Fat Girl Slim, page 19
It was weird when DI Peters told me Mother had died and maybe it was the shock, but do you know what I thought when he told me? I thought; I won’t have to worry about getting someone in to cook her dinner now; there’s no need to bother Dolph and that’s good because he won’t be able to spread lots of gossip about me.
I don’t think I said it out loud, at least I hope I didn’t. DI Peters looked at me in that sad way and I remember thinking, why do you look so sad? You didn’t even know her and if you did know her you certainly wouldn’t be sad. I shouldn’t have thought that, should I? She may be dead but she’s still my mother, I’m the one who should be sad but I’m not, I’m relieved.
And free at last.
But I won’t be free for long if I’m charged with attempted murder.
I can hear cars pulling up out in the street and I think the front door must be open. WPC Roper is planted firmly in front of the closed lounge door so I know there’s no hope of me having a look to see what’s going on. The sound of heavy boots clomping around in the hallway carries through the house and low voices of what I guess are more police officers coming into the house. The neighbours will be agog by now, there’ll be no hiding the fact that something has happened at number six Duck Pond Lane, the rumour mills will be spinning like Topsy. And that includes Bella’s grandparents.
I know that we have to wait for the police pathologist to arrive before they can move Mother so someone must have told me that but I can’t remember who. There seems to be an awful lot of police here, perhaps that’s usual for a sudden death. Not so sudden when I think about it; Mother had been complaining of a headache for the past few days so I’m guessing she’s had another stroke. I wonder how long she’s been dead? She was okay when I left her this morning. Would it have been a swift death? If I’d been here instead of at Bella’s when it happened and had called an ambulance would she have survived? Before I can stop it that nasty little voice chips in: aren’t you glad you weren’t here?
I look over at WPC Roper. ‘Can I see her?’ I surprise myself by asking, my voice croaky and quiet as if it hasn’t been used for a long time.
She flushes and answers me without meeting my gaze because for some reason she doesn’t want to look at me.
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment.’
‘Why not? She’s my mother. I’ve a right to see her.’
WPC Roper clears her throat. She looks uncomfortable but she doesn’t answer me.
‘I’m her daughter,’ I go on, ‘I should be allowed to see my own mother.’
WPC Roper looks down at her large feet and says nothing. I wonder briefly if I’m in the middle of some horrible nightmare; the sort where you try to run but you can’t move or your legs move but you stay in the same place, like jogging on the spot. Or you scream but no sound comes out of your mouth, just a horrible choking sensation.
But I’m only trying to fool myself. I know really that it’s not a dream from which I can wake up, it’s all too horribly real.
I ask myself if I really want to see Mother. The answer is that I don’t know but I do know that I don’t want to sit here while the police are stomping around our house, my house, and I don’t want to wait to be told what to do. I feel a spike of anger and indignation; shouldn’t the police be suggesting that I contact a relative, or a friend, to offer me some support and sympathy instead of leaving me sitting alone on the sofa with only an uncommunicative policewoman for company? Is it really fair to expect me to sit here with a sour faced WPC watching me when I’ve just lost my mother? Yes, I decide, my indignation growing. I will demand that they let me contact Doris. She’s my friend, she’ll come even though she hates the police and calls them the filth.
I listen as multiple heavy footsteps descend the stairs. There’s a brief moment of quiet which is followed by a burst of activity from the hallway, the sound of the front door being closed and then opened and the shuffle and thump of footsteps as if something is being manoeuvred through the doorway. Muffled voices and shouts and then the thud of car doors being slammed in the street. I know what this is; they’re taking Mother away. Where will they take her? Not to the hospital. It’s too late for the hospital.
WPC Roper has heard the commotion too and she visibly straightens up, pushes her shoulders back and glances back at the closed lounge door. She’s waiting for it to open, willing someone to come in and relieve her from the burden of me and my questions.
She moves aside just as the door opens and DI Peters steps into the room.
