Chapter 66
Both Stephen Brookland and Katherine Ellison had the option of being interviewed in the comfort of their own homes and though the latter had accepted the privilege, Brookland had insisted on attending the police station so that he would put the police to as little trouble as possible. Henderson expected he would. Brookland was a grandiose man who was enjoying the theatre of it all, despite whatever tripe he said about being helpful. The family liaison officer had told Henderson that he was already driving her mad asking for updates every day.
‘Thank you for coming in again, Mr Brookland,’ Henderson smiled politely.
‘Pleasure,’ returned Stephen.
I’ll bet, thought Henderson. ‘Just a few points I’d like to clarify with you.’
‘Certainly, Detective Sergeant. I’d like to be as much help as I can.’
Henderson couldn’t understand how Bonnie Brookland had managed to live with him for thirteen years. Then again, he’d had one hell of a hold over her for the past five at least. He had control freak stamped all over him.
Barrett brought in three coffees. Henderson wanted Stephen Brookland to think they were all pals. Those eager to impress often ‘forgot their script’. Niceties ensued. Was Brookland coping? Had the FLO been of assistance? Then, with the atmosphere greased, Henderson slid into the grist.
‘So, Mr Brookland.’ He leaned on the desk and templed his hands together. ‘You say that you didn’t know anything about your mother’s plan to take her own life.’
‘Absolutely not,’ confirmed Stephen. ‘I would never have let her. As I said to you, I only have my wife’s word that she did. She is very plausible, I’m sure you’ve found that. All nicey-nicey, butter-wouldn’t-melt. You should ask her last employer why she got the sack: dishonesty—’
Henderson cut off his vitriol with a respectful but controlled interjection. ‘If we could keep to answering the question that would really help for now. The clearer the details, the stronger the case.’
That herded him back in line, as Henderson knew it would. ‘Of course, Detective Sergeant. Well, no I didn’t know. And of course when I walked in and saw my poor dear mother deceased, I was understandably shocked, which is why I didn’t properly take it all in then. Naturally I believed my wife’s version of events wholeheartedly at the time, but soon after I began to wonder.’
‘Which is why you kept the drug bottle.’
‘Indeed. My wife nursed my mother very adequately but I began to suspect that it had all been an act. For eight years she hated my mother and suddenly she couldn’t do enough for her; it’s odd, don’t you think?’
‘And yet you let your mother be cared for by her?’
‘Well, yes.’ Stephen shifted position in his seat. ‘I was working full-time, Mother didn’t want any strangers around her. Bonita was the lesser of two evils.’
I bet he’s delighted to have used that line, thought Henderson.
‘Why did you save the bottle, Mr Brookland? Why not destroy it?’
‘I was going to,’ said Stephen. ‘I was distraught enough to find my mother dead and then my wife drops the bombshell on me that she died by her own hand. I couldn’t think properly. My wife left me alone with Mother to say my goodbyes. As I was doing so, the thought came to me that something was very wrong here. Firstly, my mother would not have committed suicide, she thought it was a disgrace. You can check with the church she attended, she upset quite a few people with her views on it. Secondly, my mother and I were very close. She would not have done something like that without my knowledge. Nor would she have chosen to confide in Bonita. And it was very suspicious that my mother supposedly committed suicide when I was out for the evening. She would have wanted me by her side, don’t you think, rather than a woman whom she had always despised and who had always despised her. My mother was an inconvenience to my wife. All this flashed through my mind as if my mother herself had put the thoughts there for me, so before I sent for the doctor, I decided to get a plastic bag and keep the bottle just in case.’
‘Just in case what?’ asked Henderson. Just in case you wanted to bring your wife to heel?
‘Just in case there was a post mortem, of course,’ Stephen said imperiously.
‘But your wife had admitted to you that she had handled the bottle, hadn’t she?’
‘Yes, as I said, she had. She was too candid in my opinion. I found that very questionable.’
Barrett made an unconscious noise of agreement, which pleased Stephen. Henderson didn’t react but he made a mental note to mention later to Barrett to try not to let her personal opinions bleed into interviews.
‘So, when there was no post mortem and your mother was buried, why didn’t you destroy it then?’
Stephen crossed his legs and folded his arms slowly, a gesture that gave him a few seconds to think of an answer, Henderson deduced.
‘Forensic scientists are coming up with more and more advances each day. I kept the bottle because I thought that maybe in the future it might produce evidence to say that my mother had been murdered.’
‘Like a voice recording?’ Henderson kept his face serious.
