pride nodded and turned to me.

  “Can you retrace your steps and see if you remember anything else unusual when you came home?”

  I went back outside, put my key in the door and pushed it open. Then I remembered my cards on the floor. I told the inspector.

  “Must have brushed them off the table on the way out. He or she was in a panic.”

  I continued into the living room. Nothing else stood out.

  “I don’t think I would be comfortable sleeping here tonight.”

  Pride put her blotchy, pudgy hand against my arm. I stiffened.

  “I can have a PC stay here if you wish.”

  “I would prefer to stay another night with the Edwards.”

  CHAPTER 2

  I lay on the small bed in the Edwards’ home. My feelings alternated between a raw sense of loss to numbness. Earlier, when with Inspector Pride, I could objectively speculate on why Mathew had been shot and then later fall into a deep pit of despair. My heart felt as though it had been bruised, scratched and then repeatedly grazed against cold gravel. Each time I felt my pain was beginning to heal, the scabs were pulled off and I began to bleed with uncontrollable emotions.

  I longed to sleep but even with the sleeping pills, my night was filled with cold sweats, anxiety, panic and wild dreams. Part of me was still in my premurder life, thinking Mathew would suddenly appear and slip into bed with me.

  When I woke I was disorientated. For a moment I forgot where I was. Edward came in with breakfast. He set the tray down beside my bed. He sat on the side of my bed, resting his hand on my leg. Edward looked into my eyes. His blue eyes looked enlarged through the lenses of his silver rimmed glasses. I thought he wanted to say something but he could not form the words.

  “Edward, are you alright?”

  He patted my leg and looked flustered.

  “I’m fine. I’m just feeling worried about you.”

  Edward took off his glasses and immediately put them back on again before he got up.

  “I’m going for a run.”

  He took in a deep breath, and then opened the door with a karate style movement as he breathed out strongly.

  When I finished my breakfast I had a long bath, dressed and went downstairs. Edwina came into the kitchen whilst I loaded my breakfast dishes into the dishwasher.

  “Is Edward alright?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “It’s just that he seemed kind of speechless and left abruptly when he brought my breakfast up.”

  “Well, we are both shocked by what has happened and I don’t think Eddy really knows what to do when a woman is upset. I don’t think his world includes too many emotions.”

  I felt her last sentence was spoken with an edge of bitterness. It was as though the claim held an emotional charge over her. The words seemed to tighten around her throat causing her jaw to stiffen. I tried to change the subject.

  “I didn’t realise Edward is so keen on martial arts.”

  “Oh, don’t take any notice.
It’s just another of his passing phases. Last month it was all yoga postures. He’s showing off because you’re here.”

  I spent Wednesday in my home. I cleaned up the feathers and wiped the crumbs off the kitchen table. I spent some time lying on the sofa watching television, I sat by the window watching the clouds go by, then I felt withdrawn and curled up on my bed. I bunched up the pillows, cushions and duvet, creating a nest to hibernate in. Mathew used to be irritated by all the cushions I piled up on our bed, accusing them of being of no possible use and cluttering up the room. Even I did not foresee their later use.

  I began to think about Mum and Dad. Many of my memories of doing things with my father had a classical music soundtrack to them. If I ever wanted to be reminded of the sounds of my mother, I only had to listen to BBC Radio Four. When Mum died, I found my father’s old Quad amplifier, preamp and turntable in the attic, along with his records. I kept them in my home and when I later showed them to Mathew, near the beginning of our relationship, his face flushed with excitement. He claimed the old valves gave the music more authentic, mellow tones.

  I thought music might fill the void I felt inside me. I started with my father’s favourites, Beethoven’s “Immortal Beloved,” then I lifted the needle and listened to Rachmaninoff’s second piano concerto. Next, I transferred my musical associations to Mathew. We went through a phase of listening to sixties music. It coincided with my exploration of pop art. I played “Californian Dreamin’” by The Mamas and Papas and then “White Rabbit” by Jefferson Airplane. That reminded me of an instrumental version Mathew played a lot. I searched his collection until I found the George Benson recording. This led me to “The Thrill Has Gone” played by B.B. King, and more tears.

  I turned off the music. The silence contributed to an empty sensation. I walked back to the kitchen. My footsteps took on a sinister tone. I stopped abruptly, just to make sure they were mine. I turned the radio on, set it to Radio Four and let my imagine run to my mother being with me.

  Still not feeling secure enough to sleep at home, I slept at the Edwards’ during the night. On Thursday I could not be bothered to get up at all. Edwina came in to see me. I described my feelings. Edwina gave my hand a squeeze and encouraged me to make a “To Do” list. She got the paper and pen. I sat up in bed and started to write:

  Formally identify Mathew’s body.

  Arrange funeral.

  Get death certificate and see solicitor for his will.

  Transfer various bills into my name.

  See bank manager regarding Mathew’s account.

  Talk to James about the shop.

  Call school and arrange leave.

  My visit to the mortuary was a cold formality. I thought I would plunge into further emotional turmoil, but the environment was so stark and clinical that it felt more like a hospital visit. I could smell the disinfectant. The mortician pulled back a light green nylon sheet so I could see Mathew’s face, I nodded, and Inspector Pride led me out again.

  “Have you had any further thoughts about who might have killed Mathew?”

  I shook my head.

  “So far, we have very little to work on. We are still appealing for witnesses who might have seen someone enter your house around one. Some kind of description is our best hope. Wait here and I will arrange for a lift home.”

  I collected Mathew’s certificate from the doctor and took it round to the registrar’s office to get the death certificate.