‘We’re ready to leave now.’ He looks at WPC Roper when he says it but I think he’s talking to me as well.
WPC Roper comes over and stands in front of me and I think I should get up and show them out, even in the midst of grief I still have good manners. Okay, I’m not in the throes of grief but they don’t know that. I’m glad they’re going at last, I need time to get my thoughts in order. I pull myself up from the sofa, wondering if my shaky legs will hold me and, surprisingly, they do. I must be recovering now, getting over the shock of it all. I stand still for a moment to make sure the buzzing noise doesn’t return and send me back into black forgetfulness. When I’m quite sure I’m stable I turn to DI Peters.
‘When should I come in to the station?’
‘You need to come now, Miss Travis.’ DI Peters answers from the doorway as WPC Roper turns away, avoiding me and my questions.
‘Now? But my mother’s just passed away.’
‘Yes, and I’m very sorry for your loss but I’m afraid you need to accompany us to the station now.’
I remember then, with horror, the talk of arrest and handcuffs. But surely, they’ll allow me to take someone with me.
‘Can I call someone?’ I speak directly to DI Peters hoping he won’t ignore me like WPC Roper has. I want to call Doris, to see concern on the face of my only friend. She’ll come, I know she will; I want her reassuring gruffness, her assurance that she’ll look after me, her arms thrown around me while she pulls me toward her and thumps my back and tells me everything is going to be alright.
Is it my imagination or does DI Peters look embarrassed? Can policemen look embarrassed? I must be imagining it.
‘When we get to the station,’ he says, turning to leave the room.
‘I think I’d like my friend, Doris, to come with me. I’ve just lost my mother,’ I say in disbelief .
DI Peters stops in the doorway and turns back to face me.
‘When we get to the station, Miss Travis. You have a right to a telephone call when we get to the station.’
And that’s when I realise and it all makes horrifying sense.
They think that I’ve killed Mother as well as Rita.
Chapter 22
T hey asked me if I wanted a solicitor. I said I haven’t done anything wrong so why would I need a solicitor? They – DI Peters and another policeman, a Sergeant Stephens, didn’t answer me. DI Peters seems quite nice but Sergeant Stephens doesn’t; short, skinny and decidedly rodent like, he arrived in the room in a fug of stale cigarette smoke, briefly and unsmilingly introduced himself to me, nodded at DI Peters and then the two of them both went out and left me in here on my own. I wonder if they’re going to do good cop bad cop on me or have I watched too many police dramas?
They’ve told me that I have to call someone or else a solicitor will be arranged on my behalf. I definitely don’t want a stranger so I thought for a while about who I should call and I decided that maybe Doris wasn’t the best person to ask for. She’s not a solicitor and I also have a sneaking suspicion that she might have previous, if you know what I mean, so that might not be very helpful. There’s also the chance that she’d freak out if I asked her.
Since the horrific journey from Duck Pond Lane and then Peters and Stephens brief visits I’ve been left alone in this room with pea coloured walls and no windows. The only furniture is a teak effect Formica topped, metal-legged table with four matching chairs arranged around it. A very young WPC came in and provided me with a cup of tea and then left immediately.
Although I was only in the police car for about fifteen minutes it felt like forever. Every time we stopped at a traffic light or slowed down I tried to make myself as small as possible so that no one could see me if they looked in. I even took my ponytail out so I could pull my hair around my face and try to hide behind it. It was awful and all I kept thinking was, they must think I’m a murderer if they’ve arrested me.
I’m sitting with my hands linked together on the table and staring at them. I’m very aware of the camera mounted in the corner of the room. This may be just to film my interview but I’m taking no chances; I don’t want to display any sort of behaviour that could indicate guilt.
Although I don’t know what sort of behaviour that is – they could think I’m a cold-blooded killer for not displaying any emotion. I don’t know so I’ll pretend to be in shock. Although I don’t have to pretend, really.
