The Kindest Thing - страница 13

‘I’ll tell them we’ll be ready in, say, fifteen minutes. I’ll sort out a drink. Tea, coffee?’

I sit up straight, my back rigid like a slab, and take a deep breath, but the air is dry and stale and brings no succour.

The interview takes place in a small, bland room with oatmeal-coloured walls, heavy-duty ribbed grey carpet and recessed halogen lighting – it could be in a hospital or a school, the same anonymity. The light is garish and makes us all look washed out.

The detective, DS Bray, explains the protocol for the session. He makes eye contact a lot and has an easy, confident manner. A little like Neil, in fact, though nowhere near as beautiful. This is how Neil would be when he gave his students’ reports at parents’ evening – friendly and open and a pleasure to talk to. The police say they will record my interview on video. The camera is already running. He reads the caution, the one from all the telly programmes, and asks if I understand it.

He begins commiserating with me on Neil’s death, he understands what a difficult time it must be, sorry to intrude, but they would really like to hear my account of that day. Perhaps if I start from the evening before? How was Neil then?

I hesitate. ‘No comment.’ My voice sounds hollow. He’s not put off by this: he must have been expecting it, though his colleague, a scratchy-looking man with dry skin, rolls back his shoulders, betraying irritation.

‘Your husband Neil was suffering from motor neurone disease?’

‘No comment.’

‘How long since his diagnosis?’

A year and nine months. ‘No comment.’

‘How long had you been married?’

Had, as though the marriage ended with Neil’s death. We still are, I want to tell him. If Neil had lived we would have reached twenty-four years this September. Twenty-four years and he’s still my husband. I long to tell the man that, to prove the longevity of our relationship. ‘No comment.’

Ms Gleason said it would be hard but there is worse to come. ‘Was it a happy marriage?’

My throat swells. ‘No comment.’

‘You cared for him as his health declined.’

‘No comment.’

‘Was he on any medication?’

‘No comment.’

‘How was he that morning?’

‘No comment.’

‘Could he work?’

Neil, his lovely long legs, they could no longer bear his weight. He’d been so tall and strong, able to carry me. I’d revelled in his strength. My voice falters: ‘No comment.’

‘You have a son – Adam?’

‘No comment.’

He makes me negate everything about my life. I hate him for it. And I feel craven. Unable to own the circumstances of who I am, what I am. His tone is measured and warm, but the process is brutal. Each question is a blow disguised as a caress.

‘And a daughter, Sophie?’

Oh, Sophie, Sophie. My lovely girl. I should have cuddled her this morning – even if she didn’t want to talk surely a hug would have helped. A pause, my mouth waters and my eyes sting. I can feel the pressure as the tip of my nose reddens. I swallow hard.

‘This isn’t really helping us, Deborah.’ He is a sensible parent, a concerned form tutor. With ghastly inappropriateness I remember a joke Jane told me. About the inflatable boy who sticks a drawing pin in his foot and is called to see the headmaster. ‘You’ve let us all down,’ the head tells him, ‘you’ve let me down, you’ve let the school down and most of all you’ve let yourself down.’

I blurt out a noise, a laugh or a sob. It doesn’t matter, does it?

‘If we can just hear your account of what happened to Neil it might help answer some of the inconsistencies we’ve come across. We’re as eager as you are to see this sorted out.’

My solicitor chips in – can she smell me weakening? ‘My client does not want to comment.’

‘You said previously that you discovered your husband at three o’clock and couldn’t rouse him. Is that correct?’

‘No comment.’

How does he know this? Then I remember the comic-book-hero policeman, with the wide jaw and narrow forehead, who called while the ambulance was there, making notes at our kitchen table. What else did I say?

‘No comment.’

‘Did you give your husband any medication of any sort that day?’