‘Hello, darling.’ She stood up as eagerly as an eighty-four-year-old woman can and came towards me. We kissed and I took the overnight bag. Mum then made her way to the nurses’ station to say farewell. Anyone would think she was checking out of the George Cinq, as she insisted on shaking hands with all the nurses, some of whom had no idea who she was, thanking them all profusely, and scolding me publicly for not bringing chocolates or flowers. Business as usual.
In the car which, despite her bravado, had taken us a while to totter to, she chatted away excitedly, along much the same lines as my father. They’d obviously discussed it yesterday, and her only worry seemed to be whether House of Fraser in High Wycombe would be up to cruise wear, or whether she’d have to go into Marlow?
‘I don’t want to end up looking like Jeannie’s sister-in-law who went with them last year,’ she told me. ‘I saw the photographs. She looked like an extra in Hawaii Five-O. So I think we need some specialized boutiques.’ She eyed me nearly as defiantly as my father had done, daring me to disagree, or worry that they were both too old for such a trip.
‘Marlow it is,’ I told her calmly. Luckily, like Dad, she was too distracted with her own life to notice anything unusual about me. I also knew that my children’s and Helena’s lives would be carrying on apace, and that having exchanged texts, and felt a great wave of collective relief, they’d forget, for the moment, about speaking to me. But I did wonder if Josh had seen it. The news. Not necessarily. It was only a quick news flash. It could have been on other programmes, but I’d looked online and bought all the papers – yes, all of them – and it was only a tiny column inch on a couple of inside pages. Easily missed.
I dropped Mum off at home, helping her from the car, and made sure they had some breakfast organized.
‘Too much fussing!’ my father complained when I added honey to the table he’d already laid in the kitchen. Bread was poised to pop down in the toaster, I noticed, and some bacon about to sizzle on the Aga. ‘We’re not invalids, you know.’
‘Perfectly capable!’ my mother agreed, bustling to put the kettle on, although Dad intercepted and filled it himself. He guided her to a chair. ‘After all, we’ve been managing quite nicely for sixty-odd years!’ she said as she sat.
Well, the last one was debatable. But in the small part of my brain that wasn’t preoccupied with my own drama, I made a mental note to back off and see how they coped. I told them I was going shopping for myself, and that I needed a few things from Boots. I also told them I might be quite a while and that Mum wasn’t to overdo it. Doctor’s orders. Mum barely heard me, but Dad gave me a nod. When I left – my mother tucked under a rug on the sofa, I was pleased to see – they were muttering about whether the Frobishers would be up yet, or to leave it a while longer? They glanced at me furtively, Dad perched beside Mum on a chair as I came downstairs with my handbag, clearly wishing I’d go so they could discuss it properly, in private.
I drove down the familiar country lanes. The hedgerows were a vivid green and bursting with creamy May blossom. It was a bright, cold morning with a beautiful pale blue sky, but on closer inspection, a late ground frost singed and mocked the hedgerows for their show of colour. Why did I feel that was prophetic? Relieved to be alone, I rehearsed in my head what I was going to say. I had no radio on, no CD in; only the quiet purr of the engine as a soundtrack to my thoughts. It was still early when I reached town, which was just waking up. There were precious few office workers here – they mostly went into Oxford – so it was mainly shopkeepers who greeted one another cheerily, fishing out great bunches of keys, opening up their doors.
The blue glass in the lamp above the police station door was glowing slightly in the sunshine as I parked outside. I got out and locked the car. Then I took a deep breath and went inside. A young uniformed officer was on reception. He looked up in slight surprise to see me at this hour. ‘Can I help?’
‘Yes, I’d like to …’ barely a whisper. I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘I’d like to speak to the officer I was interviewed by the last time I was here.’
He looked even more surprised. ‘And you are?’
‘Mrs Palmer. I believe his name was Turner? Detective Sergeant Turner?’
‘Someone taking my name in vain?’
I turned around to see the man himself, coming up behind me, smiling. He was still in his coat, having clearly just followed me in. He’d been really rather intimidating previously, and I was surprised by his cheery demeanour. He didn’t recognize me immediately, but when he did, his face cleared.