‘Like some sort of chemical that humans give out when being forced into doing something against their will, I mean,’ said Stephen, not recognising that Henderson was being facetious.
‘I see,’ said Henderson, nodding in agreement.
‘What I will say is that my mother would have been horrified that anyone thought she had committed suicide. She might have been a very old lady and incredibly ill but she was very sharp up here.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘She should have been a politician, she could run rings around anyone verbally, was meticulous in detail, a master bridge player, she made sure she covered every eventuality when she organised anything.’
‘She sounds a wonderful woman,’ said Barrett, with sympathy.
‘She was. I loved her very much,’ said Stephen. He bowed his head and apologised for having to take a second to compose himself before continuing. ‘My mother walked towards death with her head held high, which is why it is ludicrous to think that she bought a veterinary drug from Mexico to end her own life.’
‘You presumably are the sole beneficiary of your mother’s will?’
‘Yes, although she left a small legacy to her bridge club for them to buy new chairs.’
‘She had a life insurance policy?’
‘Yes, I think I told you that before.’
‘You did. Would the insurance have been voided by suicide?’
There was a pause before Stephen answered. A swallow.
‘I don’t know. I didn’t check.’
‘It would have been fraudulent to claim, surely, if you knew that your mother had committed suicide?’ said Barrett.
‘I wasn’t sure that she had though.’
‘So you suspected your wife of murder but you didn’t go to the police?’ Henderson raised a mental high five to himself.
Brookland rubbed his head as if it were Aladdin’s lamp and a genie would come and take him away from this question trap.
‘I had no evidence to prove either suicide or murder. In the end I decided that I should support and protect my wife. My mother would not have wanted to be stained with the stigma of suicide so that seemed the only course of action at the time. I had to honour my mother’s memory and as for my wife . . . I vowed for better for worse in front of a registrar.’ His voice was rising, he was rattled.
‘But now, of course, she’s left you.’
‘Yes.’ His jaw muscles were spasming. ‘And if you are insinuating this is some sort of vengeance, then you are very wrong. I would not have betrayed her if she had not told me when she walked out of the door, as a vicious parting shot, that she had killed my mother: “forced the contents of the bottle down her neck because I was fed up of nursing the old bat but you’ll never be able to prove it” were more or less her exact words. My goodness, Sergeant. I was so glad that I’d kept the bottle then. I wanted to smash it into her laughing, disgusting fa—’ He recovered quickly. ‘I apologise. I’m very upset. And I have to admit, I feel as if I’m on trial myself.’
‘No apology needed, Mr Brookland. But if this does come to trial, a barrister will be asking these sorts of questions. It’s a complicated and emotional case and the devil is in the detail.’
‘Oh yes, the devil,’ humphed Stephen Brookland, as if he knew it so well because he’d been married to it.
‘Yet you didn’t come straight to the police after she said this to you?’ Henderson delivered the line smoothly.
‘Pardon?’
‘You left it over three weeks.’ Henderson noticed Brookland’s neck was blotchy at the collar.
‘There was a reason for that. I . . .’
‘You wanted your wife to go back to you,’ said Henderson, nodding as if he understood and agreed. ‘Presumably we wouldn’t have met if she had.’ He turned pointedly to Barrett and asked, ‘Do we have the copy of Mrs Brookland’s letter yet?’
‘Erm . . . not sure if it’s arrived yet but her solicitor was going to email it over, I believe,’ came the reply.
Brookland sat up straight in his chair, tension coming off him in waves though he did his best to hide it. ‘What you have to remember is that I was in shock when she told me. I thought they were just words meant to wound, we did have quite a heated row after all. I am not the sort of person to act rashly, I needed to process it all. It was very painful going over the events of my mother’s death, but essential and I’m afraid to say that I became convinced my wife had blurted out the real truth at last. I thought by sending her that letter I might force her to confess to the authorities before I reported her, therefore making your job easier. As you know, she did not turn herself in to you, so what does that tell you about her, hmm? My hand was forced at that point. But at least after five years, the truth is known.’
Very well improvised, thought Henderson. ‘Thank you for clearing that up. I think that’s all for now,’ he smiled, checking with Barrett who nodded in agreement. ‘Thank you for coming in. It’s much appreciated.’
‘You need to speak to Mrs Katherine Ellison if you haven’t already,’ said Stephen. ‘I’m sure she will convince you that there is skulduggery afoot.’
Who the hell talks like that, thought Henderson as he assured Mr Brookland that they would indeed be speaking to his mother’s best – and, it seemed, only – friend.