27
IF YOU’RE INNOCENT, you have nothing to fear. Right?
Then why am I so frightened?
My previous statements weren’t taped and I hadn’t been cautioned. They wouldn’t stand up as evidence in court, so the first few minutes are spent going over stuff I already told Lamarr, re-establishing the facts for the purposes of the tape. I don’t want a solicitor. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t get over the feeling that Lamarr is on my side – that I trust her. If I can only convince her of my innocence, everything will be OK. What could a solicitor possibly do?
Lamarr finishes on the stuff we have already established and then starts on new ground.
‘Can you take a look at this phone, please—’ she holds it out in a sealed plastic bag, ‘—and let me know whether you recognise it?’
‘Yes, it’s my phone.’ I resist the urge to chew my nails. The last few days have ground them down to battered stubs.
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Yes, I recognise the scratch on the casing.’
‘And your phone number is …’ She flips through her pad and then reads it out. I nod.
‘Yes, that’s c-correct.’
‘I’m interested in the last few calls and texts you made. Can you run me through what you can remember?’
I wasn’t expecting this. I can’t see what relevance it can possibly have to James’s death. Maybe they’re trying to corroborate our movements or something. I know they can triangulate locations from mobile phone signals.
I’m struggling to remember. ‘Not many. There wasn’t really any reception at the house. I checked my voicemail at the shooting range … and Twitter. Oh, and I returned a call from a bike shop in London, they’re servicing my bike. I think that’s it.’
‘No texts?’
‘I … I don’t think so.’ I’m trying to remember. ‘No, I’m pretty sure not. I think the last one I sent was to Nina, telling her I was waiting on the train. That was Friday.’
She changes tack smoothly.
‘I’d like to ask you a bit more about your relationship with James Cooper.’
I nod, trying to keep my expression even, helpful. But I’ve been expecting this. Maybe Clare has woken up. My stomach does a little uneasy shift.
‘You met back at school, is that right?’
‘Yes. We were about fifteen, sixteen. We dated, briefly, and then we broke up.’
‘How briefly?’
‘Four or five months?’
That’s not quite true. We were together for six months. But I’ve already said ‘briefly’, and six months doesn’t sound that brief. I don’t want to look like I’m contradicting myself already. Luckily Lamarr doesn’t quiz me about the dates.
‘Did you keep in contact after that?’ she says.
‘No.’
She waits for me to elaborate. I wait. Lamarr folds her hands in her lap and looks at me. I don’t know what she’s getting at, but if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s keeping quiet. The pause hangs, heavy in the air. I can hear the tiny percussive tick of her expensive watch, and I wonder briefly where she gets her money from: that skirt wasn’t bought on a police officer’s salary, neither were the chunky gold earrings. They look real.
Still, it’s none of my business. Just something to speculate on as the time ticks past.
But Lamarr can wait too. She has a kind of feline patience, that quality of unblinking composure as she waits for the mouse to panic and make a bolt for it. In the end, it’s her companion who cracks, DC Roberts. ‘You’re telling us you’ve had no contact with him for ten years,’ he says brusquely, ‘and yet he invited you to his wedding?’
Fuck. But there’s no point in lying about this. It would take them two minutes to check with Clare’s mother or whoever handled the guest list.
‘No. Clare invited me to the hen, but not to the wedding.’
‘That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’ Lamarr comes back in. She’s smiling, as if this is girl-talk over a cappuccino. Her cheeks are round and rosy, with high cheekbones that make her look like Nefertiti, and her mouth as she smiles is wide and warm and generous.
‘Not really,’ I lie. ‘I’m James’s ex. I imagine Clare thought it would be awkward – for me as much as her.’
‘So why invite you to the hen – to celebrate her wedding? Wouldn’t that be awkward too?’
‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask Clare.’
‘So you’ve had no contact with James Cooper at all since you broke up?’
‘No. No contact.’
‘Texts? Emails?’
‘No. None.’
I’m suddenly not sure where this is going. Are they trying to establish that I hated James? That I couldn’t bear to have him near me? My stomach does another uneasy shift and a little voice in my head whispers, It’s not too late to ask for a lawyer…
‘Look,’ I find myself saying, stress making my voice rise half a tone, ‘it’s hardly unusual not to keep in touch with your exes.’
But Lamarr doesn’t answer. She switches track again, bewilderingly. ‘Can you run me through your movements at the house? Were there any times you left the property?’
‘Well, we went clay-pigeon shooting,’ I say uncertainly. ‘But you know about that.’