‘Ah, Mrs Palmer. Good news from London. No doubt you heard?’
‘Yes. Yes, I have. And that’s what I’d like to talk to you about.’ I wasn’t calm. Not calm at all, and possibly this showed. I’d meant to be very composed, but I knew my voice, my agitated mannerisms – my twisting hands, the licking lips – were somewhat giving me away.
He looked taken aback for a moment. Then his face softened. ‘I’m sorry, it must have been a shock. I can see that. To hear it on the radio. And actually we did send a police liaison officer round to break the news yesterday, but no one was in?’
‘Oh. My father wondered. He got to the door too late.’
He spread his hands apologetically.
‘Well, thank you for that. But I wonder if I might have a word anyway?’
‘Yes, of course.’ This was a different man now. He was polite, kind, mannerly. No doubt the man he was in real life, when he wasn’t questioning murder suspects. He led the way down the corridor to the same interview room, probably the only one they had. Before he went in, though, he popped his head into the coffee room where his staff were still waking up. He asked Holly to come in, please, and bring the file, if she would. The same girl as before put her cap on and came in behind us, giving me a smile. Perhaps she’d heard the news too. May even have been the one who’d popped round.
I waited until we were all seated at the table. They were relaxed and easy in their chairs. I opened my mouth. For a moment I had neither wind nor words to draw on. But then it came out.
‘I’d like to confess.’
There was a silence. Turner frowned. ‘Confess?’ He looked confused.
‘To my husband’s murder.’
Slowly they both sat forwards. They didn’t speak, they just waited. Then I saw Holly reach for a button on a machine: Turner stayed her hand.
‘You see, I killed him. Yes, Andrew Parker, the burglar, knocked him down, knocked him out, but I found him still alive when I came down. I didn’t ring the ambulance until he was dead.’
Silence prevailed. Turner looked at me intently. If this was a tactic to make me talk, it worked. I gabbled on. ‘My husband was a monster. A bully. A tyrant. I was terrified of him. We all were. I spent my life running scared. He didn’t beat me, but he did other, more terrible things, more scary things. Nothing visible, he was too clever for that. But the things he made me do. The threats he made about my children …’ I shook my head. ‘All sorts. Horrific. When I saw him lying there, I knew I wanted him dead. Had often thought about it. I left him there until … you know.’
I looked at my hands, clenched before me on the table. The nails of one were digging into the back of the other. There was a trace of blood. The girl, Holly, saw it too.
‘How long did you wait for, Mrs Palmer?’ asked Turner quietly.
‘I don’t know,’ I whispered.
‘You were in shock?’
‘Yes, but – no. Not really. I felt very rational. Very calm.’
‘Not panicky.’
‘No. And you see, the boy, the young lad, he would have just pushed Michael and run. He just wanted our phones, money, whatever. I, on the other hand, wanted him dead.’
Turner was still regarding me intently. ‘But only you can corroborate this. There was no one else in the house.’
‘No, but the study blinds weren’t pulled, you see. And the woman at the back, behind us, was up. I saw her light on. Only briefly. Up t
o now I’ve persuaded myself I imagined it, but I know I saw it. When I came down.’
Without taking his eyes off me, he put his hand out. Holly passed him a file. He opened it. Read for a bit. ‘Mrs Schroeder?’
‘Yes.’
‘We have spoken to her.’
‘I thought you would have.’
‘She said she didn’t see the break-in, she must have been asleep, but she woke for some reason, perhaps she heard a shout, and did see you arrive in the room. She said the French door was open and there was a man on the floor. She saw you crouch down and reach for your phone a moment later. She saw the light from it. Saw you put it to your ear. That’s why she didn’t ring the police herself, report what she assumed was a break-in. She says the emergency services arrived soon after.’
I stared at him, astounded. Dumbfounded. At length I spoke. ‘But … I – I didn’t. That just didn’t happen. That’s not true. It was just in my hand, my phone. For ages. I sat there for ages, in the dark … it seemed like ages.’
