I sat up and rubbed my sore wrists and ankles, making sure that he saw the red weals that had formed in my flesh. He winced. I tried to stand up and nearly fell backwards. I had lost the circulation in my legs. I could barely stay upright.
At once Carl’s strong arms were round me. I leaned heavily on to him, grabbing his shoulder. I had no choice. It was that or fall over. He helped me to the portable chemical loo in one corner – another disturbing indication of how carefully he must have planned for this – and made as if he were going to help me to pull down my trousers.
I glowered at him. ‘Turn your back, I can manage,’ I ordered.
He did so at once. But I could see his shoulders slump. The intimacy between us had always been such that I would not previously have asked him to turn away during even such a personal activity as having a wee.
When I had finished and had rearranged my clothes I moved quickly and sat down on one of the wooden chairs.
He stood close by, loosely holding the ropes with which I had been tied in his left hand. ‘Do you want to sit there or do you want to lie down on the bed again?’ he asked me.
‘I’ll stay here,’ I said.
‘On the chair or on the bed, up to you, but I’m going to tie you wherever you are,’ he warned. There was a catch in his voice.
‘For goodness’ sake, Carl, I’m not going anywhere,’ I said.
‘But you tried to, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘You tried to run away from me. I’m afraid you are going to come to harm. I can’t let that happen. I have to keep you here.’
‘I don’t like being locked up, and I certainly don’t like being tied up.’
‘It’s for your own good,’ he said. ‘I promise you, my darling. Everything that I have done is for you.’
He began to tie my arms to the back of the chair. I knew that in his youth in Key West, Carl had learned to sail and had crewed for the tourist boats. I suspected, although I didn’t know because I had never been on a boat of any kind in my life, that the knots he used were nautical ones. I didn’t protest any more. There wasn’t any point.
Carl’s voice was high-pitched and unnatural-sounding. His face glowed white in the candlelight. His eyes were very bright.
I had little idea what time of day it was or how long I had been in the shed with Carl. As I had earlier suspected, I could see daylight outside through the cracks around the boarded-up window, but other than that day and night blended into one.
Carl provided me with food and hot drinks at regular intervals.
I refused to eat or drink anything he gave me. ‘Do you think I’m a fool?’ I asked. ‘I’m not going to let you drug me again. I’m really not.’
He looked hurt. ‘I didn’t drug you, not the way you mean, not really, I’ve told you that,’ he protested.
I ignored him.
‘Look, please eat, I haven’t touched the food, honestly,’ he went on. ‘In any case it was only a sleeping draft to keep you calm, nothing more.’
But I couldn’t believe a word he said any longer.
Eventually he opened a large plastic container of water, placed two clear plastic beakers on the box that served as a table and filled them. I was still sitting on the chair, my legs tied and just one arm free.
‘Take one,’ he instructed. I did not move.
‘For goodness’ sake, take one,’ he repeated. His voice was slightly louder and he sounded quite exasperated.
I took one.
‘Right,’ he said. He picked up the other one and drank from it. ‘There, now have a drink,’ he said. ‘You’re going to be ill otherwise.’
I shook my head and put the beaker down on the box again.
He sighed, picked up the remaining beaker and drank from it briefly. ‘Now will you drink.’
I shook my head again. I suppose I was being stubborn for the sake of it. I really had had enough.
So had Carl, apparently. ‘For God’s sake, Suzanne,’ he shouted. And he kicked the box so that the beaker of water flew in the air and spilled its contents over the floor, and the box shot across the room and clattered into the metal frame of one of the camp beds.
Somewhere outside a dog barked.
Carl ran to a window and tried to peer through a narrow crack in the boarding that covered it. Apparently he saw nothing to cause him any additional anxiety. After a minute or so he turned away from the window. Once again I could see his face quite clearly in the candlelight. There were dark shadows under his eyes. His mouth was a tight line. Strange to think how often I had kissed that mouth. Shoulders hunched, he walked across the room and carefully replaced the box he had kicked in an upright position. Then he straightened the camp bed.
