by Jane Renshaw
DI Murray leant across the table. ‘What happened, Flora? What happened in your house that day?’
Chapter 33
‘Okay darling. We’re here,’ Flora said unnecessarily.
She pulled in opposite Caroline’s. There were still two police vans parked at their gate, and tape across the entrance to the drive. Had Beckie seen that?
Beckie hadn’t cried, not once, since Flora had told her five days ago that Neil was dead. She had acquiesced to all Flora’s suggestions about how to fill their days. This afternoon at the swimming pool she had swum mechanically up and down at Flora’s side, and then sat in the echoey cafe nibbling a piece of shortbread and staring out of the window.
Now she was sitting in the passenger seat, her little face stiff, her eyes vacant. As if she had retreated somewhere Flora couldn’t follow.
Flora had been released, eventually, from the police station without being arrested or charged, but it had been after nine o’clock in the evening and Flora had been exhausted and in no state to have the conversation she needed to have with Beckie. Caroline had picked her up and taken her through to Glasgow to retrieve the hired car from Meadowlands Crescent.
She had expected to find the tires slashed or windows broken, but the car had been undamaged. And she had somehow managed to drive it back to Caroline’s. She had somehow managed to get some sleep, and get herself over to Shona’s in the morning, and tell Beckie that Dad was dead.
‘We’re here,’ she repeated.
Flora got out of the car and opened the passenger door. She unclipped Beckie’s seatbelt and lifted her out as if she was still the traumatised little toddler she’d been when she first came to them, stiff, passively resistant in her arms.
Caroline’s front door opened, but instead of Caroline there was the blonde policewoman, and behind her a younger policeman, their faces stony.
But when she looked at Beckie, the woman fixed on a smile. ‘Hello there. Beckie, right? We just need a word with your mum for a minute, okay?’
And now, thank goodness, here was Caroline, taking Beckie’s hand, pulling her inside, and Flora was being herded after them, into Caroline’s front room where there were three cups on the coffee table and a plate of Rich Tea biscuits.
‘Please take a seat, Mrs Parry.’
Not Flora any more then.
She chose the armchair nearest the door, the blonde and her colleague the sofa.
‘Have you interviewed the Johnsons?’ Flora said.
The blonde just looked at her. ‘Mrs Parry, forensic evidence has been found in your car suggesting that your husband’s body was at some point placed in the boot.’
Flora swallowed. ‘That’s not possible.’
‘Fibres from the socks he was wearing that day and also skin cells were recovered. The skin cells have been identified as Mr Parry’s using DNA sequencing technology. Also, a partial print has been recovered from the chain that was round his neck, and it’s a match for the thumb of your right hand. A piece of plastic fibre has been found caught in the winder of his watch which is a match for the tarp in your shed. Your fingerprints were found overlying the other fingerprints on the garage door handle, although you claim not to have known that your husband’s car was in the garage. And we know that your mobile phone made a call to your husband’s phone from a location a few hundred metres from Cairn Hill at 7:16 pm on the day in question.’
Oh God. One of her calls to Neil, asking where he was, to make it look like she didn’t know what had happened to him.
‘Can you explain any of that?’
She just shook her head.
‘Mrs Parry –’
‘I found him. But he was already dead! I found him on our bed, and I panicked, I –’ She couldn’t involve Caroline. Beckie needed Caroline. ‘I took his body to Cairn Hill. The Johnsons were trying to frame me! I didn’t kill him!’
‘Mrs Parry, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of your husband.’ She stood, a pair of handcuffs suddenly in her hands. ‘You are being detained under Section 14 of the Criminal Procedure, Scotland, Act 1995. You have the right not to say anything other than giving your name, address, date of birth, place of birth and nationality, but anything you do say will be noted and may be used in evidence. You have the right to see a solicitor. Do you understand? Mrs Parry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please stand up.’
‘My daughter! Please – let me see her... Let me see her without...’ She looked down at the handcuffs in the woman’s hands. ‘Please! She’s just found out her dad’s dead.’
The police officers exchanged glances. ‘Okay. But please keep it brief.’
