Why I Want You Dead

by A K Shattock

  “So let me get this straight. You have no memory what-so-ever of actually killing him?”

  “No.”

  “So take me back. What do you remember from that night? Start from the beginning.”

  “I remember… It must have been about 5pm when I left my house to go and meet someone. I was supposed to meet them at a café in Central. I took a bus and then a taxi. I got there at the agreed time. I waited about an hour. But they didn’t show up. So I came back. It was about…” Mrs Fielding concentrated. “About 7:30 pm when I got back to the house. I remember looking at my watch.”

  “This person that you went to meet… did they contact you later on? Would they be able to verify this arrangement?”

  Mrs Fielding went red. “No. I never saw them. We communicated by writing. It was an old school friend of mine. Greg doesn’t like her. So I destroyed the letter. I don’t have any other way of contact.” “How about a name? We can find her and get a statement.”

  Mrs Fielding hesitated. “I don’t know. I only know her first name. Uh...Connie. I don’t remember her last name. She changed it when she got married.” The feeble lies that were coming from her lips were obvious, and she knew it. She clearly didn’t want Tobias to know who she was going to meet. Why? “Alright, so then what happened?”

  “I let myself into the house. I thought it was odd that it was dark and quiet. None of the lights were on even though Greg was supposed to be in. His car was there. I smelt the blood first. And then… I found him…” she choked out a sob. “I think I screamed and then blacked out at some point. Then I found… I found the knife in my hand. My kitchen knife. Covered in blood. I panicked. At first I thought I had absent mindedly picked up the knife, that someone was trying to frame me for murder. I stupidly ran to the kitchen and washed it then put it away… I wasn’t thinking clearly. I don’t remember what happened after that.”

  Tobias sat back for a moment and let her cry for a bit. He was burning with questions.

  “But why do you think that you killed him? From what you told me so far it could be reasonable to suggest that someone else committed the murder.” “You’re going to think this is crazy,” Mrs Fielding wiped her nose on the sleeve of her fancy coat. All the middle-class poshness had gone out the window. “I explained to you before about the blackout episodes. I don’t trust my memories anymore. I’m afraid… The thing is… I’ve gone to meet this friend before. Same time, same place. She’s also stood me up before. What if… what if… what I remember is just… a repeat of what happened the first time we arranged to meet. What if what I remember isn’t real, is fabricated in my mind. What if my knife was the murder weapon… because I killed him? What if...I’m dangerous. I need help.” Mrs Fielding started crying again.

  Tobias couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This case was going to be more complicated than he thought.

  There was only one person he needed to call. One person who would be able to help him find out the truth. Somebody that he really, really did not want to have to depend on.

  “The interview has now ended. Suspect A, Mrs Fielding is too emotional to continue. Myself, DI Mitchell will now stop the tape.”

  Tobias did not know what to do now. Should he arrest her purely on what was just said? It all just seemed… so flimsy. In all honesty, there was a call he needed to make first before he could make any decisions.

  “Mrs Fielding, would you mind sitting back outside with your family member and wait for me to get back to you. I would advise that you stay there until we can tell you what is going to happen next.”

  Mrs Fielding nodded. Tobias didn’t think there would be any risk of her trying to get away.

  He sat her down with her trembling sister on the ugly hallway chairs; then made his way down to the end of the station out the backdoor where he knew the mobile signal was best. He dialed the number. “Di,” he said, once she had picked up. Just like old times. “I have a really interesting case for you.”

  DIANE

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Diane surveyed the woman across from her. They were in the interview room at the police station; different to the usual setting that Diane had for her psychiatric appointments. The woman was currently motionless in a dazed state; as if she had just been resurrected from a coma and somehow was still managing to sit upright in her chair.

  Diane leaned forward. “Mrs Fielding?” she said gently. The poor woman jumped, her grey eyes hooking onto Diane’s brown ones.

  Diane had been very surprised to hear from Tobias. She couldn’t deny that her heart almost leapt out of her chest when she saw his name on the user ID of her mobile phone (she hadn’t had the strength of mind to block his number; much to her own absolute disgust). It had been six months since she had last seen him. Six months. And not a word, a text or a drunk meme had passed between them since.

  Diane had to admit, a lot had changed during that time.

  First of all, she had gone off men. Completely. She hadn’t dated a single person since Toby. Diane had told herself this was healthy. She was focusing on herself for once and her work. She didn’t need men. She didn’t need Toby. She certainly didn’t need Toby. In truth, she missed him. They hadn’t been romantically together long, but it was more of their companionable friendship and banter that she ached for the most. Diane didn’t have many close friends; not any she could call in the middle of the night to let them know about a funny dream she had, not any that would religiously keep their Friday night free to hang out, not any that made her laugh and smile as much as Toby did.

  She often wondered if she had made such a grave mistake. She should never have given into her feelings and started a relationship with him. She should never have let herself get so attached to him. And she should never have broken up with him.