  Friday became a busy day.

  I started by calling the school’s head of art and explained Mathew’s death. I felt awkward listening to Mrs Howe’s expressions of shock and sympathy. I was given a month’s compassionate leave.

  Next I arranged to meet our solicitor, Graham Parker, who had written our will. Early afternoon I took the death certificate so he could officially read me the will. Mr Parker glanced at me over his reading glasses with a grave expression as he opened the will. It was simply an act of reading back the document we had signed a few years earlier. Mathew left me everything.

  On the way home I visited the bank. I asked to see the manager. After a long wait I was shown into the communal office. The manager’s badge told me he was Rasneesh Patel, before he could introduce himself.

  “How can I help you, Mrs Blake?” he said cheerily, as he stood to shake my hand.

  “My husband died on Monday and I thought I should tell you.”

  Mr Patel looked concerned. He waved me to a seat and we sat down.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that. Was it unexpected?”

  “He was murdered.”

  The manager looked genuinely shocked and I immediately regretted being so blunt. Mr Patel looked at the death certificate, will and my driving license. He then tapped details into his computer.

  “I will arrange to have all the funds from his personal accounts transferred to yours. There is £1,278.59 in his current account and £7,203.89 in his savings account.”

  “Are you sure? I was under the impression Mathew was steadily saving.”

  Mr Patel stared at the screen intently. He pressed his lips with his fingers, looking confused.

  “Well, it is quite strange. During the last year he made three large deposits from the North Hertfordshire Building Society, whilst he has withdrawn ten thousand pounds a week in cash.”

  “Ten thousand pounds a week in cash?”

  My voice had become high pitched as I accentuated each word. The numbers rolled around my head like lottery cubes.

  Mr Patel swung the screen around so I could see the statements. He scrolled down pointing out the weekly withdrawals and the three large deposits.

  “I just don’t understand it. I’m sorry but there must be some mistake.”

  There was a long pause before Mr Patel spoke. He cleared his throat.

  “Well, let’s see. Your husband would have seen all the statements except this month’s. If he checked them, I presume he would have noticed a mistake, especially one as large as this. Was he the type of person who would read his statements?”

  “Um, yes, he was meticulous with most things.”

  I sighed as the realisation that Mathew must have known sunk in.

  Mr Patel looked concerned.

  “I will, of course, check but I think it is highly unlikely there has been an error.” The manager leant forwards and lowered his voice. “You said he had been murdered. Well, this does look a little suspicious to me. It appears that he has taken out mortgages and then withdrawn large sums of cash. I think it would be wise to inform the police.”

  I searched in my bag for the number Pride had given me. Half an hour later I saw Inspector Pride’s bulk enter the bank. She was slightly out of breath. We went back to the office so Pride could see the statements for herself. The inspector searched her bag and I thought she was going to pull out a packet of biscuits but instead she found her notebook. She wrote out the dates and amounts of the deposits from the building society to Mathew’s personal account and made notes about the cash withdrawals.

  “So every Monday your husband came here and took out ten thousand pounds. And you did not know anything about this?”

  I shook my head. I experienced an irrational feeling of guilt, as though I should have had greater control over Mathew and been on top of our family’s finances. I swallowed hard and bit my bottom lip. This could not be happening to me. Life had been so predictable. This wasn’t part of the script. Suddenly there was no Mathew, no getting up early for school, and now no money. The cliché that I would wake up and find it was all a nightmare, washed around my head. I pinched my forearm, just in case. Pride asked to see the screen again.

  “Last Monday he did not make a withdrawal. What time were the other withdrawals made?”

  Mr Patel went off to locate the times.

  Pride looked at me intently.

  “Have you any reason to believe he was being blackmailed?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Do you mind if we search your
home more thoroughly?”

  I nodded in acquiescence. My voice felt very weak as I spoke next.

  “I thought we had paid off the mortgage. My mother died just over six years ago and I inherited everything. After we were married, we used the money to buy our home with a mortgage. We paid it off last year.”

  Mr Patel came back to the office. Most of the withdrawals were made between 9 a.m. and 11 a.m. He had an ongoing arrangement to collect the cash in £50 notes.”

  Pride rubbed her left eye and looked tired.

  “So every Monday Mr Blake comes into the bank to collect his money, but last Monday he did not collect the cash and later that same day he is murdered.”

  “Excuse me, Inspector, but perhaps the reason he did not withdraw the cash was that he did not have the funds,” Mr Patel pointed out helpfully.

  “He finally runs out of money and his blackmailer strikes. Seems a little impatient, but at least it give us a theory to explore.” Pride continued her musings. “I will give that building society a visit.”

  At home I slumped back into nothingness. Somehow Mathew had created a financial abyss. I certainly did not have the means to pay off a big mortgage on my teacher’s salary. What next, I thought. Perhaps I will find I have terminal cancer.

  In the evening, Edwina asked how I got on and I told them about my experience at the bank. I noticed that as I was talking I was pressing my fingernail so hard into the flesh of my hand that the knuckle started to bleed. They asked lots of questions I could not answer. Edward leant forward and reassured me that the building society could not have made any loans against our home without my signature. Perhaps it was all a mistake and would be sorted out next week.

  “The darkest day,” he muttered.

  In the morning Edward brought me breakfast in bed. Edwina had gone out for her yoga class. He sat down on the edge of the bed looking awkward. Edward placed his hand on my leg and gave me a squeeze before removing it again.

  “How are you this morning, Amanda?”

  “I am not sure I can go on. What’s the point?”