In the kitchen, Beckie was sitting at the table staring at a slice of bread and jam. She looked up at Flora, at the police officers behind her, with a blank expression.
‘Beckie. Darling... I have to go with the police now. There’s... I’ve been a bit silly and there’s been a misunderstanding, but it’ll all get sorted out so you don’t have to worry, okay?’ Flora squatted by her chair. ‘I’m not sure when I’ll be back, but Caroline will look after you for now.’ She shot a pleading look at Caroline, who was standing propped against the sink, her face very pale.
‘Course I will,’ Caroline said at once, attempting a smile.
‘Where are you going?’ said Beckie.
‘To the police station. I – the police think... They think I had something to do with Dad... with what happened to Dad... But Beckie, I promise you I didn’t, okay?’
‘Something to do with it? What do you mean?’
Flora couldn’t say it. She put her arms round the thin, stiff little shoulders. ‘It’s going to be okay.’
‘You mean –’ Beckie pulled back. ‘You mean they think you killed Dad?’ And suddenly she was up and away, backing from the table, and Flora’s words caught in her throat, she couldn’t get them out, she couldn’t move, like one of those terrible dreams where all powers of speech and movement are denied you.
Beckie was staring at the blonde policewoman. ‘She didn’t,’ she said, quite calmly. ‘My Mum didn’t kill him.’
‘But they have to... They have to ask me questions...’
‘Are you arrested?’
Flora nodded. And at last she was able to go to her, to put her arms round her and pull her close, and Beckie was saying, ‘It’s okay Mum, it’ll be okay because you didn’t hurt Dad.’ But she wasn’t hugging Flora back, she was just standing there.
It was the shock.
Of course it was the shock.
‘Mrs Parry –’
Flora pulled away; put both hands either side of Beckie’s face. ‘You’re going to have to try your hardest not to worry about me, Beckie, because I’ll be fine. It’s a mistake and it’ll be sorted out. I’ll be back before you know it, but in the meantime you’ll be fine here with Caroline.’ She smiled. ‘Remember you have to eat to keep your strength up, okay? And probably soon they’ll let Caroline pick up some of your things from the house... Anything you want...’
Beckie’s lips moved in an approximation of a smile. ‘Okay.’
And then suddenly she was having to leave her, and how was Beckie going to even begin to get through this? She wanted to hold her so tight and never let her go but she couldn’t, all she could do was say ‘Thank you’ to Caroline, and then she was out of the kitchen, Beckie was gone, the cuffs were around her wrists and hands were on her upper arms and she was walking down the path to the street.
‘This is fucking ridiculous!’ Caroline said behind her. ‘There’s no way Flora... How can you think she killed Neil? This is a huge fucking mistake and you’re getting your arses sued for this!’
Flora turned.
Caroline was trying to push her way past the young policeman. Flora caught her gaze and held it.
‘Look after her.’
It seemed to stretch on, the moment in which she stared into Caroline’s eyes, wordlessly beseeching.
‘God, yes, of course I wi
ll, Flora, don’t worry about that for a second... Are you proud of yourselves, are you, for traumatising a nine-year-old child, taking her mum away from her when she’s just lost her dad?’
‘Ms Turnbull, please go back inside.’
‘Don’t worry, Flora! Don’t you worry, okay, we’ll sort this out!’
‘Hello?’
‘Mrs Fisher?’ I goes in a polite wee voice. ‘This is Jessica Stuart from Making Waves? The TV production company? You were kind enough to speak to myself and my colleague about your daughter Tricia a few weeks ago?’
‘Oh. Yes. Hello.’
‘It seems that Rachel Clark, or Flora Parry as she’s calling herself now, was arrested today for the murder of her husband. I’ve just had a tip-off from a journalist. And she’s also under suspicion of the murder of a social worker.’
Wifie’s gasping away.
I goes: ‘I’m sorry to be telling you this over the phone, but I didn’t want you to find out from the media. It should hit the news tomorrow morning... Mrs Fisher, are you all right?’
‘I – yes. Sorry.’
