Sour Grapes

by Natasha Cooper

  Much love,

  Mummy

  Emma sighed and told herself it wasn’t her mother’s fault that her ideas were so hopelessly out of date or that she could not understand why her daughter might not want the kind of life she had lived. But it was infuriating all the same. Emma remembered the ‘pretty pink silk dress’with a feeling of nausea. It could have been designed at any time between the Second World War and the end of the 1950s, and it made her look about thirteen and quite as sweet as Anthony would have wanted.

  ‘Ugh!’ she said aloud, startling a large man in a pinstriped suit who was edging his way into one of the seats opposite her.

  The train was still standing at the platform ten minutes after it ought to have left. Emma, who always hated being rushed, had allowed herself plenty of time and peacefully took advantage of the stillness to draft an answer to her mother.

  She wrote two versions of the same letter, while angry commuters swore and shuffled around her, banging into her shoulder with their briefcases and handbags as they passed. Both versions of the letter seemed much too angry to send and Emma crumpled them up and stuffed them in her rucksack. She did not want to hurt her mother, who meant well, but she wanted to make it quite plain that she was going to manage her own life as she wanted and spend it with people she had chosen because she liked them for themselves and not for anything they might symbolise.

  The train started to move just as she began her third attempt. A woman wearing extraordinarily high-heeled shoes tripped and fell against Emma, knocking the fountain pen from her hand. Having wiped the smeared ink away with a paper handkerchief, Emma accepted the woman’s perfunctory apology in silence and bent to pick up her pen before someone trampled on it

  Dearest Mummy, It’s really kind of you to want to find someone for me to marry, and I don’t want to sound horribly rejecting when I say that I wish you wouldn’t. You see, I don’t actually want to get married—at least not yet. I’ve got other things to do, especially finishing my degree so that I can get myself some work, proper work. When I was doing all those temp, secretarial and cooking jobs in the old days, I realised that I needed to do something I mind about—something that might be useful, make a difference of some kind to someone—otherwise I think I might have gone dotty. Please don’t be angry, and please, please, don’t be hurt. I’d love to come to stay for a weekend, but I can’t get away for this next one and I’d much rather be at home with just you when I come so that we can talk—instead of watching you wear yourself out entertaining a whole bunch of suitable young men for me. You see, I just don’t like the suitable sort very much. Please try to understand.

  Lots of love,

  Emma.

  Rereading the letter as the ink dried, Emma decided that it would just about do and could be rewritten more neatly after she had seen Andrew Lutterworth.

  His wing governor, whom she had already met twice before, had told her that he would leave a letter authorising her entry at the visitors’door and she saw it there when she identified herself to the officer in charge. It was not long before she was through all the security checks and was being ushered into one of the small interview rooms that were set aside for inmates and their lawyers.

  A few minutes after she had unpacked her polygraph equipment the door opened and she came face to face with the man whom Joe Podley and Hal Marstall had so much disliked.

  Dressed in clean jeans and a well-ironed blue-and-white striped shirt, Andrew Lutterworth looked an unlikely inhabitant of that room. He came towards Emma with his right hand outstretched, saying, ‘Ms Gnatche? This is such a pleasure.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, shaking his hand and trying to show none of her surprise at his ease of manner and attractively deep voice.

  By then she was relatively familiar with prisons and knew quite well that the inmates were as different from each other as any random collection of people would be. But none of the prisoners she had met before were anything like Lutterworth. She thought that part of the difference must have lain in his air of confidence, which held none of the belligerent brashness some of her other interviewees had shown, but there was more to it than that.

  All the other inmates she had met had one thing in common. They might seem angry or defeated; they might protest their innocence or make no bones about their guilt; they could be vulnerable or apparently impervious; but they looked as though they were part of the prison. Emma had often thought that it would be impossible to mistake one of them for a member of the staff, even when they were similarly dressed. The visitors, librarians, governors, assistant governors and everyone else who was free to leave looked, in some way separate; the inmates did not. Of them all, only Andrew Lutterworth might have come in from outside that morning.

  He was of similar height to Inspector Podley, perhaps an inch or two over the average, and much more attractive. His dark hair was thick and lightly streaked with grey at the temples. He looked fit, but his complexion was greyish and there were deep lines running between his nose and mouth as well as heavy shadows under his brown eyes as though he did not sleep well and worried a lot. To Emma’s relief his handshake was firm and his skin perfectly dry.

  ‘It is so good of you to see me,’ she said as he let go her hand.

  ‘It’s a pleasure,’ he answered, smiling at her with appealing warmth. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t agree to it when you first wrote to me. But circumstances change.’

  ‘Indeed they do,’ said Emma, returning his smile. ‘You do realise, don’t you, that nothing I—’

  ‘—discover can affect my incarceration here? Yes, Ms Gnatche, I understand that perfectly well. You put it in both your letters. But I have nothing to lose now except my undeserved reputation for wicked irresponsibility and dangerous driving. I’d like to get that cleared up if I can, even if it doesn’t get me out of here any earlier. Where do we start?’