There’s a double tape machine which takes up a third of the table. I know this is to tape our interview, one copy for them and one for me. I haven’t watched EastEnders for nothing. My mobile phone was taken away from me at the front desk although part of me wonders if they’re allowed to do that. Maybe this is part of the softening up process, maybe they’re trying to panic me by leaving me alone. If only they knew that I’ve been alone for all of my life.
I do feel a lot better than I did and I’ve managed to calm down, the initial shock when I realised that they thought I’m some sort of serial killer has gone now. I just have to convince them that it’s all been a terrible, silly mistake. I’m not sure how I feel about Mother dying. I can’t quite believe she’s gone. I should probably feel sad about it but at the moment I don’t. I’m too busy trying not to be charged with murder. Maybe I’ll feel sorry about her death later. Maybe I’ll miss her later. I doubt it and for now I’m not going to think about her.
I’ve made my mind up that I’m going to call Gerald, he’s a solicitor although I don’t know if he does criminal stuff; I think he’s more house sales and wills but he’s the only solicitor I know. I’ve thought about this long and hard because obviously he’s going to find out that I’m a liar as he doesn’t know that I’m a cleaner. And looking a liar is not a good start when you want someone to defend you. But actually, I think I could probably convince him that I told him what I did for a living when we went on our date. After all, he wasn’t really listening because he was too busy talking about himself.
But whether he believes me or not I think I can handle that, more to the point I think I can handle him.
My head is starting to pound and I’m tired of sitting here waiting for someone to come and interrogate me. What would a normal person who’d just lost their beloved mother do in my situation? Would they sit meekly and wait? I don’t think they would, they’d be demanding answers.
Decision made, I walk over to the door and rap sharply on the window to try and attract someone’s attention. I try the door handle and rattle it. It’s locked.
After a few minutes of my knuckle rapping a uniformed policeman appears at the door window and then unlocks and opens the door.
‘What’s the problem?’ He raises one eyebrow and has a slight sneer on his face. No madam or Miss Travis , it seems that I’m to be denied those niceties now I’m suspected of murder.
‘I’d like my telephone call.’
‘If you sit down I’ll arrange it,’ he says flatly, already closing the door as he speaks. I’m left staring at the closed door. I’ve been found guilty already.
I sit down and drum my fingers on the table, frustrated that my fate is in the hands of other people. The thought of being incarcerated in a prison brings me out in a cold sweat; the thought of not being able to go out when I want and being told what to do all of the time is unbearable. Mother imprisoned me for years but at least I eventually escaped and just when I can see complete freedom on the horizon it could all be snatched away from me.
The door clicks and Sergeant Stephens comes into the room.
‘If you come with me you can make your telephone call.’
I get up without a word and follow him, he must have come straight from the smoking shelter because he leaves a trail of stale cigarette smoke in his wake. He stops in front of the desk and nods at the phone extension on the desk.
‘You’ve got five minutes. You have to put a nine in front.’
I wait for him to move but he folds his arms and stands watching. There’s a bespectacled receptionist sitting behind the desk typing rapidly on a keyboard. She doesn’t look up as I turn my back on Stephens and pick the phone up. I realise that I don’t know Gerald’s phone number.
‘I need my phone to look up the phone number.’ I turn around to face Sergeant Stephens.
‘Who are you trying to ring?’
‘My solicitor.’
‘We’ve got all of the solicitor’s numbers. Who is it?’
‘Thompsons.’
‘Zoe, you’ve got Thompsons on your list, haven’t you?’ He completely ignores me and speaks to the receptionist behind the desk.
She stops typing for a moment, spins her swivel chair around to face the wall, looks at a list pinned to the notice board and reads out a number.
‘Sorry, could you say that again?’ She read it so quickly I couldn’t punch the numbers in quick enough. She purses her lips and reads it again, very slowly, and I punch the numbers in and hope desperately that Gerald isn’t out of the office. Will I be allowed another call if he’s not there or is this the only one I’ll get? After three rings the phone is answered by the snooty tones of Eunice. I ask for Gerald and realise that I have my fingers crossed.