‘I mean by yourself. You went for a run, isn’t that right?’
A run? I feel completely out of my depth all of a sudden. I hate not knowing what they’re getting at.
‘Yes,’ I say. I pick up a pillow and hug it to my chest. And then, feeling that I should look co-operative, ‘Twice. Once when we arrived, on Friday, and once on Saturday.’
‘Can you give me the approximate times?’
I try to think back. ‘I think the Friday one was about four-thirty maybe? Perhaps a bit later. I remember it was fairly dark. I met Clare on the drive on the way back, about six o’clock. And the Saturday one … it was early. Before eight, I think. I can’t pin it down much better than that. Definitely not earlier than six a.m. – it was light. Melanie was up – she might remember.’
‘OK.’ Lamarr is writing down the times, not trusting to the tape. ‘And you didn’t use your phone on the runs?’
‘No.’ What the hell is this about? My fingers dig into the soft kapok of the pillow.
‘What about Saturday night, did you go out then?’
‘No.’ Then I remember something. ‘Did they tell you about the footprints?’
‘Footprints?’ She looks up from her pad, her face puzzled. ‘What footprints?’
‘There were footprints, in the snow. When I came back from my run that first morning. They were leading from the garage to the back door.’
‘Hm. I’ll look into it. Thanks.’ She makes a note. Then she changes tack again. ‘Have you remembered anything further about the period after you left the house on Saturday night? When you chased after the car?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry. I remember tearing down through the wood … I get flashes of cars and broken glass and stuff … but no, nothing really concrete.’
‘I see.’ She shuts her notebook and stands up. ‘Thank you, Nora. Any further questions, Roberts?’
Her companion shakes his head, and then Lamarr gives the time and location for the tape, clicks off the recording and leaves.
I am a suspect.
I sit there trying to process it after they’ve gone.
Is it because they’ve found my phone? But what could my phone possibly have to do with James’s murder?
And then I realise something, something I should have known before.
I was always a suspect.
The only reason they weren’t interviewing me under caution before was because any interview was worthless as evidence. With my memory problems, any lawyer could have shot a hole a mile wide in my statement. They wanted intelligence – the information I could provide – and they wanted it quick, enough to risk talking to me when I was in no state to be relied on.
But now the doctors have confirmed I’m lucid, and I’m well enough to be interviewed properly. Now they are starting to build a case.
I haven’t been arrested. That’s one thing to hold on to.
I haven’t been charged. Yet.
If only I could remember those missing few minutes in the wood. What happened? What did I do?
The desperation to remember rises inside me, sticking in my throat like a sob, and I clench my fingers on the soft pillow, and bury my face in its clean whiteness and I ache to remember. Without those missing few minutes, how can I hope to convince Lamarr that what I’m saying is true?
I close my eyes, and I try to think myself back there, to the quiet clearing in the forest, to the great glowing blocks of the house, shining out through the dark, close-clustered trees. I smell again the scent of fallen pine needles, I feel the cold bite of the snow on my fingers and inside my nose. I remember the sounds of the forest, the soft patter of snow sliding from overladen branches, the hoot of an owl, the sound of an engine disappearing into the darkness.
And I see myself tumbling down that long, straight track into the trees, feel the springy softness of the needles beneath my feet.
But I cannot remember what comes next. When I try, it’s like I’m trying to snatch at a scene reflected in a pond. Images come, but when I reach for them they break into a thousand ripples and I find that I’m holding only water.
Something happened in that darkness, to me, Clare and James. Or someone. But who? What?
‘Well, Leonora, I’m very pleased with you.’ Dr Miller puts away his pen. ‘I’m a little bit concerned about the time you’re still missing, but from what you’re saying, those memories are starting to come back and I don’t see any reason to keep you here for much longer. You’ll need further check-ups but they can all be arranged by your GP.’
Before I can process what he’s saying, he’s carrying on. ‘Do you have anyone at home who can give you a hand?’
What? ‘N-no,’ I manage. ‘I live alone.’
‘Well, could you stay with a friend for a few days? Or have a friend come round to yours? You’ve done amazingly well but I’m slightly reluctant to let you go home to an empty house.’
‘I live in London,’ I say irrelevantly. What can I tell him? I don’t have anyone I could foist myself on for a week, and I can’t see myself trekking out to Australia to my mother’s waiting arms.
‘I see. Is there anyone who can give you a lift back?’
