Behind Closed Doors

by Catherine Alliott

  She flashed another relaxed smile, her whole demeanour reeking of smart schools, skiing holidays, swimming pools in the country and basically the sort of life I’d have liked Imo to lead. I say Imo, because I’d say she was closer to her age than mine, or maybe somewhere in between. Mid-thirties, perhaps. Either way, she was a lot younger than me, and fabulous. I turned from this vision to behold Josh, whose hair was tousled. He looked as if he was still engrossed in his work, and more than a little surprised to see me.

  ‘Oh hi!’ I breezed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to pop in on him yet again, disturbing him and his new girlfriend. ‘I was literally just passing,’ I kept the smile going. ‘So I thought I’d check up on the heating.’ This was going to be so hard with Tilly here. Might have to be abandoned.

  ‘Oh. Right.’ He still looked mighty surprised. ‘Well, no, it’s fine. Seems to be working well.’

  ‘No ticking?’ I made a stupid ticking noise and moved my finger like the noisy second hand on the Countdown clock.

  ‘I’ve got used to it.’

  He was gazing at me, bemused. Tilly was too, although when she realized I was embarrassed, she had the perfect manners to turn back to her curry sauce. She gave it a stir.

  ‘Good, good,’ I breathed as if that really was the most tremendous relief.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Tilly said suddenly, ‘there isn’t even dried coriander in the larder, so I’m going to pop to Waitrose.’ She grabbed her purse on the island, her man ners, her poise, her confidence in the security of her own position and her sympathy for the awkwardness of mine, not deserting her for one second. In the twinkling of an eye, with another radiant smile and then the shrugging on of a gorgeous little navy jacket, she was gone.

  I felt a huge menopausal blush surge up my neck as I tottered, unasked, to a kitchen stool. I perched. Stared at the familiar slate tiles.

  Josh frowned and moved around the island to perch on the other one. There was a lengthy pause. Then he spoke. ‘Suppose you tell me what this is all about?’

  I took a deep breath. Was about to tell the most gigantic lie, but then made it a slightly smaller one. I looked up.

  ‘I have a friend,’ I said carefully, ‘who thinks she might have killed her husband.’

  He stared at me. ‘Right.’

  ‘She doesn’t know where to turn. Because obviously she can’t go to the police, for fear of what the – you know – consequences might be. But on the other hand, she can’t really live with herself. No, that’s not quite true. She can, some of the time. Some of the time she’s fine. But she’s conscious, the rest of the time, of the sword of Damocles potentially about to fall. She’s wondering, since she didn’t actually lay a finger on her husband, but maybe wilfully manslaughtered him, whether in fact she’d get off anyway, and it would be better to ’fess up and not live with the fear. She doesn’t know.’

  ‘I see.’ He was silent. Watching me.

  ‘And since you’re a professor in criminology, and not the police, I thought you’d be a good place to start. Hypothetically. On behalf of my friend. She doesn’t know any lawyers. And she also thought they might be a bit close to the … you know. Law.’

  ‘I see. Well, hypothetically, and on behalf of your friend, there’s no such thing as wilful manslaughter. I believe we covered this before, when we were talking about researching your book. Manslaughter is a mistake. Did your friend make a mistake? Would you like to tell me the circumstances?’

  I briefly outlined how my friend’s husband had surprised a burglar, who’d pushed him, and caused his frontal lobe to rupture on a coffee table. But how, because he was such a monster, my friend had left him to die.

  ‘I see,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘Well no, that’s murder. Because intent was there.’

  I felt the blood drain from my face. ‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘Yes, I rather thought it might be. Told her it might be.’

  ‘But of course, if there were mitigating circumstances, which again, I believe we’ve discussed before, in relation to the book you’re writing …’

  He knew. He definitely knew. ‘Yes,’ I said miserably. ‘We have.’ Murder. Not good. Not good at all. There was a silence.

