The Kindest Thing - страница 14
‘No comment.’
‘Was he in pain?’
I don’t like to think of Neil in pain. And it didn’t often happen. The muscles became progressively weaker, turning from sinew to sponge as they lost the capacity to communicate with the brain. The pain wasn’t physical.
‘No comment,’ I say tightly.
He takes a sip of water from the cup at his side. He’s left-handed; he wears a plain gold band on his ring finger.
‘I don’t know whether your solicitor has explained to you how a jury might interpret your choice to remain silent.’
The word ‘jury’ sends my blood pressure sky high, a tightening of my skin, my pulse stammering. I want to run – I want to hurl my chair aside and fling open the door and pelt down the street, through the park, across the main road, on and on, away. Find somewhere safe, somewhere for Neil and me, where nobody can bother us.
Ms Gleason jumps in. ‘My client is exercising her right to remain silent under advisement.’
‘Did you love your husband, Deborah?’
He waits. My jaw is locked. My tongue stiff, pressed against my palate. My teeth imprinting scallops in the edges of my tongue. I force my teeth apart. ‘No comment.’ But I cannot hold myself together. I break down and Ms Gleason makes them agree to a break until I am less distressed. I’m crying for Neil because I miss him so. I’m noisy and messy and my nose is running and I don’t give a damn.
‘They seem interested in his medication,’ Ms Gleason tells me, once we are alone. ‘There may be something from the post-mortem that they’ve yet to disclose. Was Neil on regular medication?’
I want to say no comment. How much to tell her? Can I trust her?
‘He’d been on anti-depressants.’
‘He was depressed because of the illness?’
Stupid question. ‘Yes.’ I’d tried to keep my voice even.
‘Anything else?’
‘He’d become breathless, and had quite a lot of muscle pain. The GP had put him on liquid painkillers for that. Morphine.’
‘He was self-medicating?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where did you keep the medicines?’
‘His bedside.’
‘So they were accessible to him. Is it possible Neil self-administered an overdose?’
‘It’s possible,’ I say, my knees pressed tight together, toes curled, gripping the floor.
‘You didn’t give him anything that morning?’
‘No. Just some wine at lunchtime.’
There is a knock at the door and she goes to see who it is. A respite. Exhausted, I slump in my chair. She turns back into the room and says she will be away for a few minutes. Do I need anything?
A deus ex machina, ta. I shake my head.
She is back in ten minutes. She takes a moment to settle her file and gather her thoughts. ‘The police conducted a second post-mortem.’
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to react. Is this a good thing? She sees I’m confused, places her palms on her knees. She has large hands but slender wrists. In fact, she is scrawny, but for those mitts.
‘They wanted to confirm the findings of the first. In a case like this we can opt to have an independent post-mortem carried out – if we don’t trust their findings.’
What have they found? I don’t trust myself to ask. She carries on talking but I’m imagining Neil, his chest cracked open, his organs weighed and measured. Not twice but three times. Of course, he’s not there any more: his body is a shell.
‘Okay, we have partial disclosure of the postmortem reports. It’s as I thought. Potentially fatal levels of morphine as well as alcohol in the blood. Now, we can get our own medical expert to interpret the results – it may be, for example, that motor neurone disease affects the body’s ability to process the drugs. The levels may have built up over time – that’s a fairly clumsy example but you see what I’m getting at?’
I nod.
‘Right.’ She puts her hands on her waist, straightens up. ‘They want a second interview. It’s half past six now. They have to allow you eight hours’ rest plus a meal break so they can’t go on very long. And I advise you to maintain your right to remain silent.’
I let my eyes close, hoping to summon some energy from somewhere. She touches my hand. ‘I could do with another cuppa. You, same again?’