  Even her job became very boring after he had exited out of her life. There were suddenly no extreme, psychiatric referrals to her practice anymore. Diane had to actively contact the Metropolitan Police and offer her services officially. Now, she worked part time at her practice and part time involved in various criminal investigations as an expert forensic psychiatrist who analysed potential criminals for suspected mental health or psychiatric disorders. It was truly her dream job. She loved it. The only thing that ruined it was that every time she stepped into a Police station or Criminal Investigations Unit, she was instantly reminded of Toby.

  And now he had called her. Asking her to speak to one of his suspects. He was lucky that he hadn’t been standing right in front of her during that phone call; otherwise she would have been sorely tempted to punch him in the face.

  “Di,” he had said. “I have a really interesting case for you.”

  Before she had picked up the phone, her heart had blown up inside her chest, filled with hope. With those words, her heart had then shrivelled itself back up into it’s previous cocoon state.

  “Oh,” was all she had said, desperately trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. He hadn’t even started with a proper greeting. No ‘how are you?’ or ‘I’ve also not been coping and have devoured a tonne of ice-cream these past six months’. Just, straight to the point. Very Toby. “What sort of case?”

  “A woman who is a prime suspect in the murder of her husband and has confessed. However, there is a twist. She has frequent blackouts and has no memory of what happened.”

  “Right… I mean I would say it would be pretty normal to blank out a memory like that. Or she could be lying?”

  “Diane,” he said. She could imagine Toby shaking his head now. “This woman is telling the truth. She has already confessed to the murder. Why then claim she can’t remember what happened? And she says these blackouts have happened to her before. Things she had apparently done and she has no recollection of it. She was really, really afraid. My gut tells me something isn’t right. Isn’t there such a thing as having a multiple personality disorder?”

  Diane paused. He really had thought this through. “Yes. But it’s very rare. It
’s common in people with a bad past and with significant PTSD. You want me to check her out?”

  “If you could,” Tobias said hopefully. “I just... know something isn’t right here. I’m wondering if this is it? And I know you’d want to know too. I know how you feel about people getting locked up in prison for having mental health disorders or brain abnormalities that aren’t their fault. What if this woman is innocent? A victim of her own mind? She just doesn’t seem like the murdering type y’know?” Diane sighed. What she really wanted to do was hang up and slam the phone down. He had called her after six, long months and only because he wanted something. Did this man have no conscience? But at the same time, Toby was right. He knew her well. Too well, in fact. He had played her feelings. It was true, she did feel very strongly about defending the psychiatrically insane. She didn’t want an innocent woman to go to jail. And she hated to admit it, but she needed to see Toby again.

  “Where do you want me to go?”

  “Thank you Di! You won’t regret this!”

  And just like the foolish, predictable, gullible woman that she was; she had station and arranged ‘murder suspect’, this frightened, middle-aged woman; whom quite frankly, if she had jumped at the sight of her own shadow, Diane wouldn’t be the least bit surprised.

  “I am Dr Diane Smith. I am a psychiatrist. I’ve been asked to talk to you about these blackout moments that you have been having. Can you tell me more about them?”

  Mrs Fielding's red, tired eyes scrutinised her. “A psychiatrist? You all think I’m mad! Are you going to lock me up in an asylum?”

  “No, I’m not going to lock you up,” Diane said carefully. “The detective that spoke to you earlier was concerned that perhaps you have some sort of underlying psychiatric condition that may have contributed to what has happened. He wanted you to be assessed formally before they made any more decisions.”

  “I see,” she replied stiffly. “Well… I’ve been having these blackouts more frequently. Not a blackout as such… more like gaps in my memory. I would wake up and not remember what had happened the past few hours. I would be told… what I had been doing and have no memory of it. It terrified me.”

  “Did you ever used to lose consciousness before it phoned through to the Police

  an appointment with this happened? Like feeling dizzy or having a seizure beforehand, or even having a feeling that it was about to happen?”

  “No, nothing like that. More like one moment I was aware of what was going on. And then the next I wasn’t. Like a switch.”

  “And when you used to come to… did you used to find yourself in different places?”

  Mrs Fielding nodded. “The last thing I would remember, for instance would be sitting and watching television in the living room. Then the next thing I knew, I would wake up in my bed. I didn’t used to think anything bad happened during the gaps. But I could never be too sure.”

  “What made you think that something bad could happen during those moments?”

  She heaved a sigh. “Because I used to have these blackouts a lot more when I used to drink, back when I was younger. And it wasn’t the same sort of alcoholic amnesia that most people experience after heavy drinking. It was more than that. I wouldn’t remember a single thing. No fragments, no flashbacks, nothing. My friends would tell me what I used to do… I was a different person. I was violent. I was aggressive. I stole. I even had a different voice. I was another person entirely.” A single tear ran from one of her eyes. “It was like… I had been possessed. I stopped drinking…. And it settled. But then it started again… and I am so afraid that I have hurt people. That it was I who killed Greg.”

  Diane considered. “You confessed to killing him, is that right? But if you don’t remember, how can you be so sure? You can’t surely base that on what you have told me alone?”

