What Alice Knew

by T. A. Cotterell

  ‘Mrs Sheahan?’

  I pushed my chair back. My confessor was younger than I was. I wondered how Ed would take him.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t get up. Inspector Sladden. Pleased to meet you. Thank you for coming in.’ His tone was briskly efficient. ‘I’m not normally around at …’ He glanced at his watch and winced. It was important I understood how fortunate I was he was here, that I was not talking to some duty sergeant; 4 a.m. is when the low grades, the Macs of the force, beat time. ‘PC Baker here tells me you have information concerning the death of Araminta Lyall.’

  He pulled one of the chairs towards him and sat down, resting an ankle on a knee. He was wearing snakeskin boots. Baker emerged from behind him and handed me a paper cone of water. The design team hadn’t improved since my last visit. The water was warm and went down in one. He lowered himself gingerly on to the other chair as if uncertain it would take his weight. He was no advert for the frothy cappuccino that had appeared in his bear-sized paw.

  ‘That’s right.’

  Sladden inclined his head. This was his show. Nothing could surprise him in his business.

  ‘Shoot.’

  Did he really say that? I shot.

  ‘My husband Ed Sheahan slept with Araminta Lyall on the Saturday before she died and then—’

  Sladden was holding up a palm.

  ‘Can I stop you there?’

  I paused, more out of surprise than obedience. Not many policemen stopped someone halfway through a confession. Normally their pens scratched away for as long as it took.

  ‘I think you’ll find that he didn’t.’

  ‘Didn’t what?’

  ‘Didn’t sleep with Araminta Lyall.’

  ‘I can assure you he did.’

  Sladden was shaking his head. He had soft lips and a patronizing look that hovered between humour and regret.

  ‘Shall we hear what the lady has to say?’

  Sladden stopped looking at me long enough to throw Baker a contemptuous glance. Baker pushed his bottom lip out and blew air, counting the days to retirement. His name was on every case, his heart in none. Sladden turned back to me.

  ‘We may not know everything about the death of Araminta Lyall – though we are satisfied in our own minds that it was an accident, hence the case is closed unless further evidence emerges – but we do know for a fact that on the night of Peter Spurling’s party your husband did not sleep with the deceased—’

  ‘Look, I can promise you—’

  ‘—because we know who did.’

  I stopped – dead. Even if I had wanted to speak I couldn’t have done. Not because of Sladden’s punch-me-in-the-face smugness but because he had just blown my world apart. He leant back in his chair, enjoying the effect of his words, master of all he surveyed. I knew I mustn’t say another word until he’d told me everything.

  ‘Unless, of course, your husband is Johnny Trumble?’

  I shook my head. I could barely focus on what he was saying. What did he mean, Ed hadn’t slept with that woman? More importantly, what did it mean if Ed hadn’t slept with her? There was no time to come up with any answers because Sladden was continuing, silky-smooth,

  ‘Johnny Trumble, the art dealer we pulled in after you two …’ He paused to check I wasn’t about to interrupt. I definitely wasn’t. ‘He had an alibi for the night Miss Lyall died. He was at the Young Vic watching a play with friends. But he did tell us everything about the time at Miss Lyall’s flat on the night of Dr Spurling’s party, when he and your husband went back with her to Montpelier.’

  ‘With the others.’

  ‘Others?’

  ‘There were six or seven of them who went back, I think.’

  Sladden was shaking his head.

  ‘No. It was just the three of them, Mr Trumble was very clear about that. So was your husband.’

  There was too much to take in. If Ed hadn’t slept with that woman then everything afterwards should never have happened. But why had he said there were six or seven who went back if there were only three? Two men and one woman, at least one of whom was plastered, is an entirely different dynamic to a group of random people. Had he added the others for my benefit? And why had he pretended he had never heard of Johnny Trumble when it was announced on News at Ten he had been arrested? If only two men had gone back with that woman, surely he would have recognized the name?

  I said a cautious ‘OK’, because I couldn’t think of anything else and I needed him to continue.

  ‘Mr Trumble slept with Miss Lyall that night. The following morning they went next door to Café Kino on Stokes Croft for coffee. There, according to Mr Trumble, he told Miss Lyall it had been a terrible mistake, he had a girlfriend, had drunk too much, very sorry, all the usual, but there was no prospect of them entering a relationship. It seems Mr Trumble had been playing the flute. It happens between consenting adults.’

  I didn’t say anything, which he took as an invitation to continue. Why did the policeman who should have been asking questions only want to give out answers?

  ‘According to Mr Trumble, your husband was flat out in bed having drunk far more than was good for him. Apparently he collapsed in a chair pretty much straight away.’ Sladden paused for effect, relishing the chance to dig into a celebrated obstetrician. ‘Mind willing perhaps, but the flesh … Mr Trumble said they tried to rouse him but nothing doing, so Miss Lyall generously suggested they put him in her bed as it was longer than the one in the spare bedroom. It seems Mr Trumble and Miss Lyall hauled him into her bed and then slept together in the spare room. Your husband was still asleep when Mr Trumble and Miss Lyall went for breakfast, and as Mr Trumble picked up a cab at the rank and went straight to Temple Meads he didn’t know what happened afterwards, but assumed your husband would have simply let himself out. From how Mr Trumble described him, I think it would have been pretty unlikely he and Miss Lyall … how shall I put it … could have … if you get my meaning.’

