Behind Closed Doors

by Catherine Alliott

  I gazed at him, speechless. ‘Oh, I will, I will,’ I breathed happily, when I could find my voice. ‘I mean – if you think I should—’

  ‘Look, Lucy,’ he interrupted, ‘I realize you’re taking my words very literally, here. But I’m not a detective. Not even a criminal barrister. I’m an academic. I’m absolutely no oracle on the subject. You should know that.’

  I swallowed: looked down at my lap. ‘You lecture on it,’ I said quietly, wanting to believe.

  ‘Yes, but more on the psychology of the criminal mind. It’s your sister-in-law who fascinates me, actually. She’s just the sort of woman to stab a lover in the chest.’

  I told him he could well be right, and gave him a brief résumé of her life, hers and Michael’s, but I kept it brief, because now that he’d assured me this was Amanda’s mind spiralling out of control and doing its damnedest to take me with it, I was actually keen to talk about something else. Anything else. I found the matter and manner of Michael’s death so horrific, that I either wanted to think about it ceaselessly on my own, or bury it in a box. It wasn’t a subject up for cosy discussion and neither was Michael. He was a monster. But he was my monster. And if I wasn’t going to jail for killing him or, as the more rational part of my mind told me, letting him die, I didn’t want to talk about it.

  ‘You’ve been away?’ I asked conversationally. I was unable to touch my chicken wrap. Instead I sipped my coffee.

  He looked surprised that the subject was closed so abruptly. ‘Yes, back to France. All very last minute but I took the children skiing for a few days.’

  ‘Ah. Lovely.’

  ‘Lucy, I’m not a psychologist either. But facing things and not running away is sometimes the best course of action. I take it you’ve already been questioned by the police?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered. But I only remembered it as a blur. Perhaps because I didn’t want to remember it. It had happened very soon after the event. After … the body … had gone. In the sitting room, wrapped in my dressing gown, which I’d been allowed to get from my bedroom. A few questions from a kindly policewoman. A younger one, beside her, taking notes. I remembered telling her I hadn’t woken at the noise of the break-in, because I’d been wearing earplugs, which I often did. Especially when I knew my husband was coming in late. So no, I hadn’t woken when he’d returned, or when the French windows had been forced. But then, later on, I’d stirred: and with some instinctive intuition that Michael wasn’t beside me, put an arm out to his side of the bed. Empty. I’d been puzzled. Then I’d gone downstairs. Seen him on the floor unconscious. Realized we’d been broken into. I’d called the emergency services. The policewoman had nodded. It had suddenly occurred to me, you see, that there’d be a time lag. Between me finding him, and ringing 999. I knew the pathologists would spot it. Estimate the time of death. And if, by chance, a neighbour, or a passer-by, had heard the break-in and reported the time, I needed a reason not to have woken. Plus, I did use earplugs occasionally. I even had some handy. When I’d gone up for my dressing gown, I’d slipped some into the pocket, with a trembling hand. Not that she’d asked to see. The policewoman. As I say, I don’t think about that interview much. In fact, this was the first time I’d let myself consider it, in detail, at all. Let alone speak of it. It had been airbrushed from my mind.

  ‘Lucy?’

  I swam to the surface. It was a long way, though. I’d been far away. As I focused, I realized Josh was staring at me. I regrouped.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said, was there was an autopsy? A coroner’s report?’

  ‘Oh. Yes, there was,’ I said.

  ‘Which both concluded that there was no misadventure?’

  ‘Except for a shove in the chest and a fall, no.’

  ‘And no inquest.’

  ‘No.’

  He nodded. Looked thoughtful. ‘Well then, I suggest you forget all about this. And I would block your sister-in-law on your phone. That way you’ll have no contact with her ever again.’

  I stared at him in wonder. I loved this man. Where had he been all my life? He was making mine so simple, so straightforward. It was extraordinary how another perspective could do that. I realized that now he’d sorted my life out, I wanted to ask him so much about his. I wanted to ask if he was on better terms with his ex-wife, if they were managing to be civil. Clearly they were, if he was allowed to take his children skiing. I wondered how old they were. If Tilly got on with them. I was sure she did – she was gorgeous. I pictured the four of them whizzing down the slopes together: blue skies, snowy mountains. That beautiful girl, erasing all the misery of Agathe – oh yes, I remembered her name.