  Emma set up her machines, explaining the purpose of each part, before attaching the sensors to his fingers, the heart monitor to his chest and the blood-pressure cuff around his upper arm. It felt odd to be rolling up his sleeves and touching his skin, odder than with any of her previous subjects.

  ‘Don’t worry so much,’ he said.

  ‘Worry? I’m not worrying.’

  ‘Come, come, Ms Gnatche. You must know the signs even better than I. Your hands are sweating. It’s a dead giveaway.’

  Emma laughed at his gentle mockery, thinking it strange to find him so immediately likeable when both Hal Marstall and Inspector Podley had described him as unpleasantly arrogant. He did not seem at all arrogant to her.

  ‘I’m sorry. That must be rather disgusting for you.’ She pulled a paper handkerchief from her bag and wiped her hands before adjusting the blood-pressure cuff around his biceps.

  ‘I don’t mind it much. What I can’t stand is people with dirty fingernails touching me, and yours are pristine. A little fresh sweat is positively wholesome in comparison with old nosepickings—or worse.’

  Emma flinched. She could not help it

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s disgusting when you think about the possible constituents of the filth, isn’t it?’

  She nodded, but it was not revulsion at the idea of dirty nails that had got to her. It had been something in his voice, something much more powerful than either the disgust or the contempt that showed so clearly in his face.

  ‘I’m going to use what we call the Control Question Technique,’ she said as formally as possible, not looking at him.

  ‘That sounds very sinister.’

  Hearing the sound of mockery again, Emma did snatch a glance at him. She was relieved to see that he was looking quite normal and went on more easily, ‘All it means is that I’m going to ask you some simple questions first that have nothing to do with the case and then continue to the material points, interspersed with other control questions that also have nothing to do with it but are likely to arouse some emotion in you so that I can have a basis on which to monitor your reactions t
o the questions about the crash. Is that all right with you?’

  ‘Whatever you wish.’

  Emma nodded, reached for her clipboard and, in as detached a voice as possible and not looking at his face, began to ask her carefully designed questions about his meals, his house, his ideal holiday, his garden, his interests in the prison, his car, his work, what he was doing on the night when he was arrested, where he had parked his car, how far he had driven it that night, whether he had ever been to the village in Buckinghamshire where the woman and her child were killed, whether he had ever had any accidents or committed any driving offences. She knew from her study of Hal Marstall’s notes that Lutterworth had twice been stopped for speeding in the past and had once, nearly ten years earlier, lost his licence for eighteen months after he had been found to be driving with too much alcohol in his blood.

  She did not attempt to analyse any of the answers he gave at the time, concentrating on keeping her voice even and her own reactions absolutely steady so that nothing about her could affect the responses his body was making as she put her questions and he answered them. After nearly an hour she was done and laid down her clipboard.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Lutterworth. That was excellent. You were most cooperative. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Tired,’ he said, pulling apart the Velcro fastening of the blood-pressure cuff. ‘It takes a surprising amount of concentration, and it’s been a while since I had to concentrate on anything very much, except keeping out of the way of the thugs and bullies in here.’

  She took the cuff from him and unhooked all the wires. Once he was freed, he rubbed his head with both hands and she saw that his fingernails were impeccably clean. It occurred to her belatedly that his horror of people with blackened nails touching him might have something to do with the thugs and bullies.

  ‘Have I given you a headache?’ she asked more sympathetically.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m glad. I’d better sort all this out and then I can leave you in peace,’ she said, reaching for her cassette recorder.

  Before she could touch it, he had taken hold of her wrist. She tried to pull away, but he tightened his fingers so that she could not get free. His strength seemed formidable.

  ‘What’s the matter, Mr Lutterworth?’ Emma asked, and then silently cursed herself as she heard the unmistakable panic in her voice.

  Trying to be sensible, she told herself that there was nothing he could do to her with a whole bunch of prison officers just the other side of the door. She had only to call out and she would be rescued. She forced herself to look directly at him and then wished she had not. There was a gleam in his eyes that she had often seen in Anthony’s; it seemed to her to carry both acknowledgment of her fear and pleasure in it.

  ‘Please let me go.’ Her voice was better that time and sounded much more dignified, as well as calmer. ‘You’re hurting my wrist, Mr Lutterworth.’

  He released her at once and sat back, watching her. When she forced herself to look properly at him she saw that the gloating expression in his eyes had been replaced by curiosity. She managed not to look away again or rub her arm.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to alarm you. I don’t know what came over me,’ he said. Apart from a suggestion of surprise, his voice sounded so completely normal that she thought she must have misinterpreted his reaction to her fear.

  ‘That’s fine. There’s no need to apologise.’

  ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I think there might be. And if I’m honest, I must admit that I do know exactly what came over me. I’m sorry.’

