‘I’ve had ten phone calls today from him,’ said Beth. ‘I’m going to persuade him to get some medical help. I really think he might have been better with a male FLO. He’s very dismissive of women in general.’
That didn’t surprise him one bit. In the interviews, Brookland had barely acknowledged Chloe Barrett’s existence. Even when she asked him a question, more often than not, he would direct the answer at Henderson.
‘He’s bought himself a new car just so he can follow his wife without her knowledge, did you know? He’s really not helping himself at all and I’ve tried to tell him as much but . . .’ Beth didn’t need to finish off the sentence.
‘Thanks, Beth. We’re just going in to interview a witness at her home so let me know if anything else crops up,’ said Henderson.
‘As it will,’ came the resigned reply. ‘Bye, Bill.’
‘Doesn’t say much about him as a son if he thought his wife was abusing his mother but allowed it to continue,’ said Barrett, signalling left. ‘Hardly a detail that you’re likely to forget, either, is it?’
‘Nope,’ said Henderson. From all accounts, Alma Brookland was a large woman; tall and broad. Even accounting for her frailer frame at the end of her life, she still must have been a weight for the slender Bonnie Brookland to lift. ‘Pull in here, Chloe. It says something if he’s managing to wear Beth down,’ he continued. ‘She is one tough cookie.’
Mrs Katherine Ellison had agreed to be interviewed at her home, a substantial bungalow in the middle of an estate of equally large detached residences. All of them with neat lawns and herbaceous borders.
‘There’s some serious coin around here,’ remarked Barrett.
‘Wealthy retired,’ replied Henderson. ‘You could end up here if you climb up the career ladder. Four bedrooms, summer house and a stone fountain.’
‘And gnomes, don’t forget the gnomes,’ said Barrett, looking out at a colony of them peeping out from bushes and fishing in the ornamental pond of Mrs Ellison’s neighbour.
They walked up the long path and Barrett rang the bell. Mrs Ellison appeared before the echoes of it had died; evidently she’d been watching out for them from the window.
‘Mrs Ellison? Detective Sergeant Henderson and this is Detective Constable Barrett.’
‘Come in,’ said Mrs Ellison, moving out of the way so they could enter. It was definitely a ‘shoes-off-at-the-door’ place, so the detectives left them neatly on the doormat and followed the house-owner into a large square lounge with a very pale beige carpet on the floor and many framed family photographs on the walls.
Mrs Ellison had prepared a tray of tea. ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar,’ she said, handing Henderson a very fancy patterned saucer and cup with a tiny handle that he couldn’t stick his large finger through. He took a couple of sips and then rested it on the nearby coffee table before opening his notebook and clicking on his biro.
‘I apologise if this is upsetting for you,’ said Henderson. ‘It must be dredging up a lot of memories.’
‘It’s certainly a shock,’ said Mrs Ellison. ‘But I deliberately didn’t say too much to Stephen when he came round to tell me what had happened.’
‘Mr Brookland’s been round to see you then?’ asked Henderson, though he wasn’t surprised.
‘Yes, and I’ve never seen him so animated,’ said Mrs Ellison with a frown.
‘What exactly did he tell you?’ asked Barrett, reaching for a Jam Ring from a plate of assorted biscuits. She was on a diet and hadn’t had breakfast. The biscuits would offset the sugar deficiency currently making her limbs feel shaky. In other words, she told herself, they were essentially medicinal.
‘He came to the house last Friday. About teatime. He said that new evidence had come to light that Alma hadn’t died naturally and I should be prepared for a visit from the police because it appeared that Bonita might have murdered her. He was very dramatic. I couldn’t talk for long as I had visitors, but I assured him that I would, of course, be available to you and would supply you with any information that you needed.’
‘You weren’t shocked by what he said?’ asked Henderson, thinking what a top-class shit-stirrer Brookland was.
Katherine Ellison didn’t miss a beat as she poured milk into her cup. ‘Not at all. I’ve always presumed that Alma’s death wasn’t a natural one.’