‘Not according to Mrs Schroeder. And not according to you, either. A statement was taken from you at the time. You told the police officer you wore earplugs and didn’t hear your husband come in, but when you went down, he was already dead on the floor. You phoned the police immediately. What do you say about that?’
‘I retract it. I made it up,’ I whispered.
‘I see.’
He paused. Read the notes again. Finally he looked up. He folded his hands in front of him. ‘Of course, shock affects people in many different ways, Mrs Palmer.’ His voice was kind. ‘Many people, when something terrible happens, can be in an almost trance-like state, despite feeling completely lucid. And time, in those circumstances, is often not in line with our perception of it. What feels like hours can be moments. And the mind works in mysterious ways, after a trauma. Particularly given the condition of your marriage. It’s possible, in your guilt since the incident, you persuaded yourself you were responsible.’
I stared at him, stunned. ‘You don’t believe me.’ My voice was no more than a breath.
‘I suggest, having spoken to Mrs Schroeder, who is an un-shocked, independent witness, that her timeline is more accurate. It also concurs with your account at the time. It’s possible you’ve had too much time to think since, and become disoriented and confused. At the time, you gave the same account as Mrs Schroeder.’
‘But I told you, I want to retract that. You see – there’s an innocent young lad, a boy, his whole future – and – and you see, years ago,’ I rushed on, ‘there was another young boy. That’s the thing. Another teenager. Only two years older than this one, nineteen. Liam Stephens, perhaps you remember? Perhaps you were here? Not you,’ I glanced wildly at Holly, ‘you’re too young. But you might have been?’ I implored Turner.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said slowly. He frowned. Shook his head, confused. ‘I … don’t understand.’
‘I knocked him off his motorbike in 2001. It wasn’t my fault, but he died. I killed him.’ I was licking inside my cheeks for saliva. ‘I thought you might remember?’
‘I came from Tetbury, five years ago,’ he said slowly. He was looking at me very carefully. My head was pulsing. It felt like a vein was leaping out of my temple. Like Michael’s used to.
‘No, no, then you wouldn’t remember.’ I nodded feverishly. I could feel myself sweating. ‘You’re right, it would have been before your time. But you see, my point is, I was responsible. Inadvertently, but still, I did it. I ended his life, and I don’t want to end another. I can’t be responsible again, I just can’t.’ My voice was rising, cracked even. This didn’t sound as good as it had done in the small hours. Or in the car, when I’d rehearsed it. Not as clear, as rational. I tried to explain again, but I was falling over my words. ‘Because now, you see, there’s this other young boy. And I simply cannot have that on my conscience, don’t you understand? Don’t you see? It would be—’
‘Mrs Palmer,’ Turner interrupted me sharply. ‘The young boy, Andrew Parker, or Parks, is a gang leader. A drug dealer. He has a host of previous convictions. His particular gang roams the West London streets where you live, in a calculated, ruthless manner. Last summer, an elderly lady was beaten up and killed for her jewellery by Parker. The Met know this, but there was not enough evidence to prosecute.’
I was taken aback. A gang leader. A drug dealer. But still, I felt dogged. Determined. I pressed on. ‘So – so what you’re saying is, you’re going to prosecute him for this one, is that it?’ My voice sounded a bit shrill. ‘Pin this one on him, hm?’
‘Mrs Palmer, we’re talking about a violent, serial offender. A very nasty individual. It’s lucky you didn’t come down the stairs earlier, or he might well have killed you too. I very much doubt he gave your husband a little push.’
Turner’s eyes were pale hazel, almost yellow, like a tiger’s. Steady, intelligent eyes. Focused. They didn’t leave my face. I was mesmerized by them. I didn’t know what to say. The silence in the room was heavy, thick with portent. I swallowed. Eventually I spoke. ‘So … what should I do? Now? I mean – I’ve told you what happened. Are you going to pass it on? To the Met?’
‘Of course. I shall speak to them directly.’
‘And I’ll wait to hear?’ It sounded as if I were at a job interview.