  Emma did not trust herself to speak and merely raised her eyebrows.

  ‘You see, you’re the first civilised person I’ve seen for ages and you were about to disappear again. For a moment I couldn’t bear it, but I should have said so straight away instead of scaring you like that. I can only think that my sensitivities must have been blunted while I’ve been in here. Will you forgive me? And stay a while and talk?’

  ‘I could stay for a little,’ Emma said stiffly. Her wish to escape seemed exaggerated and she did not want to look as though she were scuttling away like a frightened rabbit On the other hand she did not want to stay any longer than necessary. Something about him was making her feel increasingly uncomfortable. ‘But I shall have to go in ten minutes or so and I must get all this tidied up and out of the way.’

  ‘That’s fine. Just being able to look at you is enough. You see, you look just…’

  Emma wished that he would not keep staring at her. She did not want to attract him or to listen to his compliments.

  As though he sensed her withdrawal, Lutterworth added in the most straightforward manner possible, ‘You’re so unbelievably different from my brutish cellmates. You can’t imagine what they’re like and how much I dread the sound of the cell door being locked on us again.’

  Emma went on folding up the blood-pressure cuff and then took the leads out of the machines to coil them neatly in their appointed places.

  ‘That’s that,’ she said as she sat down again and looked directly at him, unsmiling. ‘Now, what is it you want to talk about?’

  ‘Anything. Anything civilised that has nothing to do with cars, sport, women, sex, prison, rights, law, police… Anything at all, Emma. Tell me about yourself.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’ She spoke as lightly as she could and was surprised to see a flash of anger in his eyes.

  ‘There must be,’ he said with an assumption of jollity. ‘I don’t mind what it is. Tell me about your work or your boyfriend.’

  ‘Mr Lutterworth, I don’t want to sound unpleasant, but I really do not wish to talk about my life. What about you? Do you get many visitors here?’

  ‘My wife comes as often as she’s allowed, but it’s only twice a month.’

  ‘Oh, dear. That seems rather a mean allowance. I’m not sure I’d realised visits were so strictly rationed,’ Emma said to keep the conversation going. She knew perfectly well how often inmates were allowed visits.

  ‘I suspect there are a lot of things you haven’t realised, Emma.’

  ‘About life in prison?’ She wished that he would not keep using her name. It seemed much too personal.

  ‘That too. But it was life in general that I meant You’re very much younger than I’d expected, you know, and quite different Has anyone ever told you…? No, I don’t suppose they have.’

  Emma was not prepared to give him the satisfaction of asking what it was he had been going to say and sat in unhelpful silence. He laughed.

  ‘I’m not being fair, am I? You must be wondering what kind of fiend you’re locked up with here.’

  ‘Not at all. You’re clearly no fiend, Mr Lutterworth. I’m just wondering what exactly it is that you want from me.’

  ‘Only a pretence that I’m still part of the real world,’ he said, suddenly sounding more vulnerable, almost likable again. ‘But I’ve been boorish, haven’t I? And rather unfair. Will you accept another apology?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ She wondered how soon she could reasonably go, and cursed herself for worrying about the etiquette of leaving a prison interview room. ‘But I’ll certainly accept your apology.’

  ‘You look troubled, Emma. What are you thinking about?’

  ‘Nothing of any importance,’ she said, at last giving herself permission to escape. ‘Look, I must go now or I’ll miss my train. You’ve been very helpful and I’m grateful.’

  ‘Good. Shall I see you again?’ he asked, looking almost as anxious as an eight-year-old boy on his way back to boarding school. ‘Won’t you have more questions to put to me? Surely you will.’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible. It depends on what the test results show. Would you be prepared to answer more?’

  ‘I’d be glad to. It’s been almost like getting out for the afternoon, talking to you. And knowing that you’ve forgiven me for my bad manners is… oh, it’s almost as good as knowing you believe I’m innoce
nt of killing that woman and her child.’

  ‘I haven’t had a chance to analyse the tests yet,’ Emma said, well aware that she had given no indication of believing him. She felt unsettled again and wished she could decide whether he was as manipulative as he seemed or simply all over the place because of what was happening to him in prison.

  ‘No, I know. But you do realise that I couldn’t have been guilty of killing them, don’t you?’ Lutterworth produced his warm, inviting smile again.

  ‘You mustn’t make me say anything like that,’ said Emma, not responding to it. ‘I’ll need time to study the results. But for what it’s worth, it seems pretty unlikely that you did it.’

  ‘Thank you for that. I can’t tell you how much it means, Emma. Is there anything else I can do for you before you go?’

  ‘Actually there is one thing,’ she said, wondering whether she would be laying up trouble for herself if she prolonged the connection between them.

  ‘Good,’ said Lutterworth. ‘I’d like to help you, Emma, in any way I can.’

  ‘I imagine that your solicitor must have had a copy of the police interview tapes. You know, the ones they recorded at the police station the night they arrested you?’