I thought I heard the dog bark again, but I wasn’t quite sure. Perhaps it was my imagination, wishful thinking that somebody was going to stumble across us here in this hidden place and I would be freed, released from the clutches of the man I had until so very recently wanted only to be with for ever.
Carl was listening too. He stood with his head slightly on one side. Suddenly I was sure that I wasn’t imagining the sound of the dog barking and that it was more than one dog. I think Carl realised the same thing at almost exactly the same moment. He looked frightened and bewildered. He did not move. It was as if he were frozen to the spot.
Before either of us had time to work out what was going on there was a loud bang. The door burst open, torn off its hinges by some sort of battering ram expertly wielded by two large uniformed policemen.
More uniformed police stormed in, several of them armed. Three of them pounced on Carl and two more were quickly by my side reassuring me. From then on everything seemed to happen very fast.
DS Perry appeared and swiftly untied my bonds. I tried to sit up, but my limbs still felt leaden and I collapsed back on to the pillows.
‘Take it steady,’ said Julie Perry. ‘We’ve got an ambulance outside.’
One of the policemen holding Carl addressed him very loudly and clearly, as if making quite sure that he understood. ‘Carl Peters,’ he said. ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of abduction . . .’
Carl let out a cry, almost as if somebody had hit him. ‘Abduction? I haven’t abducted anyone. Suzanne is my wife. She’s mine. I brought her here to protect her. She came with me willingly, I didn’t abduct her . . . how could I . . . tell them, Suzanne, tell them . . .’
The words poured out of him. He was almost screaming by the time he had finished. The police bundled him off as quickly as they could. I didn’t say anything. I had nothing to say.
Thirteen
They didn’t explain it all to me, not then. Although Detective Sergeant Perry did tell me how they came to find us. Curious rather than alarmed – Carl and I were, after all, two adults not wanted for any crime – she had talked to Mariette after we disappeared, and asked her if she knew any favourite haunts of ours, places we liked to visit, anywhere we might be. For some reason, perhaps because it was still the season, Mariette had mentioned the hidden-away bluebell wood, which I remembered telling her of when she had asked me questions about my life with Carl. But Mariette had been unable to give precise directions and in any case it had not necessarily been relevant. But then, apparently, a courting couple had heard my screams the night I tried to escape and had reported the incident to the police. When DS Perry learned about this, luckily for me she began to put two and two together.
Carl and I had both regarded the area around the bluebell wood, and certainly the old quarry further along the track where the hut was, as being very remote, but in fact nowhere is far from civilisation in Cornwall. And apparently the rough track both of us had only previously driven along during the day became something of a lovers’ lane at night.
I suppose I was relieved. I was also confused – Carl had been right about that – and my physical condition only added to my distress. I was suddenly over-whelmed by a coughing fit. DS Perry passed me a paper tissue and I coughed dark phlegm into it. It even hurt to breathe. But i
n spite of feeling so ill – my chest infection was definitely getting worse – my mind was in turmoil.
I had an absolute corker of a headache. I was only vaguely aware of being carried out of the hut and loaded into the waiting ambulance. Even cocooned in blankets, I still couldn’t stop shivering. The paramedic who rode in the back with me listened to my chest, took my temperature and looked anxious. But I remained more worried about all that had happened than I was about my physical state. They drove me to hospital in Penzance where I was wheeled into Casualty. I did not have to wait long before being seen by a young, white-coated doctor.
‘You’re suffering from severe shock,’ he said almost at once.
I didn’t need a medical diagnosis to know that. And I reckoned I was still woozy from whatever drugs Carl had fed me.
‘I also think you may have chronic bronchitis,’ the doctor went on.
I managed a wan smile. ‘I’m used to it,’ I said. ‘It’s OK.’
He gave me a look that indicated he wasn’t quite sure about that. ‘Better have you in for a couple of days,’ he said.