  ‘Lucy? You’ll block her calls?’

  ‘Oh yes – yes, I’ll do that,’ I agreed. Would I? Block her? Or would I be too scared? Not with someone like this beside me. But of course, he wouldn’t be beside me. He belonged to someone else. ‘Is Tilly a good skier?’ I blurted out stupidly, involuntarily.

  He looked confused. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Well, I imagine she went with you? Skiing?’ He frowned, then at length, a small smile began to play around his lips. He put his coffee cup down. ‘Tilly cooks for me. I found her through a colleague of mine at work, another lone male. She’s about half my age, Lucy.’

  ‘Oh!’ I stared, confused. ‘But – but she called you Joshy. I thought—’

  ‘She says I behave like a baby in the kitchen so she gives me a baby name. Accuses me of not being able to boil an egg. She was preparing a meal for the friends I stayed with when I first came over from Paris. I’m having them to lunch next Sunday, by way of a thank you. She’s away – skiing, as a matter of fact – with her boyfriend right now. So she made it before she left. The chicken dish is sitting in the freezer as we speak.’

  He was clearly amused. But I was still getting my head round this. Today was turning out to be completely extraordinary in so many ways. Taking so many unexpected turns for the better, in a manner I was so totally unused to that it was hard to assimilate. Tilly was a cook. Of course she was; she had all the hallmarks of the well-bred girls I used to work with who did that sort of thing. She had a boyfriend. Naturally she did. Naturally.

  ‘Would you like to come?’ Still the amused smile.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To lunch, on Sunday, with my colleagues. A French professor and his wife.’

  All my Christmases appeared to have come at once. All of them. I put my coffee cup down and sat up straight. I gave him the most radiant of smiles.

  ‘Oh, I’d love to come.’

  He grinned. ‘Great.’

  That was it. Great. And I was sort of – speechless. My whole world had spun on a sixpence again. But this time, the right way.

  ‘Unless, of course, coming back to the house …?’

  ‘What? Oh – no! Not a problem at all! Love my old house.’ I beamed widely. He looked disconcerted, as well he might. ‘I mean,’ I gabbled quickly, ‘I might not go in the study—’

  ‘No, quite—’ he agreed, equally quickly.

  ‘But anywhere else—’ God. Did that sound a bit – you know. Forward? ‘I mean – the sitting room, the kitchen,’ I said rapidly.

  ‘Exactly.’ He grinned. Clearly diverted now. And then he glanced at his watch. ‘Actually, I have to go. I have a tutorial in ten minutes and I need to collect my papers. See you on Sunday, then. Oh – and thanks for lunch.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I breathed, hopefully not too gustily. I seemed to be puffing and blowing like a force ten gale. I was very pink too, I was sure, as I stood up. He pecked my cheeks – hot cheeks, I was convinced – and then, whipping his navy scarf around his neck in that very stylish French way, he gave me another huge grin. God, he was good-looking. And then he was gone. I gazed down at my chicken wrap, enraptured. Suddenly I was starving. I sat and guzzled it down in minutes flat and drained my coffee. I wasn’t going to jail. Amanda was a lunatic. An attractive man had invited me to lunch and clearly found me attractive an
d enjoyed my company. I wanted to sing, I wanted to dance. Instead, I left the café, and pushing through the door to the street, raised my face to the heavens and sang ‘Hoorah!’ to anyone who was listening. A passing wino gave me a wink, but everyone else ignored me. A fool, on a high, in London.

  Still glowing, I made my way back to my car and down the Edgware Road, towards the M4 and home. The traffic was light for once, and I whizzed along making good time. Ed Sheeran came on the radio and I turned him up loud and sang along. As I belted out the chorus to ‘Photograph’ it seemed to me that the only fly in the ointment, the only slight fly, if you could even call it a fly, half a fly, perhaps, was that I now appeared to have two men in my life. Only one that made my heart soar, admittedly, but I also knew that he might not even be in my life. Might simply have asked me to lunch to make up numbers. Far more likely. But still, it was a lovely conundrum to have. To possibly have. And a lovely friend to have, I decided, forcing myself to be sensible, if that’s all he became.

