Exposure Page 2

  Susan enters her first floor flat just before eleven. Hers is Victorian, one of two flats converted from the original house. It cost her more than she could afford at the time when she bought it but, on the other hand, it has increased in value by almost eighty percent over the few years she has lived here. And she likes the luxury of the combed ceilings, the four elegant rooms and the en-suite bathroom to her own bedroom. The last word in kitchen fittings gives the flat a feel of being a new home within an old frame and, although she is not in the slightest domestically inclined, she enjoys entertaining in the atmosphere of intimate sophistication that her home conveys.

  She has to feel for the light switch to illuminate her entry. The flat is warm and, as she goes down the hall, the wall clock strikes the hour. In the kitchen, she opens the fridge to pour herself a glass of mineral water. The downstairs neighbour has been in and laid her mail on the kitchen work surface.

  Absent-mindedly, she only scans the envelopes, knowing that anything of interest will be on her laptop in e-mail form. There are two bills and some circulars. Her next automatic steps are to turn up the volume on the answer phone, press the playback switch and head for the bedroom. She undresses as she listens. The first two messages are work related – one to arrange a meeting with Jonathon Whitney, her boss, the second an administrative assistant asking her to contact the office about travel arrangements for a forthcoming programme. She moves into the bathroom and starts to remove eye makeup with a cotton wool pad. The taped message that follows stops her at once.

  “It’s me. It’s over, Susan. I’m ending it. And it’s your fault.”

  That was Dave Ramsey. She recognizes the voice straight away, first with a groan, then with cold alarm. There are no more messages. She moves to the phone, picks up the receiver and dials the recall number.

  “You were called today at 22.44,” intones the electronic voice. “The caller withheld their number.”

  She plays the message again, suddenly and irrationally uncomfortable in her bra and pants. She has heard accurately. She struggles to get her thoughts together. Is it a suicide threat? Is it a real suicide call? It could be either. Could it be something else? Reluctantly, she dismisses the idea. The ‘it’ in the message that is over is her relationship with Ramsey. It must be what he is referring to – even if she finished that over two years ago. It has to be a suicide call - of some sort.

  Susan’s thoughts jumble. She is concerned for herself – not for Dave Ramsey. He has been nothing but a dependant wimp at the time and a bloody nuisance since.

  What should she do? Nothing? It is an attractive proposition to do nothing. After all, this is probably no more than Ramsey ‘upping the anti’ in his usual post-rejection behaviour. He has made numerous phone calls over the many months, after all. He has followed her and he has sent plenty of pleading letters – all of which she has ignored. Can she afford to ignore this one? No, not if the threat is for real. Not that she worries, she realizes, about Dave Ramsey taking his life. “More fool him,” she mutters aloud to no one. She sees the advantage in Dave Ramsey being dead and out of her hair for good.

  But reason and sense kick in. She knows that she cannot ignore this because she cannot afford questions in the public domain. The public domain is her world and if, later, it comes out that she had such a message and did nothing, it would not look good. That would not suit her responsible image of social commentator.

  ‘Mind you,’ she calculates, ‘I need not necessarily have listened to the answer phone. I came home late and went straight to bed. Who would be any the wiser?’

  Then it dawns on her with an expletive. “Damn. I rang number recall. That will be traceable.” Quite who would trace this, she is not clear. But she well knows the power of the media when it comes to investigative journalism.

  So here she is, with someone probably threatening suicide and blaming her. If she takes the risk and ignores the call – and nothing happens – her professional reputation will be unaffected. But if she takes any action at all she could expose herself to questions – questions that she would rather not answer.

  The last thing she wants is any prying interest into why Dave Ramsey, a rather down at heal and bespectacled postgraduate student of theology with a dull secretary for a wife, should be linked to Susan Blakely, presenter of ‘Tonight Live’ on Regional T.V. If she does nothing and the idiot kills himself, leaving a trail back to her, she will be doubly exposed. Once would be by her connection to him, once by doing nothing in response to the phone message. Then again, if Ramsey does not go through with his threat, she might needlessly make the relationship public herself.

  It takes her a few minutes as she finishes undressing and cleaning off her make-up to gather her thoughts and to come to a decision. She decides to play the situation as a concerned acquaintance, on the assumption that Ramsey really does have suicide in mind. But now what should she do? She can hardly ring the mousy wife, Brenda. That could reveal too much to Dave’s sad little spouse. She barely knows the woman, but from what little she has seen of her, she would hardly be of much help in a crisis. Who can she ring? The GP would be best but Susan has no idea who Ramsey’s doctor is.

  “Oh God,” she groans out loud. “I suppose there’s no alternative.”

  She lifts the phone directory, looks up the local police station in the suburbs where she knows Dave Ramsey lives and dials the number.

  “Good evening. Could I speak to the officer on the duty desk? Fine. My name is Blakely. I don’t know whether this is an emergency or not but I came in a few moments ago to find a message on my answer machine from someone I know slightly. It could be a suicide threat. I was not sure whether to ring you or not.”

