The Kindest Thing - страница 15

‘Thanks.’

Sophie would be doing her homework in front of Hollyoaks.

‘Will they let me go home tonight?’

‘I don’t know. It’s hard to tell.’

‘If I explain,’ I begin, my voice shaky, ‘give a proper statement…’

‘I wouldn’t recommend that. Any small variation in what you say could be catastrophic. We still don’t have full disclosure. You’d be putting yourself in a very vulnerable position.’

‘And I’m not already?’

She regards me for a moment. ‘This could be much worse. The caution’s there for a reason. Anything you say, that means anything, can be used against you. To give a statement now would be nothing short of reckless.’

I surrender to her argument.

‘Can you call my daughter, tell her I’m delayed, legal stuff to do with-’ I can’t finish.

‘I’ll be discreet.’

I know now. Something’s tilted. Like the sheen on two-tone fabric shifting, the other colour to the fore. They are going to keep me here.

We are in the same interview room. I have been no-commenting for maybe an hour. All of me is weary from the soles of my feet to my scalp. The detective has maintained his cheery disposition but his colleague, scratchy DC Mercer, has been asking the questions this time. He has a more brittle edge to him. A note of incredulity taints his queries.

‘And you have no idea how your husband could have administered such a high dose of morphine?’

‘No comment.’

‘You made no attempt to revive your husband. Why was that?’

‘No comment.’

But it is DS Bray who weighs in with the next evidentiary disclosure. See how I’m picking up the jargon. A bombshell to you and me. ‘The postmortem shows signs of petechial haemorrhaging – that is damage to the blood vessels in the eyes – and fluid in the lungs. This is consistent with suffocation.’

The air in the room hangs still. The camera whirrs in the silence. I feel the pulse jump in my throat. The Furies have found me, the daughters of the night. They know I have blood on my hands and they are coming. With snakes hissing through their hair and blood dripping from their eyes, the three of them will hound me to insanity.

The detective tilts his head to one side, his eyes soft, open, inviting my confidence. If I talk, he’s saying, if I just talk to him, then all will be well.

‘I did not harm my husband. I love him.’

Ms Gleason scrambles to shut me up. ‘Deborah! I’d like a word with my client in private, please.’

The detective agrees.

We leave the room and are taken into the adjoining one. She closes the door behind me. There’s an astringent taste in my mouth, chemical, the smell of pear-drops. When did I last eat? I can’t remember. Ketones, they call it, when the body is depleted and draws on fat reserves. I had it in my urine when I was giving birth to Adam. We’d bought glucose tablets to keep my reserves up but I couldn’t keep anything down.

Ms Gleason takes a full breath and sighs it out. She stretches her arms up, clasps her hands behind her neck and stretches. Then drops them. ‘We still haven’t full disclosure,’ she says, ‘but the drugs in his bloodstream and the petechial haemorrhaging are strong forensic evidence that this was not a natural death. Is there anything you want to revise from the account you gave me earlier today?’

‘No.’

‘Okay.’ She nods. ‘Then it’s imperative that you do not offer any comment in there. Now more than ever.’

‘Yes. Sorry.’

‘You feel all right to carry on?’

They want to interview me a third time. Magic number three – we all know that: sisters, princes, witches, curses, wishes, betrayals.

When we resume there’s a change in the atmosphere, a sparkle of new-found energy from the detectives. Perhaps they’ve snatched a meal, taken a turn in the fresh air. Had an ice-cream or freshly ground coffee.

Detective Sergeant Bray leans forward. ‘Deborah, we want you to tell us what happened in your own words.’

‘No comment.’

‘Did you give Neil morphine, with or without his knowledge?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did you do anything to deprive him of oxygen – for example, holding a pillow to his face?’

‘No comment.’

He pulls a face, rueful, and sits back, his fingers flat against the edge of the table. ‘Deborah Shelley, I am charging you that on the fifteenth of June 2009 you did murder your husband Neil Draper. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand the charge?’