  Ridiculously, though – and I feel you know me well enough for me to tell you this – I imagined myself introducing him to Ned and Imo. Except – Ned had already met him. Had liked him. My heart gave a foolish leap. Josh. Joshy. I smiled. Dear Tilly. Lovely Tilly. So young. Of course she was. How could I even have thought such a thing? It was verging on the perv – no, no it wasn’t. But she was so refined. Not that he wasn’t. But he was more right-on than she was. More woke, as it’s now called. Tilly’s boyfriend was probably in the City. Whereas Josh … well golly, I’d find out, wouldn’t I? Cosmopolitan, classless, liberal intelligentsia, was where I’d put him. And age? Hmm … difficult, I thought, as I came off the motorway. I gave it some thought as I wound through the lanes. A tiny bit older than me, I’d like to think, but I’d hazard that was wishful thinking. The same would be ideal. Younger … more tricky. And stressful, as Nancy had discovered. What was it Mum had said? All that maintenance. All that grooming. All that plucking, dieting, waxing and exercising. Baked bean tins had come into it too somewhere, although I couldn’t quite remember where. Exhausting. And expensive.

  Well, I’d write a book, I decided as I pulled into the drive. To pay for it all. Of course I would. Hadn’t I already sort of decided? That needs must, to pay for the cottage? Well, now they absolutely must. And he’d like that, I thought, as I got out of the car. Men did. And don’t forget, he’d looked me up. In a good way, we now assumed. And I could hardly say – d’you know what, Joshy, I don’t really do that any more. The writing thing. I just sort of, care for my parents. That wasn’t terribly attractive. Kind, but not sexy. Yes, men liked the books, even if they weren’t Booker Prize winners. Especially since they weren’t Booker Prize winners. One had to consider their fragile egos. Nothing too threatening. Although I was sure Josh wasn’t like that. Those were the old Michael days. He was too enlightened for that.

  Lamps were on in the sitting room window and smoke was spiralling from the chimney, signalling the parents’ safe return from the Frobishers. On the way in I caught sight of my reflection in the hall mirror. I paused for a moment. My hair was badly in need of highlights. And it was growing, actually, like a bush. It needed trimming. The thickening waist could do with some trimming too. I’d see about those Zumba classes in the village hall. How could I have gone to London looking like this?

  As I went to poke my head around the sitting room door, my parents beat me to it. Mum was on her feet, opening the door from the other side so that I nearly flew through. Dad got up quickly from his armchair by the fire, putting his newspaper aside. Both their faces were pale.

  ‘Oh darling, we’ve been so worried,’ blurted out my mother.

  ‘Worried? Why?’

  ‘No, not worried,’ said Dad quickly. ‘We’re sure it’s nothing. It’s just – the police have been round, love.’

  ‘The police? Why?’ I stared at them.

  ‘They’ve caught the burglar.’

  ‘What?’ Even as I said it, though, I knew.

  ‘The one who broke into your house. You know. The one who had a scuffle with Michael.’

  ‘Except now, of course,’ my mother informed me, her pale blue eyes wide behind her spectacles, ‘he’s not just a burglar. He’s also a murderer.’

  24

  I gazed at my parents, who looked terribly old suddenly. I felt that awful sinking feeling one does at times like this: when the lift rising smoothly and inexorably to the top floor, suddenly fails, stalls – and then crashes to the ground.

  ‘Right,’ I said, forcing myself not to betray any emotion. Forcing myself to stay calm. ‘Right, well, that’s good, surely?’ I said, coming in and sitting by the fire.

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Dad buoyantly, sitting down again, opposite me. ‘I told your mother it was nothing to worry about. I don’t know why she’s got so upset.’

  ‘But why would the police want to talk to you, darling?’ she said, clearly very worried.

  ‘Well, to let me know, I’m sure.’

  ‘But they said they had some questions they wanted to ask you. It didn’t seem like a formality to me.’

