Free Beautiful Lie the Dead by Barbara Fradkin Page A

see that before he was even out the door, the manager was already on the phone, eager for his own small moment of playing hero.
    Outside the bus station, Whelan had to lean on his car roof to steady himself. Black spots floated before his eyes and a wave of fatigue crashed over him. The ATM had better be the last stop for today, he decided, before he became more a liability than an asset to the case.

SIX
    H e moved between sleep and wakefulness, drifting up and down as if billowing on a soft, fluffy cloud. He felt no pain or anguish, drugged by the Valium he’d taken at two in the morning. After two sleepless nights, he’d finally acknowledged he needed chemical help. He could barely think straight. On his latest shift, he had misread a consultant’s order and forgotten to sign a patient’s chart, and yet he’d lain awake at the end of it, exhausted but staring at the ceiling, unable to escape his thoughts. Meredith needed him. What help would he be to her, what guidance could he offer the police if he collapsed? If he could just get some rest, maybe everything would be clearer and calmer when he woke up.
    But the Valium didn’t quite pull him under. He could still hear voices. The radio news droning on, the commercials blaring. Time stretched. Slipped away. More voices, different now. His mother on the phone. Endless people calling. How many friends did she have? He knew some of the calls were probably for him. Friends and colleagues wanting to help, the Addis Ababa people wanting to know if he was still a go. Curiosity seekers, psychics and other disaster junkies salivating for their next fix.
    Meredith, what have you done? The cry welled from deep within him, jerking him above the surface. He wondered if he had spoken it aloud, and he clamped his hand over his mouth. He’d better be more vigilant. Valium was dangerous stuff, lowering his guard and loosening his tongue when he could least afford it. His mother had already warned him about that.
    â€œOf course you’re angry!” she’d said at two in the morning when she found him pacing the kitchen. “No matter what happened, no matter who’s to blame, she’s gone. But you mustn’t show it. Anger loses public sympathy, no matter how justified it is. People don’t like anger; it scares them, offends them and raises their suspicions. You’re the victim here, Brandon. Fear and grief are acceptable; they arouse sympathy and understanding. The police expect you to be panic-stricken and distraught.”
    â€œMom, I don’t give a fuck what the police think!”
    â€œBut you must,” she’d countered. “They are studying every inch of your life and your demeanour, looking for cracks, inconsistencies, and yes, emotions that don’t ring true.”
    He’d fought his outrage. He was not some damn client of hers being prepped for the witness stand, undoubtedly guilty but trying every legal manoeuvre to stay out of jail. She might mean well and she certainly knew far more about the police than he did, but what the hell was she saying? That he had something to hide?
    â€œYou talk as if I’m guilty!”
    She barely batted an eyelash. The queen of the courtroom stage, trained to make every muscle obey her purpose. “Of course not, honey. But to take liberties with the old legal adage, one must not only be innocent but appear to be innocent as well.”
    He’d hoped the Valium would give his battered mind the strength to protect itself, but as he lay on his bed with the duvet pulled up to his chin and the curtains drawn against the pallid winter sun, he felt his mind teeter instead on the brink of disintegration. Despite the prescriptions he routinely wrote for others, he almost never put drugs into his own system. Even during the exhausting years of med school, he’d avoided the uppers and downers that others used to cope. He’d hoped a small dose of Valium would do no