Chapter 62
David Charles kindly dropped Bonnie off at home, right to the door. He had told her that best case scenario, the CPS would find there was no public interest in a prosecution even if there was enough evidence to bring this case to trial. But if it did and she was found guilty, she could face a maximum of fourteen years in prison. It was, however, unlikely she would get the full fourteen, she could get ten which would mean she was out in five and the last couple of years would probably be served in an open prison. If she was found guilty and sent down, they would appeal against the conviction. He didn’t want to scare her but he had to give her all the facts. She only had to read the newspapers if she wanted to inform herself what might happen. Recently there had been a highly emotive case of a man who had assisted his elderly sister to end her life. The prosecution had gone for his jugular, insisting he had murdered her for personal gain and the jury had bought it. The subject of euthanasia polarised opinion and in the present climate, the courts were definitely swaying towards intolerance of it.
When Bonnie got out of the car, everything seemed too bright in the sunlight and she scuttled inside, seeking the dark and security of the dear four walls of her rented home. She felt dazed and battered, as if she had been hauled over painful coals of her past. She’d told the truth to the police and could swear to all of it but the part where she lifted the bottle to Alma’s lips. Then again, she’d been so careful to let Alma call the shots at every stage, she wouldn’t have done what Stephen said she must have and taken the lead. Now it appeared he was accusing her of more: of declaring to him that she had forced the bottle’s contents into Alma’s throat. It was beyond lying, but a jury would believe him above her. He would be so much calmer and less emotional in a court. And boiling all the surplus meat of the story away, she did screw the lid off the bottle for Alma and she did lift it up for her to drink and she would have to admit to that because it was the truth. So they’d be bound to believe her capable of murder.
She went straight upstairs, stripped off and had a shower but no amount of soap would wash away the stain of shame; it was underneath her skin, indelible, a constant reminder that people could think she had killed a vulnerable old lady because she was a burden.
Later she realised she needed milk but the thought of going out to the shop terrified her. What if she was in the Daily Trumpet?
‘Oh God, oh God.’ Her heartbeat started to race and her shallow rapid breaths were making her light-headed. She sat down on the sofa and tried to force her breathing back to a regular rhythm. There was nothing for it, she had to go out to the shop now or she might never be able to leave the house again.
She picked up her bag and stepped out into the sunshine feeling as if it were a huge spotlight above her head, picking her out so everyone could see the criminal. Her eyes darted to everyone in the supermarket, checking to see if they were looking at her. She approached the newspaper cube with caution, wondering if she would see her photo on the front page, but the lead stories were all about yet another politician caught with his trousers down. She bought milk and a Daily Trumpet and paid for them using the self-service till. This is what agoraphobics must feel like, she thought, glimpsing a world of anxiety and super-awareness. The little house on Rainbow Lane had never felt like more of a sanctuary than it did when she got back to it. Her hands were shaking as she ripped through the pages of the Trumpet, but nothing was immediately obvious. She pored over the smaller articles, but couldn’t find any mention. She would have to buy a Trumpet every day to check: forewarned was forearmed. In a panic, she took out her phone and rang the number of David Charles from the business card he had given her. He answered via the Bluetooth in his car.
‘David, I’m so sorry to bother you, it’s Bonnie Sherman. Look . . . will I be in the newspaper?’
‘Possibly,’ he answered. ‘The newspapers don’t always have the full info so it could either not be in at all because they don’t know about it or need the space for other stories, or it might just be a couple of lines to say that a woman from Barnsley has been arrested for assisting a suicide and released on police bail. They could mention your name. It won’t be in today though, it’s too early.’
Bonnie felt sick. ‘What about the national papers?’
‘Hardly likely unless you’re a celebrity or it’s a very slow news day,’ replied David. ‘The police are now conducting an enquiry. Any reportage is likely to prejudice the outcome of a trial so if anything, you’ll be given bare minimum coverage.’ He didn’t want to raise her hopes and tell her that the Daily Trumpet would probably leave it alone. The new editor was keen to stop ruffling feathers, though he’d need to sack every reporter he had in order to do that. ‘Try to stay positive, Bonnie, and carry on with as normal a life as you can, because that will help you maintain some control. I’ll be in touch when I have any information, and if there is anything else you need to ask, you know where I am.’
Bonnie’s stomach dropped as much as if she’d been on the downward leg of a roller-coaster. All she could do was try to survive each day. Until this mess was over, one way or another.