Barrett’s Jam Ring dropped into her tea.
*
‘Mr Harley, I am delighted to tell you that Mr and Mrs Kruger have put in an offer,’ said the estate agent with a tone in his voice that said he didn’t believe it either. ‘I think this has to be the quickest sale I’ve ever done.’ It was the easiest commission he’d make all year. All decade, probably.
Despite the house being priced at below its market value, Mr and Mrs Kruger had still offered five thousand pounds less.
‘Tell them I’ll take it, but I’m not an idiot, nor am I desperate and if they try to gazunder, the deal’s off,’ replied Lew.
‘I will, of course. He’s a solicitor so I’ll be honest, I imagine things will run pretty smoothly.’
Lew could feel the estate agent’s grin down the line. It was burning his ear. He texted Charlotte with the good news. She didn’t reply.
Chapter 70
‘You’ve always presumed that Alma’s death wasn’t natural?’ Henderson threw Katherine Ellison’s words back at her in question form.
‘Well, I wasn’t there to personally witness her passing but . . . oh goodness me –’ she dropped her head and shook it slightly as if something distressing had just come to her ‘– poor Alma. She has rested in peace for five years and wouldn’t want any of this.’
‘Any of what, Mrs Ellison?’
‘Her secret being exposed.’ Her eyes suddenly widened in alarm. ‘You’re not going to dig her up, are you?’
‘No, no, that’s very unlikely,’ said Henderson, careful not to dismiss the possibility entirely. ‘What secret do you mean?’
‘That she committed suicide. She wouldn’t want anyone to know. She would have seen it as the most dreadful show of weakness and a complete betrayal of her values.’
Barrett reached for a custard cream. Her sugar-shakes were getting worse.
‘What makes you think she committed suicide?’
‘She told me she was going to,’ said Mrs Ellison. ‘She said that she’d sent off for a drug from abroad. Mexico, I think.’
‘You knew about that?’ Barrett said with a rogue squeak on the second word.
‘I was her best friend, I knew everything,’ said Mrs Ellison, lifting the cup to her lips and drinking from it delicately in a ladylike manner. ‘I’ve known Alma Brookland since I was four years old. I loved her dearly, though sometimes I didn’t like her very much, because she could be a horror, but we were . . . what’s that expression they use? . . .“sisters from another mother”, or something like that. I was always far closer to her than I was to my own sisters. She was my bridesmaid, I was hers. She is the godmother to my daughter, I am godmother to her son.’
Barrett noticed the little shudder of revulsion ripple her shoulders.
‘You knew she was ill, then?’ she said.
‘Of course. She self-diagnosed when the symptoms started and she was right about what sort of disease she had. I don’t think Stephen was aware that I knew though.’
Henderson and Barrett both had the same thought at the same moment: that they’d bet their lives that he didn’t.
‘I usually go to Spain for Christmas and stay there for three months,’ Mrs Ellison continued, ‘and I was going to cancel but Alma said I must go. She didn’t want me to see her decompose daily; her words, not mine. We said our goodbyes before I left and that’s why she gave me this.’ She pulled a gold locket free of her blouse collar. ‘That’s the way she wanted it to be. Alma wasn’t the sort of person to say things for effect and I had to respect her wishes.’
‘Goodness,’ said Barrett with a gulp. There were more secrets in this case th
an in Harry Potter’s chamber.
‘Don’t get me wrong, it did upset me,’ Mrs Ellison went on. ‘That’s why I was delighted when she rang me when I was in Spain. Her speech was very much altered but it was good to hear her.’ Her lip trembled and she put her cup down on the coffee table, pulled a cotton handkerchief from out of her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. ‘She could be a monster, but she was very dear to me.’
‘I’m sorry this is upsetting you,’ said Henderson gently.
‘No matter,’ said Mrs Ellison. ‘Has to be done.’
‘And what did you talk about when you rang her?’