‘The police are unaware, however, of Flora’s real identity.’ So how come this journo fucker tipped me off, eh? How come the journo knew Flora Parry was the Rachel Clark I was making a documentary about? It’s no adding up, but I’m counting on Wifie no thinking straight. ‘Rachel covered her tracks extremely well, and... Anyway. The thing is, my professional code of conduct precludes me from going to the police and telling them who Flora is...’ And that’s a load of pish an’ all. ‘But you could do so.’
‘I’ll do it right now.’
‘Aye, if you wouldn’t mind, Mrs Fisher, holding off until her photo’s in the press? Then you can pretend you recognise her from the photo. I shouldn’t have told you who she was, you see. I just – I couldn’t in all conscience not tell you, but if anyone finds out I’ve done so I’ll probably lose my job.’
‘Oh, of course. After all you’ve done for us...’
‘If you just call the police after her photo’s appeared in the press, and tell them she’s the bitch killed Tricia, that should do it.’
Aye, that should do it right enough.
I chuck the phone on the settee and do a fist pump like one of they tennis fuckers.
Out in the wee hall, there’s that up-herself bint coming at me in her wee cropped jeans and white linen shirt, pulling at the waistband of the jeans because aye, getting a bit tight there, eh doll? Fuck the fucking diet, eh?
‘Right then Caroline-hen,’ I goes. ‘Let’s us get outta here.’
Behind the bint, there’s wee Bekki. Thank God. She’s been locked in the lavvy for a fucking hour, poor wee bairn.
I turn and go, ‘Okay sweetheart?’
‘Who are you talking to?’
I chuckle. ‘Talking to myself like a mentalist.’ I wave at the mirror down the end of the hall and the bint waves back. Next her, Bekki’s standing giving it rabbit in the headlights.
It’s fucking crazy but, like something out one of they halls of fucking mirrors – I’m rabbit in the headlights an’ all, I cannae believe it – there’s me and there’s my wee darlin’ next me. Wee Bekki. I coorie her in to my chebs and in the mirror the bint Caroline’s coorying her, and I’m going and she’s going, ‘It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s going to be okay.’
I pull up in the drive outside the newbuild. It’s a barry day, and I’m thinking picnic lunch in the garden with all the wee treats we’ve got in for Bekki, they wee samosas and that, and Marks and Sparks salads with weird beans and shite.
‘Here we are then Bekki!’ I goes, all cheery. ‘That window up there’s your room!’
Bekki doesnae say nothing.
And aye it’s a lot for a bairn to take in, eh? When we stopped on the way for a wee poke of chips I went, ‘This house where we’ll be staying, it’s where my kids live. Carly and Connor.’
And she went, ‘You’ve got kids?’
‘Yes Bekki, had you forgotten? Connor helped your mum sort her laptop when she had problems with it, remember?’
Bekki just shook her wee head.
And I pulled out my phone and showed her the photy of Carly after she had Willow in the hospital, with Connor sitting on the bed next her grinning like a daftie. ‘There’s Connor. Actually, maybe you were at school when he came over... but I’m sure Flora and I were talking about him when you were there. You don’t remember? And that’s Carly and wee Willow, her baby.’
Bekki just stared.
‘Carly’s carrying a few extra pounds. She could benefit from your healthy eating plan, don’t you reckon?’
‘She’s really pretty,’ Bekki whispered, the wee darlin’.
Now, I’m getting out the motor and going, ‘Come on then, Bekki, let’s go,’ and here’s Connor coming out the door and the wee diddy’s all choked up, and I goes, ‘Right then Connor, here’s Bekki’ and I give him evils because Bekki’s gonnae be thinking Why’s that dowfie wee bastard greeting?
And he’s ‘Hiya Bekki’ and Bekki’s eyeballing him and going, ‘Hi,’ and then we’re in the lounge and Carly’s got Willow through and she’s going, ‘Wannae hold her, Bekki?’ and Bekki’s ‘I don’t know how. I might drop her’ and Carly’s ‘Dinnae you worry, hen, I’ll soon learn you, eh? Connor hasnae dropped her yet, and if that wee fuckwit –’
I’m ‘Carly, mind your language please!’ and Carly’s ‘Sorry. Here, Bekki, you sit down on the settee and then if you do drop the wean she’s gonnae get a soft landing, eh?’ and Bekki’s got Willow in her arms and she’s looking down at the babby and the babby’s looking back up at her, and it’s no happening just yet because Willow cannae and Bekki’s traumatised and that, but it winnae be long before they two’s smiling and laughing together, and I’m that choked up I’ve to get outta there and through the kitchen and out the back, and I’m staring at they begonias and greeting my fucking eyes out.