  She listens to the voice on the other end of the phone and repeats the message on the machine, verbatim, for the policeman’s benefit.

  “Dave…. Ramsey, I think his name is. I am pretty sure it is his voice. He’s something to do with theology at the University. He lives at nine, Tiverton Drive. I looked it up in the directory before I rang.”

  “Well, no, I didn’t ring his house. To be honest I hardly know him. And I only know his wife slightly. I think that she is a bit nervy and I didn’t want to alarm her. I thought you would have more experience of this sort of thing.”

  “My name? Yes - it’s Susan Blakely.” She gives her address and phone number. If they know who she is, they do not comment.

  “I have no idea,” she responds to a question as to why the phone call might have come to her. “Well, to be honest, I have had a bit of trouble with him – nothing serious. Just a couple of phone calls. And I do see him about.”

  “Well yes, I will be here. I was just going to bed.”

  “Of course,” She replies. She hangs up and removes the cassette from the answer phone in response to the request to do so which she has just received from the police. She notes that the quarter hour sounds on the hall clock. She feels both relieved and anxious at once at the line she has just taken.

  She is wakened at 12.40 to the sound of the doorbell rang. She must have crashed into sleep and it takes her a second to work out that the bell is the door and not the screeching train of her dream. She struggles to the door in a daze and pushes the intercom button.

  “Miss Blakely. Can we come in? It’s the police,” says a woman’s voice. A second or two later, Susan sees the woman’s uniform through the spy hole of her front door. A police sergeant is with her.

  “Are you alone?” the sergeant asks solicitously as she walks to the lounge ahead of the officers.

  “Yes, but that’s O.K. I take it this is about Dave Ramsey? What happened? Can you say?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. He was admitted to the city hospital. He took an overdose. We found him in his car inside the University campus a short while ago.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The Pilar family was still up when Linda walked through the front door and into the large square entrance hall. Theirs is a mid-wars, two storied house, built with n
o expense spared when they renovated it and brought it up to modern day standards. It has a graceful, square appearance that Linda appreciates every time she comes home to its central hallway that is itself the size of a room. She listened to the sound of the family. Their nanny was already upstairs, light classical music emanating from her room off the square landing.

  Ken was in the downstairs study working on an interactive medical programme on the computer. Over six feet tall and well built, his round, even-tempered face gave up its concentration to greet his wife. He could never be called handsome but he is an imposing presence that seems to make him attractive to many women admirers. It is a standing joke at the surgery that it is a good thing that he is the faithful type. She smiled and waved in through the door at her husband.

  The children, Angela and Kenny, were already in night attire, still managing to look child-like as they lay on parallel sofas in the lounge, absorbed in some high action film. She kissed both youngsters on the forehead, and got an answering smile and a hug from Angela and a manly nod from the two years older Kenny. At twelve, Angela still has a favourite teddy who watches TV with her.

  “Have you two had a good day?” she asked and got only nods in return.

  She conceded victory to the television and, with an exaggerated sigh, half threatened, half promised to return later. With a tired sigh, she eased into the safety of the study she and Ken share and abstractedly accepted his great bear hug and kiss.

  “So, how was Susan?” Ken enquired.

  “Fine. I’ve invited her and Bill to Sunday lunch as soon as she can make it. I’m not sure that the relationship is going to hold, though, from what little she said.”

  “Mm. Shame. Bill’s a solid sort of guy. And that would be good for her. Mind you – maybe that’s precisely why it won’t work. It always strikes me that Susan is the equivalent of the lad who is sewing his wild oats – not ready to settle down, in case her freedom is restricted. But there is something else – I can’t quite put my finger on it. Maybe she is still becoming the person she is going to be.”

  Linda did not reply. She knows of old Ken’s ability to touch on the essence of a person. Then again, he is a doctor and has done a fair amount of training in psychology – a particular interest of his. Sometimes, though, he is judgemental and the last thing she needed was an opinion on this friend of hers who prefers her company to the company of her and Ken together.

  Instead, they talked about the day’s work. Ken was hard pressed at the medical centre where he shares a practice with five other general practitioners and two dozen or so ancillary staff. He also lectured to the post-graduate school at the University, albeit only for an hour. His evening was less pressured; one of family time. And his family is everything to him. Tonight, he willingly concerned himself with being home by seven to let the nanny away to a concert, to cook pasta and meat sauce for the kids and to listen to accounts of their days.

  Linda listened in turn to Ken’s description of the children’s days. Angela had a pretty ordinary day. She is still adjusting to being in secondary education with all the pressures of the new academic curriculum and new friends in the making. She is the socialite of the two children. If her first attempts at science subjects are anything to go by, she will not be following her father into the medical profession. Still, she is obviously bright and her aptitude for languages is beginning to emerge. Kenny’s day was dominated by his rugby session after school where he earned the title ‘man of the match’ for a particularly good tackle. He also acquired a large bruise over one eye to which Ken gave a few moments professional attention, to reassure himself more than the youngster. Young Kenny was barely unperturbed – there was no serious damage. Kenny was too high with his rugby success to discuss the lessons of the day.