I try to think. Nina, maybe. I could ask her to help me get home. But … but surely they can’t be throwing me out so soon? Suddenly I’m not sure I’m ready to leave.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say to the nurse, after the doctor has picked up his notes and gone out. ‘No one ever discussed this.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she says comfortingly. ‘We won’t throw you out with nowhere to go. But we do need the bed and you’re no longer at risk, so …’
So, I am no longer wanted here.
It’s strange what a punch to the gut this news is. I realise that in the few short days I’ve been here, I’ve become institutionalised, in a way. For all this place feels like a cage, now the door is open, I don’t want to leave. I’ve come to rely on the doctors and nurses and the routine of this hospital to protect me – from the police, from the reality of what happened.
What will I do, if I’m thrown out? Will Lamarr let me go home?
‘You should speak to the police,’ I find myself saying. I feel strangely detached. ‘I don’t know if they’ll want me to leave Northumberland.’
‘Och, yes, I’d forgotten you were the poor lass who was in the accident. Don’t worry, we’ll make sure they know.’
‘DC Lamarr,’ I say. ‘She’s the one who’s been coming here.’ I don’t want her to speak to Roberts, with his thick neck and his frown.
‘I’ll let her know. And don’t worry. It won’t be today anyway.’
After she is gone I try to process what just happened.
I’m going to be thrown out. Maybe as early as tomorrow.
And then what?
Either I will be allowed to go back to London or … or I won’t. And if I’m not, that means arrest. I try to remember what I know about my rights. If I’m arrested I can be questioned for … what is it? Thirty-six hours? I think they can get a warrant to extend it, but I can’t completely remember. Fuck. I’m a crime writer. How can I not know this stuff?
I must phone Nina. But I don’t have my phone. I have a bed phone – but you need a bank card to buy credit, and my wallet and all my belongings are with the police. I could probably call from the nurses’ station – I’m sure they’d lend me a phone if it was for something necessary, like getting a lift out of here – but I don’t know her number. All my contacts are in my mobile.
I try to recall any numbers I know off by heart. I used to know Nina’s parents’ number – but they’ve moved. I know my own home number, but that won’t help, there’s no one there. I used to know our home number off by heart, but that was the old house, where I grew up. I don’t know Mum’s number in Australia. I wish I had someone like Jess – someone I could turn to in any situation and say, without shame, I need you. But I don’t. I always thought that being self-sufficient was a strength, but now I realise it’s a kind of weakness too. What the hell can I do? I guess I could ask the nurses to google my editor – but the thought of facing her like this makes me go cold with shame.
The one number I can recall perfectly is James’s parents’ number. I must have dialled it a hundred times. He was always losing his mobile. And they still live there, I know they do. But I can’t call them. Not like this.
When I get back to London I must phone them. I must ask about the funeral. I must … I must …
I shut my eyes. I will not cry, not again. I can cry when I’m out of here, but for the moment I have to be practical. I cannot think about James, or his mother and father.
And then my gaze alights on the paper cup beside my bed. Matt’s number. I rip the cup carefully, and fold the scribbled mobile into my pocket. I can’t phone him. He’ll be on his way back to London. But it’s an odd comfort to think that I have, at least, one person I could call, in a dire emergency.
Two days ago I had no idea he existed. And now, he’s my one link to the outside world.
It will be OK though. Nina will come back, or Lamarr will. I’ll be able to get a message out to them.
I just have to wait.
I am still sitting, staring into space and biting my battered nails, when a nurse puts her head around the door.
‘Call for you, duckie. I’ll put them through on the bed phone.’ She gestures to the white plastic phone suspended on an arm beside my bed and then slips out.
Who can it be? Who knows I’m here? Could it be my mum? I look at the clock. No – it would be the middle of the night in Australia.
Then, like a cold hand on the back of the neck, a thought comes to me. James’s parents. They must know I’m here.
The phone starts to ring. For a moment I lose all courage, and I almost don’t answer it. But then I grit my teeth and force myself to pick up the receiver.
‘Hello?’
There’s a pause, and then a voice says, ‘Nora? Is that you?’
It’s Nina. Relief floods through me, and for an irrational second I wonder about telepathy. ‘Nina!’ It’s so good to hear her voice, to know I’m not stranded here. ‘Thank God you called. They might be chucking me out – and I realised I don’t have your number or anything. Is that why you’re calling?’
‘No,’ she says shortly. ‘Listen, I’m not going to beat around the bush. Flo’s tried to commit suicide.’