In spite of my protests that I would be absolutely fine I was admitted with surprising alacrity for the National Health Service and tucked into bed. Warm and safe at last, I could feel myself drifting off almost at once. I don’t know whether it was the after effects of the drugs Carl had fed me or some sort of defence mechanism. All I knew was that I wanted to sleep for ever. But I wouldn’t let myself. I was determined to stay awake until someone explained to me exactly what had really happened all those years ago in Hounslow when Robert Foster had died. I was sure it held the key to everything that had happened, to all that Carl had done.
A nurse brought me some medication but certainly I did not intend to swallow any more drugs. ‘I’m not taking anything,’ I announced.
‘Just to make you sleep, and some antibiotics for the chest infection.’
Little did she know how hard I was fighting to keep awake. ‘I don’t want anything to make me sleep. I don’t want to sleep at all until someone explains things to me.’
The nurse sighed and said she’d fetch the ward sister.
‘All right,’ said the ward sister and sighed too. ‘There’s a Sergeant Perry outside. I’ll bring her in.’
I made a big effort and propped myself up on the pillows. My chest felt as if it was being crushed beneath a double-decker bus. I tried to ignore it.
After a couple of minutes the curtains around my bed were pulled slightly to one side and Sergeant Perry stuck her head round. ‘The Führer says I’ve got five minutes,’ she announced with a smile.
I didn’t smile back. I felt much more ill than I was revealing to anyone, but that paled into insignificance compared with my mental state.
I had to know the truth about Robert. I had found my husband covered with blood. I had killed him. I must have killed him. Carl had been determined that we still had to hide, horrifically determined, prepared to go to almost any lengths, it seemed. Yet the police had already told me that Robert had not been murdered. I was beginning to wonder if it was me who was going mad.
‘Just tell me everything you know, please,’ I said.
Sergeant Perry glanced instinctively at her watch, then took a closer look at me. I could see the anxiety in her eyes. I knew I was beginning to sweat and I had given up trying to control my shakes.
‘Please,’ I said again. ‘I have to know. For a start, if my husband Robert Foster wasn’t murdered, what did happen to him?’
Sergeant Perry was still standing at the foot of my bed. As if making a decision she came over and sat down on the chair next to me. ‘Robert Foster died of natural causes,’ she said expressionlessly.
I looked at her askance. ‘How could he have done?’ I asked. ‘I saw all the blood, I got it all over me . . .’
I stopped. I still didn’t want to think about it, even after all these years. That had always been one of the problems. I couldn’t face the thought that I had stabbed a man to death, not even a man I hated so much, and with such good reason. When I had confessed at the police station I had, I suppose, hoped in some silly kind of way that, whatever happened to me, I wouldn’t have to confront Robert’s death again. I had confessed to killing him and that would be that. I knew well enough, now, that whatever the truth, it wasn’t going to be as simple as that. I had to concentrate, to try to remember.
‘I went into the bedroom and saw him lying there in his own blood,’ I went on. ‘I have never been able to remember exactly what happened in the night. Like I told you before. I have just always assumed that when I got the chance I got hold of the knife and used it on him. What else could I have thought? There was nobody other than me who could have killed him, nobody else was in the house until I called Carl. I am absolutely sure Robert was dead before Carl arrived. And all that blood – he had to have died a violent death.’
DS Perry shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Well, not in the way you mean, anyway.’
I opened my mouth to speak and all that came out was another fit of coughing. It came from deep inside me and I felt as if my body was tearing apart. I held a tissue to my mouth and tried not to let DS Perry see the black phlegm that I spat into it.
‘How did he die, then, how could he have died?’ I asked quietly when I was finally able.
‘Did you know that your husband had sclerosis of the liver?’ the policewoman asked.
I shook my head, amazed. Although I don’t know quite why I should have been surprised. I had known so little about Robert, really. For a start I had never known why he had wanted to hurt me so much.
‘He was an alcoholic, you must have known that,’ she went on.
I half nodded. I suppose I had realised that he was an alcoholic. I must have known, although I never thought of it in those terms. Just that he drank vast quantities of alcohol, and the more he drank the more violent and dangerous he became.