  Much as he prefers Linda to be home in the evenings, Ken also secretly loves these times of parenting, and always has. Linda, both professionally and socially, has always had a busy life outside the home. This was her lifestyle before they married and she was not about to give it up in marrying Ken. Notions of ‘quality time’ were prevalent as she was rearing the children as infants and the debate was ongoing then, as always, about the role of women as mothers in the working world. Should they work or not, socialise or not, have equal career opportunities or not? Their particular way as a couple was smoothly paved, as two professional salaries came together at more than twice their separate value.

  Children in bed, the couple continued their conversation, mainly on practical arrangements for the next day, as they undressed. Linda told Ken about the gross behaviour of her male colleagues at the meeting on budget cuts as she removed make-up. Absent-mindedly, she acknowledged an appreciative glance from Ken as he caught her eye in the mirror. She is best described as a handsome woman. At five foot eight inches, she is tall until, that is, she stands by Ken. She has short dark hair and what she knows to be piercing brown eyes, softened by the laughter lines of early middle age. And she means to keep her good looks. As a young woman, she played hockey, squash and netball and was recognized as an able sportswoman at both school and university. These days, she limits herself to sailing, walking and running, and to the occasional skiing trip. But her physical fitness matters to her and when time permits she uses her lunch breaks to work out in the gym. She is not going to let her well-built physique go to fat.

  The comfort of their marriage is as evident in the bedroom as in the rest of their day-to-day lives. Tonight, as most nights, they embrace as they finish their conversation, turn out the light and settle to sleep. As most nights, Ken’s arm is round her waist, a hand holding her left breast.

  Linda lies in the dark, drifting quietly now with some time to herself and with her own thoughts. Five years older than she is, Ken is a warm and safe place to be in every sense and, thankfully, he does not press his sexual attention on her too often. He has long since sensed that their relationship and the family well-being are enhanced by his only occasionally – maybe once at a weekend – initiating lovemaking with his wife. She knows the reason for this but has never spoken of it to Ken. She has never felt that ‘in love’ craziness that she and Susan talked about just a few hours ago. They are friends; she and Ken. At least, that is how she feels about their marriage. There is nothing she can do about the fact that Ken feels differently; would want more.

  She is just drifting off when the phone rings, pulling them from the edge of sleep. Ken answers it, each of them anticipating as they struggle to wakefulness that this must be some major medical emergency. He passes the phone to Linda, shaking her arm, and grunting, “Susan”.

  “Hello”, is as much as Linda can muster as she peers at the radio alarm and sees that it is just after one o’clock. Then she listens as Susan says that something has happened, she does not want to say what on the phone and she knows it is the middle of the night. But could Linda come round?

  Awake now, and knowing that this is unlike level-headed Susan, Linda reassures her friend that she is on her way and asks if she is all right until she gets there. Ken, perplexed, but accepting the situation, is only vaguely concerned that his wife is going out at this time. He offers to drive her but they agree it is safer for her to take a taxi and for Ken to stay with the children. After a few instructions to Ken for the morning routine, she leaves within fifteen minutes and arrives at Susan’s flat before one-thirty.

  Susan seems tense but calm as she opens the flat door. Linda hugs her and says simply,

  “What’s happened?” She scrutinises Susan. Her worst fear is that Susan has been raped.

  Susan, looking as if already regretting her call, leads her into the lounge where a pot of herbal tea sits ready for them both. She pours out two mugs as Linda sits on the edge of the sofa.

  “The police have only just left,” Susan says.

  Linda’s eyes widen in unspoken question.

  “Dave Ramsey has overdosed. He left a message here on the answer phone, blaming me.”

  “Oh God,” is Linda’s re
sponse, at once realizing some of the implications. Then, “Is he dead?”

  “No - at least not yet. Apparently, it was mainly paracetemol. His stomach has been pumped but they don’t know yet whether he will live. Paracetemol damages the liver and, if that packs up, he’ll die.”

  Linda knows the medical significance of this particular route to suicide. You cannot live with a medical man without gleaning a fair amount of knowledge in these matters.

  Linda starts to gather her thoughts.

  “What did the answer phone message say?”

  “Very little.” Susan recounts it. “The police were here to get the tape. They were asking pretty difficult questions. Apparently, there is a letter but they won’t say what’s in it.”

  “What questions did they ask you, Susan?” asks Linda, focussed on what she imagines will be the central issues.

  “Why would someone I barely know blame me? Basically, that was it. But they came at it in different ways as if they know more. I stuck to the line that I’d met him when I interviewed him for a TV show. I said that I had drinks with him and with Mike, our cameraman, afterwards, and he started to get in touch with me here at the flat. Nothing more – other than that he got a bit troublesome. I kept to a line about seeing this as a young married minister who got a bit confused and never really intended to step out of line with his wife or with the church.”

  “Did they buy it?”

  “I don’t know. I can be pretty convincing. That’s my job. But it all depends what’s in the letter, doesn’t it?”