Made To Be Broken (12 page)

The nerves danced in Isaac’s stomach as the newspaper lay folded on the kitchen table. This daily routine was something akin to sticking needles in his skin. Each word became a piercing of pain driving home the loss of Em and the impotence of him as her father to protect and failing that, to avenge, to make right.

His fingers hovered over it as his mind raced through the possibilities of what lay in store. Would they get it right today or would they still be running on the wrong track? His aim was simple enough, for this void that lived inside him and Connie, to be noticed by the companies who could do something different, something to help, the newspaper had to report the use of digoxin in the deaths of local people. Fear clouded his brain and his fingers refused to move. All he needed was the ball to start moving, for the idiots in their ivory towers, those who had never seen real loss or pain, who only reported on it, to see this for what it really was. A message. And to distribute that message to those who had the power to make a real change.

The floorboards creaked over his head. Connie was moving about. He couldn’t sit here like this; she would ask what he was doing. He had to make himself move. Turn the pages. Look like he was reading the paper, not looking for a specific article. His heart hammered in his chest. The floorboards stopped creaking and her gentle footfalls started to descend the stairs. He had to open the paper.

His hands shook as he unfolded it. Hands that had loved. Had protected. Had shielded. Had failed. Hands that had fought, worked, battled and now were being used to hurt … but he had no choice. He wouldn’t allow Emma to have died for nothing. If the drugs failed her then the world needed to know, so that others wouldn’t be failed in the same way.

He read the headline and as he did so, Isaac felt every muscle within his body tense. He needed to scan the full article, to see if the drug was mentioned while trying to avoid the personal details that might be listed in there, but he could already hear Connie at the bottom of the stairs and he didn’t want to let on how fraught he was. Isaac took a deep breath in, then slowly exhaled. As he did so, the kitchen door opened and she walked through.

‘Morning, love, I popped to the shop for the paper, I didn’t think you wanted anything, I’m sorry I forgot to ask, I hope there wasn’t anything you wanted, it was just a paper I wanted, just a paper.’ The words came out in a rush, tumbling, tripping over themselves.

‘No, you’re fine.’ Connie walked over to the kettle, lifted it, shook it, testing for water, then took it to the sink and filled it from the tap. Isaac looked down at the article and started reading. ‘Coffee?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Coffee? Do you want one?’ Connie put the kettle back on the base and flicked the switch.

‘Oh, yes please. Just reading the paper. The one I bought from the shop.’

‘Yes, I can see.’

He stood up, scraping the chair on the tiles as he did so. ‘Let me give you a hand with those drinks. I’ll get the cups out.’ His movements were rushed and jerky. Connie yelped as his elbow swung into her arm, causing the mug she was holding to fall from her hand and hit the worktop.

‘Isaac!’ he stumbled back, bumping into the chair he’d just vacated, a screeching sound rearing up from the floor as its legs ground against the tiles. His eyes were wild with panic. He quickly grabbed hold of the chair, steadying himself, took a deep breath and stood still. 

‘What on earth are you doing?’ she picked up the cracked mug and rubbed it with her thumb, a gentle, weary caress.
World’s Greatest Dad.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know, I wanted to help, I was reading the paper, but wanted to help.’

‘Well, for heaven’s sake, Isaac, sit back down with your paper and let me make the coffee before you do any more damage.’

Isaac looked at his big thick hands and rubbed his face with them.

‘Isaac.’

He slowly dragged his hands downwards from his face and looked at his wife.

‘Sit down. Let me get on and make the drink.’

He sighed, moved the chair and shuffled into the seat, the newspaper still on the table in front of him, his hands now shaking. He heard the kettle whistle to boiling point behind him. He couldn’t sit here and do nothing he had to read the paper. He had to do what he’d told Connie he was doing. There was enough lying going on as it was. If he delayed opening the newspaper much longer Connie would wonder what was wrong with him and ask him why he was acting so strangely. He couldn’t face those questions. Not from her. He didn’t know if he had it in him to lie to her about this. He didn’t know how she would feel about it; if she would be angry with him, or if she would be in agreement, her anger driving her forward as much as his. Isaac couldn’t face that conversation; he couldn’t bear the idea of her looking at him with disgust on her face. There was little conversation between them nowadays but she was still his wife, and more importantly, she was still Emma’s mum.

He heard the fridge door open as she continued the task at hand. He rubbed his face again and took a deep breath as he tried to steady his nerves, uncertain as to what he would find inside the
Nottingham Today
and what his reaction to that would be. He didn’t want to be reacting badly to any article inside the paper in front of his wife. He had to get a grip of himself.

The milk sloshed into the cups and he unfolded the paper.

There was nothing in there about digoxin. He raged inside. Feeling as though he was holding a wild animal within, clawing and fighting to get out, but he had to sit here and be calm and civilised, because that’s what they were, him and Connie.

Civilised.

If he was so civilised he wouldn’t be doing this, he understood that, somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind. But that comprehension was so far embedded in the depth of his despair that there was no carving it out and dragging it into the light. The pain and anger driving him forward pained him, nearly as much as the reason for it.

But, he couldn’t stop now.  