  Mrs Fielding hesitated, as if deciding on how much she should give away. “It’s… also based on a feeling I have,” she eventually said.

  “Have you got any known mental health or psychiatric problems?”

  Mrs Fielding shook her head.

  “I appreciate that this might be a difficult topic to talk about right now, but have you ever been through… anything traumatic in your lifetime? Anything you can remember at all.”

  Diane noticed Mrs Fielding's eyes widened at the unexpected question. “What has that got to do with anything?”

  “Just some background questions. Any information at all will be helpful for me to assess you effectively.” “I don’t think so,” the suspect replied, her eyes now glassy. “My father died suddenly when I was really young, but that's as traumatic as it gets.” She was lying, Diane could tell. She was holding something back. And fair enough, it was their first session. She needed to gain her trust first.

  Diane had made her decision.

  “Mrs Fielding… I would like to assess you properly at my mental health clinic… somewhere that's a bit more comfortable and private than here. Is this something that you are willing to comply with?” The piercing, grey eyes of her new patient fixated on her own brown eyes.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  MARY

  CHAPTER SIX

  Why I wanted you dead.

  The first reason why I hated my husband of thirty years.

  To start with, everything was perfect. It was a whirlwind romance. We met when I was working as a receptionist in the art gallery that Greg ran. He was quite a bit older than I was - about ten years my senior; but there was something so captivating about him. He was handsome, tall, muscular with short dark hair. He reeked of confidence, money and success. It was refreshing to have such excitement, something so amazing after all the difficulty I had endured in life so far.

  I had been brought up in a one-bedroom flat in the most disadvantaged part of London for the majority of my teenage life after Dad died. I spent most of it caring for Elizabeth, my younger sister; whilst my mother worked three jobs just to keep us going. There was no time for university or college. As soon as we could work, we did and it wasn’t long before I found myself an apprenticeship job at Greg’s gallery. I was young and free and felt desperately insecure in the richest, poshest part of the city; extremely conscious of my cheap clothing, make-up and my working class accent; of which I perilously tried to hide. I was so surprised when the big boss, Gregory Fielding would always take an extra few minutes to greet me, winked when I handed him whatever paperwork he had requested and shared secret glances and rolling eyes whenever his partner, Stan Hudson would appear and ramble on about the ‘next big thing’ for the gallery. I had assumed this was the sort of thing that he did with all of his female staff. But then we had started chatting. He was strangely very interested in my home life and childhood. It had turned out, he too had been brought up in poverty. He then proceeded to ask me out to dinner. I had then inevitably asked him why me? He had the pick of all the women who worked in the gallery, if not the whole of Kensington.

  “It’s because we’re the same,” he’d said indifferently. “All these posh, privileged women, they don’t know what it’s like to have to work hard. I’d much rather have someone who is real.”

  And that was how it all started. It began as flowers, trips to the movie theatre, dinner dates. Within about three months, he proposed. I suppose our troubles began not long after we were married.

  I was always quite restless and easily bored. I couldn’t sit still for one minute. I was always happiest when I was busy. So when Greg expected me to give up my job in order to stay at home and ‘look after the house’, I was a bit resistant.

  “But Mary,” Greg had complained. “It doesn’t make sense for you to go to work and I stay at home. You don’t have a career. And anyway, aren’t you grateful at all for the nice house we live in? All the lovely clothes that you have? All of this is because I work hard. And if the house isn’t cared for, if my meals aren’t cooked and my clothes aren’t ironed; how on earth will I be able to carry on making enough money for all your b
eautiful things?”

  Back then, husbands making these sort of final decisions were still not frowned upon. Looking back, I wish I had fought harder. But I had accepted my fate. I had a duty to be a good wife. And I loved him dearly. Instead of fighting, I smiled back at him. After all, he could replace me in a second if he wanted. He was rich, young and handsome. And I would be able to keep busy. Especially once I had children. A year into my marriage; my maternal instincts were as strong as anything. Bored of the same daily routine, day in and day out, I yearned to have a baby to look after. However, Greg didn’t feel as impatient as I did. “We’ve got time,” he used to laugh, one night after I had pestered him. “Don’t worry, it’ll happen soon. We’ll have a beautiful family one day.” I waited and waited. We tried and we tried. Two years later and I was still as barren as the Sahara Desert. I grew to be frustrated. Greg could see that I was infuriated. In the end, we made the decision to see a fertility specialist. The news was not good.

  “I’m really sorry,” the male doctor had said. I panicked inside as I awaited the news. I had failed as a wife. I couldn’t conceive a child. Was it my fault? Was it something I did? Would Greg divorce me? But to my surprise, the doctor's gaze swivelled to Greg. “I’m very sorry, Mr Fielding. I’m afraid that your sperm count is very low, and not functioning well. The chance that you will ever be able to conceive naturally is extremely unlikely. Would you like to talk about alternative ways to have a child?”

  Greg took the news rather badly. He wasn’t used to failing at anything. He felt humiliated. Ashamed. He refused to discuss anything further. It was like he pretended that the whole conversation had never happened.