‘Yes, you will be hearing from us. Because I think it would be in your interests for us to keep you informed. In the interests of your …’ he hesitated. For a surreal moment I thought he was going to say sanity. ‘Anyway. I can see this has come as a terrible shock. I regret not persisting in contacting you previously. It was remiss of me. We should have persevered. And I believe it would be wrong to keep you out of the loop now, particularly in light of what you’ve said today. But please think carefully about any statement you might wish to make.’ He leaned forward again: folded his arms on the table. His eyes searched my face. ‘I’ve seen people, usually women, confess to crimes they didn’t commit, for all sorts of reasons. And unfortunately, if you insist enough, you reap what you sow. But too often, in circumstances like this, the mind plays tricks on us. It’s well documented. Don’t forget that, Mrs Palmer. Is there someone at home for you?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Someone to look after you.’
‘I don’t need looking after.’
‘But is someone there?’
‘My parents.’
‘Good.’
He closed the file. Then he pushed his chair back and got to his feet. Holly stood too. They were waiting for me. At length, uncertainly, I followed suit. There was so much more to say. So much I needed to say. But there was nothing I could do about it. Turner went to the door, opened it and waited. I hesitated, but went through, under his arm. He peeled off into the staff room without another word, the file under his arm. Holly’s eyes were kind as she ushered me down the corridor to reception. No, I realized as she opened the front door for me and held it, her eyes were not kind. They were concerned. Worried. And all I could think was – why isn’t anyone listening to me? After all these years of keeping silent about Michael, when I finally decide to speak out, why won’t anyone hear me?
30
I drove back down the lanes feeling dazed and disconnected. The late spring sun was low in the sky and dazzling in its intensity. The road shimmered, mirage-like, before me. I pulled the visor down, but it didn’t help much and suddenly I was glad of the searching spotlight, focusing on me, finding me out: looking into every corner of my soul. I pushed the visor up and embraced it. Was he right, Turner? Was Ingrid right? Was I imagining things? Had my mind overcompensated for the numerous times I’d fantasized about Michael dying? And let’s face it, it had been a constant preoccupation. One minute he was stepping off the pavement, half cut, into the path of an oncoming car when – thud. It was all over. The next he was driving too fast – a regular occurrence – and meeting a lamppost head on, as he misjudged a corner. No one else was hurt, obviously, but the car conce
rtinaed and he was killed instantly. I shook my head, gathering myself together. Banishing all those old thoughts. That old life.
Instead, I concentrated on what Turner had said. Sometimes, in times of extreme stress and shock, and after trauma, the mind plays tricks. Distorts the past. The timeline can shift, or, more specifically, lengthen. A minute seems like an hour. Except I knew … I knew … didn’t I? I gripped the wheel feeling – what was that word Imo had taught me? Gaslighted. That was it. She’d used it with reference to her father. It was from a movie of the same name, with Ingrid Bergman and – Cary Grant? The husband who drives his wife insane: planting seeds of doubt, until she questions her own reality. Michael had done it, constantly manipulating me to imagine I was in the wrong, doubting my own memories, my perception of the truth. Jesus Christ, was it happening again? In which case, was it me? Was I the one who misremembered events? Had I deliberately coughed in Michael’s ear every two hours, as he once said I had, intentionally waking him, so that I was afraid to go to sleep (and wasn’t allowed to sleep in the room next door)? I had to pull over suddenly, off the road, on to a grass verge. Was this yet another situation I’d got wrong?
My hands were shaking as I removed them from the wheel which I’d been clutching. Had I been mad all along, and had Michael been right? Did I deliberately smash his mother’s antique bowl? He even showed me the pieces on the floor: told me I’d stepped over them for two days. He said the same of Imo and Ned, that they’d taken things of his. A watch, belonging to Michael’s father. The family Bible. Stolen them. He punished them for it, and then we’d found those things later, locked in drawers. It made me feel better, remembering the children’s experiences. My parents, too, who he said never thanked us when they came to our house, although my mother always wrote – Michael had made it plain he didn’t count a phone call. But Michael destroyed the letters. Before I got to them. So they stopped coming, my parents. To make it easier for me.
Behind Closed Doors Page 29