by Susan Lewis
Georgie was on the phone, speaking to someone inside. Minutes later they were plucked from the middle of the circus, ushered to the station doors, then being led through drab, winding corridors to the interview rooms in the depths of this Victorian institution. It was the first time in her life that Beth had been beyond the front desk of a police station. The feeling it gave her was almost dizzying. Or was it that her senses were still reeling from the ordeal outside? And now, as the noise receded, and their footsteps filled her ears, her heart began pounding so hard she was afraid she’d never get through this without breaking down.
At the top of a small flight of stairs Georgie was taken off in another direction. Beth was unsettled by the fact that they were questioning Georgie too, or any of her friends, when they couldn’t possibly know anything. Or could they? Maybe one or even more of them had met Sophie Long, but had never wanted to tell her. Maybe everyone knew more than she did and over the next few hellish hours, days, weeks she was going to find out just how much more.
‘Through here,’ a uniformed policewoman told her, smiling as she stood aside for Beth to enter a dingy room with cheap grey lino tiles on the floor, and matching paint on the walls. ‘Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea?’
‘Nothing, thank you,’ Beth answered, looking at the window where light was struggling to shine through the painted-over panes.
‘Mrs Ashby.’
She turned to find a kindly-looking man with a horseshoe of frizzy red hair wrapped round the base of his skull, standing right behind her. She almost jumped, for she hadn’t been aware of him even drawing close.
‘Detective Inspector Jones,’ he reminded her, even as she recognized him. He held out a hand to shake. ‘Thank you for coming to the station. I know this must be a difficult time, so we appreciate you taking the trouble.’
Beth took his hand.
‘It shouldn’t take long,’ he assured her, gesturing for her to continue on into the room.
She glanced round at the sound of voices further along the corridor, then turned towards a chipped Formica table and an odd assortment of fibreglass chairs. To her dismay, Jones was joined by a stout, smartly dressed woman who looked to be in her early fifties, and a casually attired man with a bright grey US marine-style crew cut, dark flinty eyes and a heavy-set jaw.
‘This is Detective Sergeant Freeling,’ Jones said, introducing the woman.
Freeling smiled politely, though with little warmth.
Beth looked at the man with the crew cut, expecting Jones to introduce him too.
‘Please, sit down.’ Jones smiled pleasantly.
Beth perched on the edge of a chair and clutched her bag on her knees. Jones and Freeling set themselves up at the other side of the table, while the man with the jaw retreated to a corner and positioned his chair so that he had a clear view of Beth’s face. Beth glanced at him nervously. Who was he? Why had no one introduced him?
Freeling was setting up a tape, speaking the time, date and all their names into the built-in mike. Beth looked at Jones. Though she was afraid, she was reasonably calm, she felt, and hopefully ready to convince them that she believed utterly in her husband’s innocence. The thought of Colin sent a bolt of dread shooting through her heart. He must be at the court now, preparing to make his plea. Not guilty, he would say, and her breath almost caught on the image of his pale, handsome face as he spoke. What would he be feeling? How afraid he must be.
Jones looked up from the dossier in front of him. ‘I apologize for the necessity of having to put you through this,’ he began, sounding as though he meant it. ‘Please be assured it’s not our intention to cause you any more distress than you must already be suffering.’
Beth looked at him with wide, burning eyes. She made no attempt to speak for her emotions were embarrassingly close to the surface and his unexpected kindness had caused a tightness in her throat.
‘I know you’re aware that we searched your house yesterday,’ he continued.
She nodded. Tension had stiffened her neck.
‘Would you mind speaking your answers?’ he asked, indicating the tape deck.
‘Yes,’ she responded, tilting her face towards the machine.
‘We’ve removed several items,’ he told her. ‘Some of them are your diaries.’
She flushed, and felt the heat sinking to the base of her pores. A beat later she was panicking about how her private thoughts might be construed. Lawyers were even more skilled at twisting facts than reporters.
Jones’s eyes were imbued with understanding as he said, ‘Married life is rarely easy.’
The colour in her cheeks deepened as sweat began prickling her armpits. What had they found in those diaries? What were they misreading already?
‘Do you have any idea how long your husband had been seeing Sophie Long?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘But you did know he was seeing her?’
‘No. I’d never heard of her until yesterday.’ Her lips felt dry and cracked; her voice was hoarse.
‘The women you’ve written about in your diaries – wasn’t one of them Sophie?’
‘I suppose it’s possible,’ she answered. ‘I rarely knew their names.’
‘So he could have been seeing her for some time?’
‘I really don’t know.’
He nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. ‘Your husband moved out of the house a week or so ago?’ he said.
The question made her feel horrible inside ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We had a row. I changed the locks. It wasn’t the first time.’ But he’d know that, having read her diaries.
‘What was the row about?’
He must know that too. ‘A party he wanted me to go to,’ she answered. ‘I’d already cooked dinner, so I wanted to stay at home. He went anyway, and I got someone in to change the locks.’ She wondered what they were all thinking – that she was hysterical, or that more women should have the guts?