‘He was a minister in the Chapel of the Advent. They are opposed to alcohol. He wasn’t supposed to drink at all,’ I said. ‘But he did, constantly.’
‘That kind is often the worst, but you’d know that more than me, I expect.’
I nodded again. I didn’t want to talk about the terrible beatings I had suffered from a drunken Robert. I just hoped that one day I would be able to forget them.
‘Sclerosis of the liver is a vicious illness,’ the police sergeant went on. ‘One of the most extreme results is haematemesis – when the liver ceases to function so drastically that blood leaks into the stomach where it becomes a potentially lethal irritant. The victim vomits blood, vast quantities of it.’ She paused. ‘Your husband died of chronic blood loss . . . caused by his sclerosis. He was not murdered. You did not kill him and neither did anyone else.’
‘B-but when I came to in the bathroom in the morning I was covered with blood, Robert’s blood. How did it get all over me if I didn’t kill him?’
Julie Perry shrugged. ‘I’ve been thinking about that. You used the phrase “came to”. Almost certainly you’d been knocked out. I reckon Robert Foster must have started haemorrhaging blood while he was beating you. That’s how you got his blood on you. You had concussion, you didn’t know what was happening. You just crawled off to hide in the bathroom as soon as you got the chance.’
‘Carl always said I had killed him,’ I said quietly. ‘He let me believe it . . . he showed me the knife covered with Robert’s blood . . .’
Sergeant Perry nodded. ‘Yes, I realise that,’ she said.
Carl had not been half hysterical. Carl hadn’t been beaten unconscious in the night. He had seen Robert lying naked on the bed. Surely he must have realised that there were no stab wounds in his body. Was this another of his tricks, like the threatening letters?
‘So did Carl deliberately deceive me, then, for all those years?’ I asked, thinking aloud.
Julie Perry shrugged again. ‘Hard to tell. Not necessarily. He found the knife, he saw the blood, just like you did . . .’
I struggled to make sense of it. Carl was always so cool and calm, even under extreme stress. The kind of man who double-checked everything – even a blood-covered body for stab wounds.
I felt as if my ribcage was about to cave in. I wanted to cough, but I wasn’t capable.
‘Look, there’s more, something else . . .’ I heard DS Perry say somewhere in the distance.
Most clearly I could hear my own breathing. It was coming in desperate wheezing gasps. I suspected DS Perry could hear it too.
‘I tell you what, why don’t you rest,’ she said, not for the first time sounding like all the others who had tried to protect me throughout my life. ‘Let me talk to you tomorrow.’
‘No,’ I said, surprisingly firmly for me in any situation and particularly when I felt so ill that I was having difficulty even in breathing let alone speaking. ‘I want to know now,’ I croaked.
She looked at me for a moment or two as if appraising both my physical and mental state. Then she sighed. ‘We have been checking out Carl in the States. Something happened there a long time ago too . . .’
I wanted to know so much and yet in spite of my entreaties for her to continue I was beginning to have serious trouble concentrating on what she was saying. My chest hurt more than I could ever remember, more even than it had during the severe bronchial attacks of my childhood. My forehead was burning, and by then I was wet with sweat.
I finally managed a cough and it was as if some kind of barrier inside me burst open. I was engulfed in a coughing fit much more violent than any that had preceded it. At first black phlegm dribbled out of my mouth and then I began to cough up blood. Suddenly I was very frightened indeed. It felt as if my ribs had finally caved in on to my vital organs.
I was vaguely aware of DS Perry jumping to her feet and crying out. Then I think I must have passed out.
I didn’t know a lot about what happened next or for some time afterwards. I was vaguely aware of being moved out of my bed and on to a trolley again, and of being trundled off to the intensive care unit. At some time, somewhere, I know I heard the words ‘pneumonia, Mrs Peters.’ That was about it. Nothing meant much, really, except the overwhelming desire to stay alive. Instinctively, somewhere inside my head, I knew I truly was that ill.
A Deep Deceit Page 17