The evidence we had now seized from Angela Evans’, Finlay McDonnell’s and Lianne Beers’ respective addresses made a mountainous sight. During briefing, I’d tasked Ross with being the exhibits officer for the case which meant every single exhibit that came through on this job had to then go to him to be logged on the main case log. I could see in his eyes that he hated such a paper intensive role but like a scolded puppy he had put his head down and got on with it. It was an important role but it was also station based, so I would be able to keep a close eye on him. As well as the visit to Curvet we were looking at who in the county was currently prescribed digoxin. This hadn’t been an easy action to initiate as patient confidentiality had previously prevented all this information being collated together in one place, but once the Health and Social Care Information Centre had started compiling all medical information anonymously with patients listed only as numbers, several police forces had put in requests for a database with names to be added, for instances such as this. We now had a database running where we could search the drug in our county and see who was prescribed it. The new database known as HEAD (Health Explained and Accepted Data) was being trialed in Nottinghamshire, Lincolnshire, Essex and the West Midlands. We were lucky that we were one of the forces in the trial, otherwise we would not have been able to access the details of people being prescribed digoxin, just their patient number. What the hell use was that when people were dying in the streets, I didn’t know.

There were a lot of ongoing enquiries. As I mused this over, I stood and watched Ross record all the new items that had been brought in.

Finlay’s parents had sat there helplessly as we worked our way through their house and removed everything from foodstuff to personal hygiene products and cleaning items. Their shock at his death was no doubt compounded by the emptying of their home and of Finlay’s personal items. It wasn’t easy doing this, but not only did we need to find out what had happened to him, we didn’t know if his parents or siblings were at risk. If that risk was still in the home. Their silence filled the house like a heavy weight. When we left, they thanked us. Now we had the task of working through all of this stuff with the CSU to identify the culprit and from there, find out where the item had been bought.

Ross had his shirtsleeves rolled up and his hair flopping down over his face as he worked. He used to take such pride in his looks. Sally would tease him that he was a pretty boy. His hair immaculately groomed with wax holding every strand in place, his face smooth and young. Fresh. Eager. Now his face no longer had that fresh-faced youthful appearance, though I knew we had all changed over this past six month period.

The surgery had repaired the wound in my arm. Fixed me up externally. But there was the ongoing physio to strengthen the arm and muscle back up, as well as the insidious pain I lived with. A permanent reminder I hadn’t been able to save Sally, no matter how hard I had tried. That was a wound, which for me would take some time to heal. And Martin had taken to living his life more energetically when he wasn’t at work. Every opportunity he had, he was away with his wife and two dogs, or with his mates, taking on the country roads on their motorbikes.

Aaron. Aaron, I couldn’t fathom. His surface was dark and his depths unseen. I just hoped he was talking to someone.

It had been warm all day but there was a chill to the apartment. It was always colder inside than it was outside, the hardwood flooring and painted walls keeping it cool. I dropped my keys on the table and went straight for the kitchen, where I had a bottle of Merlot open on the side. Putting my bag on the worktop, I pulled a glass out of the cupboard then rummaged through my bag for the painkillers. They went down easily with the wine. The throbbing was unbearable. The pain deep. Intense. Close. Personal.

I put the cool wine glass to my forehead and breathed.

What a day.

What a week.

What on earth was happening to my life?

Grabbing my bag, which contained the
Nottingham Today
I’d brought home, I walked over to the sofa and made myself comfortable. We were front-page headlines. Ethan’s dream to move on to a national paper might come true. But at what cost?

I read the article again, wine glass propped against my forehead.

Detectives are baffled as to the motive of the killer as no demands have been received and no one particular product, item or source has been identified as being the target.

Police have stated that they are working all the angles and will update the public as soon as they know anything further. They ask that everyone is vigilant and self-aware.

No one can say if the killer will strike again and if so, where that will be.

It felt strange reading the article he’d had written, especially with being the SIO of the investigation. The pressure at work was immense and this outside element, the press watching so keenly and Ethan most of all, really didn’t help.

I picked up my phone, took a slug of Merlot and dialled. The
Today
in my lap, headline face up, Ethan’s name mocking me.

‘Hannah.’ A note of surprise in his voice.

‘Hi, Ethan.’
What now?

‘It’s good to hear from you. How are you?’

‘How do you think?’

‘I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking. And it’s not like you to make first contact. I’m glad you phoned.’

‘Are you?’ I took another drink. Why was I being so antagonistic? Things had been okay between us when we’d been out for the meal. Admittedly I wasn’t expecting the ending. And at the station it was, I don’t know, but I had no real reason to have a go at him for being him.

‘Yes. Of course I am, Han. I’ve told you I’m there for you. I’m just not sure where your head’s at, what you want. It’s why I give you the space you need.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

‘I try to talk to you but you won’t listen, you won’t take my calls.
You
pushed me away after ...’

Ah, blame. ‘Is that why you’re going after me now, Ethan? Because I wouldn’t take your calls?’

‘Going after you?’

‘In the
Today
. The headlines.’

‘God, no. That’s work. And you know that’s not even heavy, Han. It’s reporting of facts, what I do. The job’s interesting as well. We’ve never had anything like this in Notts. Come on, I’m not doing this
to
you. I know you’ll be doing everything for this case.’ I wanted to have his arms around me and for him to make everything all right like he used to, but nothing would be right again. I’d failed and I deserved what I was getting.

‘I’m sorry I phoned.’

‘Don’t go Hannah, we can talk. Let’s talk. I can—’

‘I’m sorry, Ethan.’ I was, I felt so frustrated. I didn’t know how to sort this mess out. I wanted him, but how could I be with him when we were both working the same case again? We’d worked the same case before and look how well that had gone.

I ended the call, Ethan’s voice echoing in my head. The softness with which he said he wanted to talk. The callousness with which I’d hung up the call. What had got into me that was making me such a bitch? I missed him; but I didn’t know how we could make this right. Too much water had gone under the bridge. That had been made obvious when we went out that last time.

We’d been together at a period in time that had caused a crack in a relationship that was too new to be able to survive it. Our jobs had caused that crack to open up into a crevasse too big to cross.