‘Have you spoken to your husband since that night?’
‘No. Yes. He called me the next day to say he was sorry.’
‘But you didn’t allow him back in the house?’
‘He didn’t ask to come. He knew I needed more time to calm down.’
‘So where was he staying?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He didn’t tell you?’
‘No.’
Jones seemed genuinely surprised. ‘And you didn’t ask?’ he said. ‘You didn’t need to know, for emergencies, say?’
‘He has a mobile phone. I could have called him on that.’
Now Jones was really curious. ‘Was it usual for him not to tell you where he was during these periods of estrangement?’
‘Sometimes he did. Sometimes he didn’t. There were certain friends he’d go to; I presumed he was with one of them.’
‘What friends?’
Her eyes showed confusion and unease. ‘Friends he’s had for years,’ she answered.
‘Can you give us their names?’
Reluctantly she began listing them. But what harm could it do? The police probably already knew about them anyway. After all, they’d never been secret and were all entered in Colin’s palm-pilot. She knew because she’d set up the address book herself, before giving it to him for Christmas last year.
When Freeling had finished writing the list, Jones said, ‘Other than friends’ wives there are no women here. Does that mean you didn’t think he was with another woman?’
‘Yes, it crossed my mind,’ she admitted, feeling herself colour again. ‘But like I said, I don’t know their names.’
He nodded, as though thanking her for the reminder. ‘On average, how long would you say your break-ups normally last?’
‘A week or so. They aren’t that frequent,’ she added defensively.
‘But more frequent than most.’
Shame caused her mouth to tremble. ‘It was a feature of our marriage,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t read anything
into it.’
His smile was benign. ‘Did you know that he had an arrangement to see Sophie Long at midday yesterday?’
‘No. I’d never heard of her until yesterday.’
‘Do you have access to your husband’s diary?’
‘He doesn’t usually hide it, if that’s what you mean.’
‘But he hadn’t been in the house for almost a week, so presumably the last time you saw it was prior to him leaving?’
She nodded. ‘I imagine so. I don’t really remember when I last saw it.’
He glanced down at the notes in front of him.
Beth watched him closely, then started as Freeling suddenly said, ‘Where were you at midday yesterday, Mrs Ashby?’
Beth blinked with surprise. ‘At home,’ she answered.
‘You don’t work?’ Her tone was almost scathing, telling Beth precisely what she thought of women who didn’t.
‘Not exactly. I used to, but I left,’ Beth responded, ‘to write a book.’
Freeling didn’t disguise her disdain. ‘Did you leave the house at all yesterday morning?’ she said curtly.
‘No.’
‘Did anyone visit you?’
‘No. Except the cleaner, Mrs Tolstoy. She was there.’
‘What about phone calls?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t remember. I don’t think anyone called.’
‘Did you ring anyone?’
Beth shook her head. ‘Not that I recall. Won’t the BT records –’
‘There were no calls,’ Freeling butted in, ‘so how do we know you’re telling the truth?’
Beth’s eyes widened with alarm. She turned to Jones. ‘I was at home,’ she insisted. ‘Mrs Tolstoy was there, cleaning. I was working on my computer. I’m always at home in the day …’
‘Can you give us Mrs Tolstoy’s number?’
Beth gave it, shaking with indignation and fear.
‘So she will confirm that you were there between eleven a.m. and twelve thirty p.m.,’ Freeling demanded.
‘Yes, of course,’ Beth cried.
‘You didn’t go out at all?’
‘No! Yes. Hang on, yes, I did go out. I went to get paper for my printer. The stationer’s isn’t far. I bought paper, and a packet of pencils. I’ve got a receipt,’ she said, scrabbling in her bag. ‘It’s here somewhere. I know I kept it. I can claim those kinds of things against tax, so I always keep … Here it is! I don’t know if the time is on it, but I’m sure the boy who served me will remember.’
Freeling took the receipt and looked it over. She then handed it to Jones, who read it before passing it to the man in the corner.
After a while, like a weather vane, Freeling’s brief storm retreated into the shadows as Jones’s warmth returned to the light. ‘Do you have any idea, Mrs Ashby, why your husband would have killed Sophie Long?’
Beth’s eyes were bright with confusion. ‘No,’ she answered truthfully. ‘None whatsoever. He’s not a violent man. He never has been.’ Then realizing her answer had suggested a doubt in his innocence, she hurriedly said, ‘He wouldn’t have done it. He couldn’t. If you knew him … He’d never hurt anyone …’
Jones looked at her, his eyes a reminder of what he’d read in her diary.
‘I mean physically,’ she said. ‘He’d never hurt anyone physically.’
‘Has he ever told you anything that might have been … instrumental, or perhaps in any way linked, to Sophie Long’s death?’
Beth frowned. ‘I’m not sure I understand the question,’ she said. ‘I haven’t spoken to my husband since it happened, so how could he have told me anything –’
‘I mean before it happened,’ Jones interrupted. ‘Did you ever get the impression that your husband was, well, holding something back from you?’
‘He often did that,’ she reminded him.