‘Bonita mainly. Her murderous daughter-in-law.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Whatever Stephen has told you, I don’t believe that myself. I always thought she seemed a thoroughly decent person. Alma of course hated her with a passion. No one would ever have been good enough for her Stephen.’ She let out a telling deep breath. ‘He was always an odd one. I never took to him. He thought he was above everyone, even as a child, rambled on about things he knew little about to appear more intelligent than he was. I think he moved in on that girl when she was very vulnerable and I told Alma as much but she wouldn’t have it. Stephen was on far too high a pedestal. She blamed Bonita for all sorts of things because she couldn’t bear to think Stephen might not be spending time with her of his own accord. Bonita was a whipping boy for Stephen; Alma was very jealous.’
This isn’t what Stephen Brookland would have been expecting Mrs Ellison to say, thought Henderson.
‘Sorry, you said she spoke about Bonita when she phoned you,’ he said, pen moving fast on his notebook. A course in Teeline shorthand years ago had been one of the most useful things he’d ever done.
‘Yes. I asked Alma how she was, obviously, and she was very emotional – not like her at all. She told me how well Bonita was looking after her, how kind she was and how sorry she felt that she’d been so awful to her in the past. I think that was the main reason for her ringing me, actually: to put the record straight. She said that she’d misjudged her terribly. I said that I could have told her that. We didn’t pussy-foot around one another, Alma and I. In all the years I’d known her, I’d never heard her admit she was wrong before, so I knew this was a very big climb down for her. Then I heard Stephen come in and ask what she was doing so we said our goodbyes – again – and that was the last I heard from her. Do you know Stephen didn’t even tell me when she’d died? He didn’t put a notice in the newspaper or anything. I would have flown back for the funeral if I’d known she’d passed. When I came back from Spain I went to see him and he told me that Alma had not wanted anyone at her funeral, which was nonsense, but it would have been wrong of me to make a fuss about it when I didn’t know for sure. More tea? There’s plenty in the pot.’
‘Not for me, thank you, Mrs Ellison.’
‘Nor me, thank you. What did he tell you about how his mother had died?’ asked Barrett.
‘Only that she had slipped away in the night and he’d been at her side holding her hand. But I didn’t believe him, at least about the slipping away part. I knew in here’ – her small fist pressed against her heart ‘ – that she’d been helped over the hurdle. Stephen would have known all about her having the drug, you know. Alma would never have kept that from him, especially not when he was the only person she could rely on to help her take it. And she would have wanted to make sure he was with her at the end. That’s why I refuse to buy his ridiculous pretence at being shocked about it. I’m just glad that Alma got her wish and he was there for her. He was her world.’
‘Well, thank you very much for your cooperation,’ said DS Henderson. He thought he had all he needed for now.
‘He was there with her at the end, wasn’t he?’ pressed Mrs Ellison, hand clutching her locket. ‘He didn’t lie about that, did he?’
Barrett looked at Henderson for guidance.
‘I believe Mrs Brookland was with her,’ he answered diplomatically.
‘Oh the lying brute, how could he?’ said Mrs Ellison with feeling. Her voice was firm as she continued, ‘Godson or not, I am done with him.’
Barrett refilled Mrs Ellison’s cup from the pot and handed it to her.
‘Thank you,’ said Mrs Ellison, steadying herself with a deep breath. ‘I wish they would just let her rest in peace. I probably shouldn’t say this, but I’m going to: Stephen has a very strong reaction to rejection. His mother built him up so much that he never learned to take things on the chin. I only ever knew of him having one girlfriend before Bonita. A very quiet, shy girl, much younger than he was. He showered her with flowers and chocolates and attention in the beginning; in fact he wasn’t recognisable as himself. It didn’t take long for his façade to slip though and she broke with him. He couldn’t accept it was over of course and he followed that girl everywhere, causing mischief for her, making her life an absolute misery. Her father threatened him in the end and made him stop. Like all bullies, he’s a coward. I’m presuming Bonita has left him . . . if so, you might want to think on what I’ve just told you about Stephen Brookland and his past record with women who reject him.’
In the car Barrett raised her eyebrows. ‘Brookland sounds a right weirdo, doesn’t he?’ she said, as they prepared to drive away from the curtain-twitching estate.
‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean he’s not telling the truth,’ replied Henderson.
‘I wouldn’t like to be the CPS with this one,’ whistled Barrett. ‘I mean, Bonnie Brookland knew that the old woman had that drug so she had a tailor-made opportunity to get rid of her, didn’t she? And after all, what proof is there that the old lady bought it? She might have told Mrs Ellison she was going to but didn’t. Who’s to say that Bonnie Brookland didn’t overhear her and buy it herself? That would explain why Stephen might be telling the truth and he really didn’t know anything about it.’
‘True,’ said Henderson.
‘Or if Mrs B did buy it herself, it might just have been a security blanket and she could have changed her mind about using it.’
‘Yep.’
‘Chances are she was gaga by the end and maybe couldn’t have made the decision to kill herself,’ Barrett went on. ‘Jesus, what a conundrum. It’s making my brain bleed.’
‘The prosecution would use all those points if it went to court. Old lady, plenty of money, history of ill-will burden. Stephen Brookland’s story fits the facts as much as Bonnie Brookland’s does. It’s only supposition that Brookland knew about his mother’s plans to end her life. His word against hers. Then, of course, we have Bonnie Brookland unable to remember if she tilted the liquid into the old lady’s mouth or not.’
‘I’m beginning to think that she didn’t but Stephen Brookland has managed to make her believe she did. Evil twat.’ Barrett blew out two large lungfuls of air. ‘Proper five million piece jigsaw this one, isn’t it? Do you have to put everything into the report?’
‘Everything, not only the choice morsels. It’s not my job to be the judge, just to deliver all the evidence,’ replied Henderson, a note of regret present in his voice.
‘I think I’d pick prison before being married to Brookland.’ Barrett shuddered as she clipped her seat belt into the socket. ‘Do you think they will dig the mother up?’
‘I doubt it,’ replied Henderson. ‘Even if that drug does show up in the remains, it still doesn’t prove if it was self-administered or not. So what would be the point?’
‘Based on the evidence so far, do you think the CPS are likely to prosecute? I mean, he could be telling the truth that his wife confessed to murder during a massive row.’
‘He could,’ nodded Henderson, non-committedly.
‘And he could have been bluffing in that letter he sent her, just like he said he was, couldn’t he?’
‘Yep. That’s what the prosecuting barrister will say.’
‘And Mrs Brookland isn’t helping herself by confessing everything. She’s playing right into the prosecution’s hands, surely?’ She slipped
the car into first and released the handbrake. ‘I mean, she could have pretended to know nothing about any of it and blamed his accusations on sour grapes because she left him. She’s been sitting on it comfortably for five years, so why not carry on?’
Henderson didn’t think she’d been sitting on it comfortably for five years at all. He would have bet that Bonnie Brookland would have been at the police station before now if it hadn’t meant betraying her mother-in-law’s ‘secret’ to the public. It must have been like living with a stomach full of burbling vomit for five whole years. No wonder she threw it all up so hard and so readily.
They pulled up at some traffic lights. ‘So, back to my question, Bill, what would you predict the CPS will decide to do in this case?’
Henderson sighed. ‘A very old terminally ill lady, a son with an axe to grind, an emotionally fragile woman spooning guilt on herself who is the only witness to what happened, plus five years to distort facts . . . is it really in the public interest to put this into a courtroom? On the other hand, a life is a life and if it’s cut short by another person for whatever reason, that’s a crime. Couple of cases recently have seen judges give out tough sentences, which is sending out a very clear message that the CPS are going hardline. I wouldn’t be surprised if they did prosecute and she was found guilty and ended up with a custodial sentence. Not the full fourteen, but between five and eight.’
‘Hard,’ said Barrett, hitting the accelerator.
‘Yep. This is the law, DC Barrett. Good things happen to bad people and bad things happen to good people. You’re often only as innocent as the barrister you pay to make you look that way. Welcome to the justice system.’
Chapter 71
The Queen of Wishful Thinking Page 32