‘Hester,’ I say out loud. ‘You have a lot to answer for.’
Shivering a little, I regard the thin green blanket on the bed and wonder how bad it smells. I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.
They didn’t really want to put me in here but they tell me there is no one to take me to London, where local officers will be taking over my investigation, until the morning.
The cell really is as mean and cold and desperate as I would have imagined. In other respects though, it’s funny how different it all is compared to the television. It’s the speed of things more than anything. It’s all so very slow in real life. On screen, criminals get processed and questioned in no time and then lickety-split, it’s time for the trial.
Whereas I feel as though I have been here since last Wednesday at least.
Might as well get used to it, Hester, I tell myself. Your time is no longer your own, old girl.
I don’t think they exactly know what to do with me. For quite a while they behaved as though I were a harmless old woman with delusions. That rankled, I can tell you. Just because I am a quiet person past the first flush of youth, must I be endlessly patronized?
When I arrived they put me in an interview room and left me for such a long time. My poor hips ached horribly on that plastic bucket seat.
A policewoman with a sharp nose and rather greasy-looking fair hair offered me tea but there had been no sign of it. I felt as though I could deal with the next bit, if only they would do this one thing.
I looked around at the interview room, imagining all the horrible things that had been confessed to here. The walls were a sickly green colour and there was a large mirror, two way, I’m sure, on the wall opposite. I suddenly got the urge to wave at it, just in case anyone was looking in. That would certainly have given them a surprise.
My thoughts jumped back to Amber being taken away, crying noisily. I don’t think I have ever felt worse than I did at that moment. I will never see that sweet child again. I took on the task of keeping her safe and I failed in that one thing. This knowledge was a knife to my heart and I began to moan softly.
‘Are you all right?’
I hadn’t even heard the door opening but they were back, Greasy Hair and a man I immediately called Baldie. They stared at me as though I was quite the oddest thing they had ever come across. If so, they have led very sheltered lives for representatives of the law.
‘Still waiting for my cup of tea, since you ask,’ I said crisply and was gratified to see a slight colouring in the policewoman’s cheeks.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, let me just …’
A cup of tea arrived a few minutes later, in a mug, rather than from a machine, to my surprise.
They sat opposite me. She had a tired face and carried weight around the midriff. Her blue suit jacket was shiny and cheap and there was a small stain on the lapel, which I was certain was baby sick. I knew in that moment that a woman like her would never understand a woman like me.
Him, the man, was quite good-looking, if you like that sort of thing, with his dark eyes and rather effeminate eyelashes.
He met my gaze directly and I found myself glancing away. I expect he gets all sorts out of people with that penetrating stare.
They did that thing with the tape recorder then and I got to hear their names: Detective Constable Maggie Donovan and Detective Constable Ian Rivers. They asked me if I would like them to arrange a lawyer, and I gave a loud bark of laughter that I think surprised all three of us.
‘I think it is a little late for that,’ I said, taking a sip of the tea, which was foul and milky. I grimaced and swallowed it anyway, needing the meagre sustenance it provided.
‘Okay Hester,’ said Donovan, ‘so you say you would like to report a crime?’
‘I would,’ I said patiently. ‘This is my confession. It shouldn’t take too long.’
They did it again, exchanging glances. He, Rivers, looked like he might laugh.
It enraged me, I can tell you.
I leaned forward and looked very deliberately into both their faces. I could almost feel the energy in the room becoming more focused. It was quite thrilling in a way.
‘I will make this very easy for you,’ I said carefully. ‘I should be charged with abducting that child. But I am also guilty of the murder of my husband, Terence David Morgan, in 1999. He was very sick and I drowned him in the bath. It wasn’t one of those situations where he’d begged me to do it. I don’t imagine he wanted to die at all. There,’ my cheeks feel flushed and I am exhilarated by my own speech, ‘is that clear enough for you?’
***
It had been a sticky, unpleasant week. The sort that frays tempers. Dust motes danced in the slash of sunlight coming through the bedroom curtains and the smell of sickness pervaded the house, however much I opened the windows or sprayed Airwick around the place. Terry’d had this blessed stomach thing for a few days.
Well, that was just the final straw.
The dementia had started slowly. A lost wallet here, a forgotten appointment there. Then he started to forget my name and then his own name. The doctors said he was very unlucky to get it at only 68. He was unlucky? What about me?
Terry had only ever let me down. He wasn’t a father. He wasn’t a businessman. I needed the patience of a saint, that final year. Caring for him and having to be his memory and his chaperone and his everything.
So when I’d had to clean up his mess for the third time in two days, I decided enough was enough. He took the sleeping tablets without complaint and was docile as a lamb as I encouraged him into the bath. He even smiled like a little boy being given a treat when I placed the full glass of whisky on the side of the bath. He always liked a drink and hadn’t been allowed one for such a long time that he drank it as though it were squash. It wasn’t long before his eyelids began to slip and his face slacken into sleep.
Then all it took was the gentlest push. He struggled a tiny bit and the bubbles rising to the surface were a little distressing. But it didn’t take long and that added to the feeling that it was all meant to be, if you see what I mean.
I was hoping I might have been able to share this, the deepest of my secrets, with Melissa after that night we spent together. But now I know that she wouldn’t understand.
In a way, all of this is Terry’s fault. If we’d had a child, I may have been a grandmother by now. (Yes, a grandma Jamie!) I would have been far too busy to get mixed up in Melissa’s nonsense. Why couldn’t he have just done that one thing for me?
So I’ve been formally charged, and now I sit here in this dingy, oddly quiet, cell, I can almost sense Terry finally leaving me.
I suppose I could have told them about the other thing. But I think this is quite enough to be going on with. Terry has been the albatross hung around my neck for so long.
Jamie can stay as our little secret. And I need someone to look after Bertie, don’t I?
I’m sure Melissa will grow to love him in time.