  ‘I do write books,’ I said in a small voice. I realized I wanted him to know I didn’t lie about everything.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, surprised. He’d checked me out. I didn’t know if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

  He folded his arms and leaned back on his stool. ‘Can you tell me about the sword of Damocles?’ he said at length. ‘I’m wondering if it’s held by someone. Someone whose windows you tried to see into last time you were here, when you were crouching down in the study, smashing vases. Do you believe they saw something? And, if so, have you asked them what they’re going to do with this information? If they even have any?’

  I stared at him. ‘No. I haven’t.’

  ‘Well, I think that’s the first thing you need to do. Establish if your fears are even grounded. On behalf of your friend. And whether whatever evidence they have is even admissible. It may not be. How long would you say your friend sat on her sofa, watching her husband bleed to death?’

  I gazed at him in horror but his eyes were not accusatory. I licked my lips. ‘I’m not sure. About fifteen minutes?’

  ‘OK. Well, that could have been shock.’

  ‘Yes.’

  We were silent.

  ‘But it wasn’t,’ I whispered.

  ‘I would advise your friend against that sort of confession. Who’s to know, let alone the woman herself, what she actually felt at that moment? In the eye of the storm, as it were.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Prison is a very lonely place,’ he went on. ‘A very scary place.’ I felt my forehead erupt in beads of sweat. My breathing became very shallow. I looked at him. What must he think of me? A murderer. A key went in the front door.

  ‘How would she do what you suggest, my friend?’ I asked quickly, coming to. ‘Establish who saw what?’

  He jerked his head to the house behind. ‘Well, I suggest she pops round and talks to them. Don’t forget, she’s the grieving widow, and so far the police have come up with nothing. She’s outraged. She could say she’s conducting her own inquiry, and was there anyone up there that night who was awake and might have seen something? They’ll probably say – well no, it was the middle of the night, and anyway, the police have already asked, or something.’

  I inhaled sharply at the simplicity of this. No moths. ‘Yes,’ I breathed gratefully.

  Tilly came sailing down the passageway. ‘The corner shop, would you believe!’ She brandished a bunch of fresh coriander. ‘Catering to the metropolitan elite. You shall have your Asian-inspired chicken swimming in aromatic coconut, monsieur.’

  He turned: smiled. ‘Well done, Tills.’

  She glanced at me and, clearly registering my pale and sweaty face, did a double take. ‘Would you like a cup of tea or anything?’ she asked kindly.

  I was being drowned in kindness here. By this lovely, caring, perfect couple. ‘No, thank you,’ I managed. ‘I really must be going. I’ve taken up far too much of your time.’

  I eased myself off my stool, and realized it was a bit sweaty. I walked towards the door. I had to pause a moment, however, en route, to shoot out a hand and steady myself on the kitchen door frame. Most of the time I’m fine, you see. In my cocooned, unreal little world. My bubble. But here in London, and after a morning like today’s, realizing Amanda was still after me, still had an agenda, it was all so real. Was always going to be real. Was never going to go away. However much I hid in the country and pretended it would. It was like that play, An Inspector Calls. One day, he would. That, I imagined, was what had brought me round here today. To seek some sort of closure myself. Before someone else sought it for me. To be author of my own destiny. I raised my head and removed my hand from the wall. I didn’t glance behind, because I knew Josh and Tilly would be
watching me with concern. Instead I moved on down the hallway, opened the front door, which was easy, because it was mine, and went outside. I was about to shut the door behind me when I realized Josh had followed me down. He held the door in his hand.

  ‘Let me know how she gets on,’ he said quickly.

  I looked at him with some surprise. His dark brown eyes were kind. I nodded mutely. Then I turned and moved on, down the steps.

  20

  I made my way down the street, around the corner, and then down the road parallel to mine. It was a long street, like mine, so it took a few minutes, but when I gauged I was roughly in position, I looked up. The next-door neighbours in my own road, the Crosbys, were having a lot of work done, their scaffolding sticking up into the sky, a blue tarpaulin flapping in the wind. It wasn’t hard to work out the house I wanted. I paused before the black and white chequered pathway with its wrought-iron gate, and looked up at the white front door at the top of the steps. Number forty-two. Through the neat front garden full of late spring bulbs and up the stone steps I went, subconsciously noticing the tasteful urns of white lobelia by the door. There didn’t appear to be a doorbell, so I lifted the heavy brass lion’s head knocker … and then put it down again, softly.