Two months later
Chapter 34
Flora chose a table opposite the door as usual, so she would know straight away whether Caroline had Beckie with her. She never knew what to hope for – it was no place for a child, obviously, but she couldn’t help hoping that Beckie would come this time.
An attempt had been made to make the Visit Room child friendly. The walls were painted sunshine yellow, and there were some pictures of smiling people bolted to them, and even some bright alphabet and number posters in the play area corner. But if a child used the play area, they had to be accompanied by a visitor, not the prisoner.
The prisoners had to remain seated at their tables at all times.
There were only three other women with this visiting slot today, as Flora had hoped. And they were all young girls whose presence was in no way threatening. Flora always waited until the last minute to book her visiting slot, just in case Beckie came, so she could find out who else had booked when, and avoid the hard nuts.
‘Hey Flora,’ said Danielle, twisting round at the table in front, knees jigging. ‘God I’m needing a fucking fag.’
There was meant to be no talking among prisoners in the Visit Room, but Mrs Aitken, standing by the door, tended to turn a blind eye as long as the exchanges remained civil.
Flora smiled. ‘It’s a cup of coffee I want.’
Because they weren’t allowed to leave their seats, they had to wait until their visitors arrived to get them stuff from the vending machines.
‘It’s shite,’ said Danielle.
‘But it’s caffeine.’
‘I’m wanting chocolate buttons. But they should let us fucking smoke. Should be a nonsmoking room and a smoking room for stupid cows like me cannae quit.’ Her knees were jumping now. Danielle was cyclothymic, and currently in a hyper phase. ‘Although I guess it’s for the kids, eh. Don’t want them getting passive smoking.’
‘You don’t get passive smoking,’ said one of the other girls with a roll of her eyes.
‘All right, ladies,’ said Mrs Aitken.
�
��Sorry,’ said Danielle, although the rebuke hadn’t been aimed at her.
‘Verbal fucking diarrhoea,’ said the other girl.
‘Aye, just because I’m bubbly and that –’
‘And we wouldn’t have you any other way,’ said Flora. ‘Although, when your brother arrives for your visit –’
Danielle grinned. ‘Keep it zipped, eh?’
‘Well, at least let him say hello.’
Everyone in the room smiled, including Mrs Aitken.
Flora had rediscovered the knack she’d acquired, all those years ago, in the Young Offenders’ Institution of diffusing this sort of tension, the sort of tension that was inevitable when you put a group of troubled young women together. Sometimes it felt as if she’d never left it, as if the intervening years had been a wonderful dream, and now she’d woken up to reality.
Bail had been refused after it had come out that she was Rachel Clark and a ‘flight risk’, having already ‘disappeared’ with a new identity more than once.
As one of the older inmates, she had found that she was automatically afforded a certain amount of respect. But she knew how to avoid trouble. She knew how to deal with the other prisoners. Walk tall. Act confident. Be friendly, but not too friendly. Be generous with food and possessions, but don’t be a doormat. Don’t initiate eye contact with the hard nuts, but if you sense them looking at you, look back, hold their gaze, maybe greet them casually by name.
She’d been helping Danielle and some of the others with literacy and numeracy, and yesterday in the gym Wendy, one of the hard nuts, had taken her aside and muttered that she’d be ‘grateful’ if Flora would help her with her reading. ‘Never went much to the school, you know?’
Now that she was in with Wendy, she was home and dry.
And she was hating every minute, every hour that Beckie had to be without her.
But she was innocent and she was going to prove it, no matter what doom and gloom Charles Aitcheson came out with. There must be evidence, somewhere, that the Johnsons did this. She would be found innocent, and Beckie would believe it, and everything would be fine. She and Beckie would go far away and make a new start.