‘Of course. But I wasn’t actually referring to the, er, other women in his life. I was thinking more of his professional, or financial affairs. Did you ever feel that there might be something there that he was, perhaps, in with too deep?’
Again she frowned. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Nothing he might have been involved in, or knew about, or was trying to cover up?’
She was shaking her head. ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at. If you could be more specific …’
Jones looked down at his dossier again. ‘Does your husband discuss his colleagues with you?’ he asked. ‘I mean those since his recent appointment?’
‘Occasionally. Some of them have been friends for many years.’
He met her eyes again. ‘You’re aware of the Official Secrets Act, I’m sure.’
‘Of course. And if you’re asking if he ever broke it, then the answer’s not with me. Or not that I was ever aware of.’
Jones looked round as the man in the corner passed him a note.
Beth waited. The silence was too long for Jones just to have read a few lines. Something was happening, but she couldn’t work out what. It was unnerving her. What kind of subtext were they picking up from her answers? What had they understood that she’d had no intention of saying? She was starting to perspire even harder, and the desire to get up and run almost overwhelmed her. But there was nothing to run from. They were only asking her questions that she wasn’t even finding hard to answer. It would be over soon. She’d be able to get up and walk out, knowing that she had nothing to hide and nothing to be afraid of. Dear God, she had to stop feeling so guilty and defensive …
*
‘That’s exactly how I felt,’ Georgie confided later as they swapped stories while speeding down the motorway. ‘There was a moment there when they almost had me thinking I was involved! For God’s sake, we’re talking about murder! They shouldn’t be allowed to force people to behave as though they’re guilty when they didn’t even have anything to do with it.’
‘I suppose it’s one way of trying to find out who did do it,’ Beth mumbled. Then swallowing hard she said, ‘I hope to God we never have to go through it again, but I think we will, don’t you?’
‘I think it’s more likely that you will, considering I was in the Cotswolds at the time. Just thank God for Mrs Tolstoy, eh? And that receipt.’
‘I wonder if they’ll let me have it back,’ Beth said. ‘I still need it for my taxes.’
Georgie glanced over at her, and after a moment’s uncertainty they spluttered with laughter.
‘Isn’t it weird?’ Beth said after a while. ‘The tale of two cleaners. While he’s getting caught at the scene by one, I’m at home getting protection from one. Just thank God it wasn’t today or Wednesday – I’d have been alone then, with no alibi at all.’
‘I still don’t think they’d have seriously suspected you,’ Georgie responded. ‘Like you said, they have to be tough to make sure they’re getting all the facts.’
Beth nodded, and watched a Jaguar go flying past. ‘You know what?’ she said. ‘It struck me that they think Colin might be involved in something else besides all this. Or that’s linked to it, maybe.’
Georgie frowned. ‘Like what?’
‘I’m not sure. It wasn’t clear. Something financial, maybe. Or professional, they said.’
‘Do you think he was?’
‘Not that I know of.’
Georgie hesitated, then decided to say what she was thinking. ‘What about the flat you’re buying? That must be a lot of money.’
Beth groaned and closed her eyes. ‘What’s going to happen about that now?’ she wailed. ‘We’re due to complete next week. We’ll have to pull out. Oh God, I’m going to have to sort out the removers from our house too. I’ll have to put everything in storage. Shit! I’ve got nowhere to live! Do you realize that? I’m actually homeless! And whatever profit we make from the house will no doubt end up paying his legal fees, and some.’
‘You’re not homeless,’ Georgie assured her. ‘You’ve always got a place with us, which is where you should be right now anyway, not somewher
e out there on your own.’
Beth was quiet as she considered the daunting prospect of the practical and emotional nightmares she was now facing. Every minute, every hour seemed to be bringing some new problem.
‘So what about the money for the flat?’ Georgie prompted.
‘We’re taking out a massive mortgage,’ Beth answered. ‘Or we were. There’s no way I can manage it on my own. I’ll have to call the bank. Oh God, I can’t bear this. Colin, why are you doing this to me?’ Her hands were clasped over her face as she dropped her head towards her chest.
A while later she was gazing blankly out of the window as she said, ‘I wonder if he was into something, you know, crooked or whatever? Some kind of scam, or cult, or porn thing.’ Suddenly the idea was too much. ‘Oh God, please don’t let him have been,’ she implored, ‘or this is only going to get worse. It’ll go on and on and on … I have to see him. I have to know what’s really happening. I take it Bruce hasn’t called yet?’
‘No. He will, as soon as he’s got some news.’
Beth’s head fell back against the seat as she wondered which was hardest to bear – not being in the court with Colin, or waiting to hear what had happened. She was so close to the edge now, it was probably only exhaustion that was holding her back.
Georgie glanced at her sympathetically, then pulled out to overtake a convoy of slow-moving lorries. ‘You know, I wouldn’t go worrying yourself too much over this other thing,’ she said, when finally they’d returned to the centre lane and seventy miles an hour. ‘Remember, he’s pleading not guilty, so it’s going to help their case if they can back it up with some kind of motive. That’ll mean exploring every angle just in case.’