‘Putting you through.’ Thank God, he’s there.
‘Gerald Thompson.’
‘Gerald?’ I query. ‘It’s Alison.’
‘Hi Alison,’ he says warmly, sounding pleased to hear from me and I remember that I told him I was away on business and would contact him when I got back. It dawns on me that he’s not going to believe I told him I was a cleaner. Too bad, there’s nothing I can do about it now. He must think I’m ringing up to arrange a date.
‘Hey, how are you, how was your trip?’
Yep. Apparently, he did listen. So what did I go and do?
I burst into tears.
✽✽✽
Gerald is on his way to the police station and I’m back in the interview room, locked in. I don’t know why I burst into tears but, on reflection, I think that was probably the very best thing I could have done, helpless, grieving female and all that. I had to hand the phone over to Sergeant Stephens to explain the situation as I was blubbing so much. He looked at me with absolute disgust before having a short, terse conversation with Gerald before hanging up. He never spoke a word to me and ushered me back in here with a hand on my back which was almost a shove. I think he’s taken a massive dislike to me which obviously isn’t going to help my case.
I’ve stopped crying now and I wish I had a comb and a bit of make-up with me because I’m sure I look a wreck and not a bit like the glamorous creature that Gerald knows. It’s probably a good thing that there aren’t any mirrors in here to make me feel any worse. I’m wondering how long he’ll take to get here when the door clicks behind me and I hear Gerald’s voice as he comes in.
‘....I’ll need some time alone with my client.’ He shuts the door and walks over to me. He looks just as gorgeous as ever and I wonder what he must think of the train wreck standing in front of him. For no good reason that I can think of I stand up from the chair.
‘You poor thing, what the hell are they thinking of?’ Gerald shocks me by taking me in his arms and holding me tight. I relax in his embrace and allow myself to be held.
‘They think I killed someone.’ I sniff. ‘They think I killed Mummy.’
‘Barbaric. Absolutely barbaric.’ He pats my back reassuringly, ‘Don’t worry I’ll soon have you out of here.’
We stay like this for several minutes and then Gerald gently releases his arms and stands back and looks at me.
He brushes a stray hair back from my forehead and smiles sadly at me and I realise that he’s enjoying playing a knight in shining armour. He pulls the chair out next to me and sits down and I sit and turn to face him.
‘What have they told you?’
‘That I’ve been arrested for attempted murder.’ I shake my head in disbelief. ‘A lady called Rita, she works where I work.’
He looks at me in concern and nods.
‘Gerald,’ I say, stifling a sob, ‘I have a confession to make, I lied to you about my job, I’m not really a food writer at all. I’m a cleaner.’
Gerald doesn’t look too surprised and I guess that the police have already told him. Of course he’d know what they’re charging me with. I hurriedly continue before he can think too much about it.
‘And I feel so, so bad about that, but I was only trying to impress you. I’m not really a liar, it’s just,’ I squeeze out another tear and it rolls down my cheek, ‘that you’re so successful, and well, amazing, I thought you wouldn’t want to know me if you knew the truth. Cleaning was the only job that I could get that fitted in with caring for mummy.’
Gerald takes my hand and holds it gently between both of his.
‘Of course I don’t think you’re a liar and none of that matters now. The main thing is that we get this sorted out and they let you go home.’
I sniff and smile bravely and gaze adoringly into Gerald’s eyes.
The shuffle of feet and voices interrupt this touching moment and DI Peters and Sergeant Stephens enter the room. Gerald quickly lets go of my hand and bends down and makes a show of rummaging in his briefcase. It’s been noted though; the hand holding, I can tell.
There’s a lot of scraping of chair legs and Peters and Stephens deposit themselves in the seats opposite us, arranging the files they’re brought with them onto the desk. Gerald produces a large, thick writing pad and places it carefully on the desk in front of him and puts a chunky, expensive looking pen on top.