  What exactly was I going to say? What, if anything, did you see on that particular night, the night of the twenty-fourth of March, at about one in the morning? Naturally I’d say that. But if I was to be the grieving widow, overcome with frustration at police ineptitude and conducting her own enquiries, I had to take a moment to get into the part. I also had to be a wee bit careful here. Because if, in the fullness of time, I had literally no other option than to tell the truth and then use mental cruelty and coercion as a defence, I couldn’t be too extravagantly grief-stricken. It might not go down well later in court. So it might be best to be merely interested for now. Pragmatic. Wondering why on earth I hadn’t called and asked before.

  I gazed up. The house was taller than mine: more imposing. I made myself knock and waited. Oh, thank the Lord, no one at home. I was off the hook. I turned, relieved. But then, just as I was going back down the steps, the door opened. I turned back. A young girl of about eighteen, wearing tiny denim shorts and an even tinier black top, peered at me through a flop of white-blonde hair. Fulham seemed to be littered with platinum blondes.

  ‘Oh hi,’ I smiled up. ‘Um, are your parents in?’

  ‘No, ’fraid not,’ she muttered. A more sulky blonde than the one I’d just met in my own house. She’d deigned to take the earpiece from her ear but was clearly annoyed at being dragged from a screen, although she clutched another, smaller one in her hand.

  ‘Any idea when they’ll be back?’

  She shrugged. ‘Dunno. Mum’s out. Who are you?’

  ‘Oh – I’m a neighbour. My house is behind yours.’

  ‘Uh.’ No further interest. I was too old. Too boring. Neither did she offer to take a message. Just go, old woman. But I wouldn’t. I persisted.

  ‘When you say out,’ I went on doggedly, ‘do you mean she’s shopping, or away, or—’ I stopped suddenly, mid-sentence: stared beyond her, transfixed. Because behind the sulky teenager, on the hall chair, ornately carved in bleached wood and positioned below an elaborate rococo mirror, was a pale grey suit jacket. It had a fox fur collar. It was beautiful. And familiar. I’d seen it not two hours ago. It was Ingrid’s. My eyes came back to the girl, so very pale blonde, so clearly Nordic. Suddenly I couldn’t speak. The girl looked incredulous at my dumbness. Eventually I found my voice and thanked her, stumbling over my words, mumbling about having to go. Then I turned on my heel and left. I heard the door shut behind me.

  My heart was pounding as I made myself walk fast. Escape. Ingrid. Shit, Ingrid lived there. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t take it in. My mind whirred. Suddenly I remembered her saying, when I’d been pretending to be interested in kitchens, that she lived close by. Literally around the corner, she’d said. I hadn’t given it much thought at the time. I’d just been so intent on meeting her, not on her territory, but on mine, at the club.

  My brain scrambled on, falling over its thoughts, which were jumbled, racing. Ingrid lived there. Jesus Christ, Ingrid. I carried on walking down another street, to get some distance, and think. There was no reason why Ingrid should have known our houses backed on to each other when I rang her, or when we’d met for lunch, either. All we shared was a high garden wall. In London, that was no call for neighbourliness. But later … maybe she’d realized before me? I shook my head, trying to think. When I’d seen her at the church, earlier, I’d decided she’d have heard about Michael’s death through Millie Taylor. After all, that’s where I’d first met Ingrid, at dinner there. That had been the simple reason for her presence today, which I’d already worked out, but what if – what if she really had seen something that night? And when, belatedly, she had realized it was Michael, had said something to Millie? Who maybe, in a weak moment, and over a couple of glasses of wine, had told Amanda?

  As this hypothetical chain of events unfolded in a nightmarish fashion in my head, I turned and fled back to my car. I let myself in with fumbling fingers. Then I sat and stared out at the sky. The clouds were racing, propelled by the wind, too fast, disturbingly fast, like my thoughts. I tried to remember how Millie had greeted me at the memorial service. I’d slipped in head down, hadn’t really acknowledged anyone. But had she glared? Millie was one of the very few people I knew who felt compelled to keep in touch with Amanda, by dint of old family ties.