  ‘To tie up loose ends, no doubt,’ said my father. ‘Go down tomorrow, love.’

  ‘Down?’

  ‘To the station. They asked if you’d drop by.’

  ‘Oh.’ I stared at him. ‘Oh, well no, actually, I’ll go now,’ I said slowly. I got to my feet. ‘I’d rather.’

  ‘Yes, I should,’ said Mum quickly. ‘Get it over with.’

  Dad shot her a look. ‘There’s nothing to get over,’ he said irritably.

  ‘No, no I know, but—’

  ‘Cecily, for once—’ They were talking over one another.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I cut in. ‘Dad, Mum is rightly anxious. It brings back … memories. And I’d rather go. Have you had some tea? How were the Frobishers?’ I made myself function.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on and make your mother one,’ Dad was saying. He shuffled towards the kitchen, knowing I was asking him to take the helm. ‘And the Frobishers were on good form. Sent their love. We’ll see you in a bit then, love.’ His eyes were anxious too, though, as he filled the kettle at the sink, and I wondered what the police had said.

  I drove down to the local town in a very different condition to that of the girl who’d vacated this seat at the wheel not ten minutes ago. That almost teenager, full of skippy excitement, trading one man in her head for another, was no more. This was no girl; this was a woman. A very tired one at that, hunched over the wheel. I tried to think. It occurred to me I’d thought very little about the intruder. At the time, the police had told me these sorts of breakins were very common, about six a week in Fulham, they’d said wearily, and I’d sensed they thought they had little chance of catching him. Even though a run-of-the-mill burglary had stepped up to a murder inquiry, it was still the run-of-the-mill burglar at the helm: slippery as an eel, clever enough not to have been caught before, and not to be caught again. They’d gone through the motions of fingerprints – there were none, so gloved, I suppose – and I imagine there was no DNA either. I told myself to calm down, or as Imo would say, ‘Calm yourself, Mother,’ joshing me. I found myself wishing she was here, with me. Ned, too. But Imo was so good in a crisis.

  I parked in front of the police station in the market square and realized it couldn’t look less intimidating if it tried, this little brick and flint cottage, in a small market town. It even still had its Victorian blue lamp above the door. It occurred to me that many years ago I’d taken my cycling proficiency test here. In the back yard, with a dozen or so other ten-year-olds from my local primary school, watched over by a kindly copper. There was no cause for alarm. I locked the car, went inside and gave the policewoman on the front desk my name.

  A few minutes later a man in a suit appeared and asked me to follow him. That was when my heart began to thump. A plain-clothed policeman. And I was being taken to a room, not just details taken at the front desk. As he gestured for me to sit do
wn opposite him at a small table, the same policewoman slipped into the room and stood in the corner. I breathed deeply, forcing myself to stay calm, telling myself there was nothing to worry about.

  The policeman waited for me to settle. ‘Thank you for coming in, Mrs Palmer. I’m Detective Sergeant Turner, and this,’ he gestured at his colleague, ‘is PC Williams.’

  I nodded and managed to look him in the eye. ‘I hear you’ve caught the burglar,’ I said conversationally, receiving it as the good news it surely was. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Yes, the Met took him into custody yesterday. He was breaking and entering a few streets away from your house and the tiny bit of DNA they have on your French windows matches his. Also, he’s now confessed. The Met have asked us to continue the investigation.’

  ‘Oh, right. That’s unusual, isn’t it? For a burglar to confess?’

  ‘Not if we’re accusing him of a more serious crime, namely manslaughter or murder.’

  ‘So he’s only confessed to the burglary?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And did he—’

  ‘Mrs Palmer, would you mind if I asked the questions? This is our inquiry.’

  ‘Oh. No. Of course not.’

  ‘Would you like anyone to be present?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘You mean a solicitor? No – I mean … I don’t need one, do I?’

  He shrugged. ‘You’re not under caution. And therefore you can stop the interview at any time, if you feel you’d like to.’

  I nodded, mute. Dug my nails into my hand beneath the table.

  ‘Mrs Palmer, our suspect maintains that when he ran from your house in Gresham Road, the deceased, your husband, gave chase down the garden. That he was perfectly unhurt when he left.’