‘So would you like to tell me exactly what has been going on here?’ says the policeman now, getting out a notebook from his pocket.
Despite my tear-streaked face and sandy, filthy clothes, I have a moment where the chaos inside has truly calmed. I feel strong and full of acceptance.
‘Officer,’ I say, in a clear, confident voice, ‘I would like to report a murder.’
PART FOUR
MELISSA
Melissa gazes from the back of the police car at the neon slashes of motorway flashing by outside. She is numb with exhaustion and the hangover of shock. The two policewomen in the front talk in low murmurs.
Amber lies with her head on Melissa’s lap, the seat belt awkwardly around her soft middle. Melissa wants to stroke her hair, as much for her own comfort as anything else. But she doesn’t want to wake the little girl. Not after such a traumatic day.
When Hester came out with those heart-stopping words, the ground seemed to rise up sickeningly before righting itself. She thought she would faint. The two police officers exchanged glances; one of them actually smirked and Melissa vaguely registered a thought. Maybe people should take Hester a bit more seriously. Herself included.
They were all taken down to the police station. Melissa watched Hester be led to an interview room while she was taken into a small back office. A policewoman distracted Amber with hot chocolate and an iPad while she was questioned.
Not knowing what Hester would say was a torture. But Melissa repeated basic facts several times over: Amber’s father was an old friend who had visited and then disappeared. He had turned up, dead, and her neighbour somehow took it upon herself to take Amber away. No, she had no idea what Hester had meant about a murder. And please could she go home? She had promised Amber’s mother she would return her.
It all felt like one of the most arduous things she had ever done. Physically hard, like there was a weight above her head; an avalanche she must hold back with her weak arms.
She longed to know what Hester was saying, how much she was implicating her. The fear felt it was injuring her inside, corroding her soft tissues. Somewhere along the line she’d agreed to take Bertie home. Perhaps if Hester heard about it, she might not mention Melissa? It was too good to hope for …
Then, incredibly, she was told she could leave. There would probably be some questions when she was home and she shouldn’t stray too far but, yes, she was free to go and did she want a lift back to London?
The dog makes an odd sound now like a series of popping bubbles. It shakes all over and stretches out a back leg before pulling it back in again. She looks at it lying there in the footwell and wonders if dogs have nightmares. Is it – is he – reliving the mortal terror of that moment. The sickening free fall into nothingness?
She knows nothing about dogs. Has no desire to know anything further. The dog is a problem she isn’t able to deal with right now. Melissa gnaws at her finger, nipping at the skin around her nail until blood oozes from her finger. Sucking the blood away, she tries to imagine, yet again, what Hester is doing right now. It is an impossible thing to picture: Hester in an interview room at a police station. What is she saying? What is she telling them?
Melissa closes her eyes in agony. She hasn’t had the time to process what Hester told her on that path before everything went crazy.
Could it be true that she really didn’t murder him? It means she must once again paint her world in new colours.
She starts to weep softly now. If only she had called the police that night. If only she hadn’t gone along with the insane plan to bury his body.
Before long, they are passing Heathrow.
Melissa knows she should go with the police to return Amber. But seeing Kerry’s grief up close will destroy her. She is too cowardly.
She will ask that she be taken home.
Back to her empty house and her nightmares and whatever comes next.
HESTER
‘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.