  I’d thought Amanda was lying when she’d implied someone had seen me murder her brother, someone who lived behind, but what if it were true? She’d told me the police had mentioned a neighbour, but she’d also said – someone else told me that too. I’d thought it just another glib lie in her web, adding weight to the police story, realizing perhaps I wouldn’t believe they’d tell her anything; but what if that had been genuine? What if my instincts, usually so spot on with my sister-in-law, had been wrong? What if, for once, amongst all the manipulative lies, Amanda had been telling the truth when she said a neighbour saw something – but had simply got confused about where Ingrid lived? Not confused about what she’d seen, though. But surely if that was the case, the inspector would have called by now? The sword would have fallen? Or not yet. Not quite yet, perhaps. But imminently. Hence her blistering attack on me in church. Perhaps she was reeling me in, even now. Slowly. Letting everyone know what a bitch I was, so that when it came to pass, at the court case, they could all recall and say … golly. Remember that eulogy in church? About the mean-spirited wife? Freezing the poor sister out? Perhaps Amanda was enjoying herself. Letting me know she knew. For the second, or possibly third time that day, I felt sick. Very nauseous. And full of dread. Trembling, I fumbled in my bag for my phone. I tapped out a message.

  ‘My friend has been round. The neighbour wasn’t in, but it turns out she’s a friend of the dead husband. My friend is now in terrible trouble.’

  I stared at my phone, hoping for an immediate response, but of course, nothing happened. Naturally it didn’t. Josh was no doubt enjoying a late lunch of Thai green curry together with fragrant jasmine rice, with his delightful and beautiful girlfriend. He was probably even now uncorking a delicious Chablis to go with her fabulous cuisine. He might perhaps glance at his phone later, after they’d repaired to the bedroom for a spot of afternoon delight, but he might not even answer for a few days. Maybe a week would go by. He may not find the time, what with all the dissertations he was marking, the seminars he was planning, the lectures he was writing, and the energy he was expending on keeping up with his younger, physically demanding, playful girlfriend. I, meanwhile, would be driving my very old car, in my very old green dress, back to my parents, with whom I lived, as their carer. Which was sad, but not half as sad as things were about to get really quite quickly. Particularly given my family’s performance at the memorial service today. Amanda was not going to forgive us for ruining her big day in a hu
rry. The elaborate reeling in might well be sped up. She might want her pound of flesh sooner, and she’d make damn sure that flesh was mine.

  21

  An hour or so later, I arrived at Pope’s Farm. As I walked through the hall and into the sitting room, my parents were getting to their feet. They greeted me like small children who’d been terribly, terribly good and were eager for praise.

  ‘We washed everything up,’ my mother told me proudly. She immediately took my arm and led me through to the kitchen, which was spotless and gleaming. She’d clearly been waiting for this. ‘We didn’t think it was worth stacking the dishwasher for just the two of us, you see. And I even washed the floor.’

  ‘Well done, Mum. You didn’t have to do that.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind, these days. Now that you’ve removed all that terrible grime and grease, it’s a pleasure to keep it clean.’

  ‘Good.’ I raised a smile.

  ‘Exhausting day?’ asked Dad sympathetically, as we went back to the sitting room. Unlike my mother, he was less likely to ambush one on arrival. He bustled to get me a drink from the table in the corner.

  ‘Pretty,’ I agreed, chucking my bag on a chair and leaving it at that. And neither of them asked me for more, for which I was grateful. As far as they were concerned, it was over. Done and dusted. All ties were severed and honour was perceived to have been done with Michael’s family. As I sank into the white wine my father handed me and then down on to the sofa, I tried not to imagine their shock and horror when they realized it was just the beginning.

  ‘We’re so glad you’re back in daylight, darling,’ said my mother, hovering over me. She was actually focusing on me too, I realized, through clean and up-to-date spectacles. ‘Because we’re dying to show you the cottage. It’s come on leaps and bounds.’