  ‘I see.’

  And I did see. I saw everything. Suddenly I had 20/20 vision, hindsight, foresight, laser-eyes, you name it. I had the best vision on the planet. I saw because I remembered Ed telling me what Pete Spurling had said, too late as it turned out, that he should watch out for that woman because she liked older men, especially married men, and she had the history to prove it. She had slept with Johnny Trumble, been jilted at breakfast and returned to her flat to find Ed, an attractive successful older married man passed out in her bed with no memory of what had happened the night before. So she clambered in and claimed they’d slept together. And why not? She was thirty-two. She had nothing to lose. Chasing him, pushing him, lying to him, trying to snare him and wreck his family might waste a week of her life, but nothing ventured … Only she had been wrong. She had had something to lose. She had her life to lose.

  In that moment I understood that not only was Ed not a murderer, which I had always known, but that he hadn’t betrayed our marriage either. More than that, I realized with a terrifying burst of self-knowledge, he may have been right in the sitting room when he said that the sex was the grit in my eye as much as that woman’s death or my inability to work. It was a possibility I had to face. For if it wasn’t, why did I suddenly feel so light? But if he didn’t sleep with her then Ed was the victim as much of me and my pride as the deceit of that woman, maybe more so. If she didn’t deserve to die for her duplicity, he certainly didn’t deserve to swing for me. Neither natural justice nor our family would be served by Ed going to jail.

  Of course this burnt through my mind in a fraction of the time it takes to read, and I felt a tear forming because I instantly saw how close my husband was to suffering a terrible injustice. I realized how close I had come – and still was – to ruining everything. My first job was to get the hell away from the reptilian Inspector Sladden as quickly as was politely possible. Thank God Philips wasn’t here. There was no way he would have let arrogance or power or simple showing off cause him to miss the target
. I tried to sound flummoxed and added,

  ‘In which case, Mr Sladden, there seems to have been a mistake.’

  One chink, one false move … He grunted. I beat on hurriedly, trying not to allow a pause for thought or questions.

  ‘Or maybe I’m the victim of some sort of practical joke.’ I tried to appear as calm as possible. ‘Ed is a bit of a joker when the surgical gloves are off. I’d better get home and find out exactly what’s been going on. I do apologize for wasting both your time.’

  I pushed my chair back and started to stand. Sladden glanced at Baker but didn’t move, though he cased me like airport security. Suddenly he smiled, for real.

  ‘No problem. That’s what we’re here for.’

  ‘That’s very generous at this hour.’

  I picked up my handbag. Sladden still hadn’t moved. I wanted him to stand up. Until he moved I couldn’t take another step without looking too hurried and anything could give everything away. Sladden picked at some dirt on his boot heel and without looking up said,

  ‘And then?’

  I knew immediately what he meant but tried to look quizzical.

  ‘Sorry?’

  He gazed evenly at me.

  ‘And then? You said “And then”?’

  ‘Did I? Just then?’

  ‘No. At the beginning. Before I told you about Trumble. You said, “My husband Ed Sheahan slept with Araminta Lyall on the Saturday before she died, and then …” I was wondering what happened next.’

  Oh my God.

  ‘I don’t remember …’

  I pressed my bag against my hip. I needed physicality to counter the disorientating words swirling around me. He leant forward. He was trying to look relaxed but he knew he had missed a trick by interrupting. Baker flung him an ‘I-told-you-so’ glance that spoke of ancient forests and cunning yeomen.

  ‘ “And then” what?’ He was trying to recover ground. ‘And then … he professed undying love? And then … he slept with her again on the Sunday?’

  I shook my head, playing for time.

  ‘I’m really sorry, I can’t remember what I was going to say.’

  ‘My husband Ed Sheahan slept with Araminta Lyall on the Saturday before she died, and then … he killed her?’

  ‘No!’ My indignation was genuine, but not as genuine as my fear.

  ‘And then … what? Please try to remember, Mrs Sheahan.’

  I focused on his sideboards. They were pointy on his cheek.

  ‘I’ll try to remember. I think it must have been my husband slept with Araminta Lyall on the Saturday before she died and then kept it quiet until tonight.’

  ‘But tonight he admitted to a crime he didn’t commit?’

  ‘We were having an argument. He’s obviously done this to wind me up.’

  ‘Got his wife to go to the police over a crime he didn’t commit but which he’s already been brought in for questioning for, just to “wind” his wife up? Is that how he normally behaves?’

  Every minute I spent in that room increased the danger. Oh why hadn’t I trusted Ed? I had the straightest husband in the world and I’d failed him. I had tried to betray him even though I knew he hadn’t killed her. What did that say about me and my motivation? I leant against the table, feeling the corner pressing into my thigh. I had to slip through the gap created by Sladden’s arrogance.

  ‘No. But these aren’t normal times. Not since we were brought in for questioning. Any woman whose husband is taken in for questioning about the death of a girl in whose flat he spent a night would have some doubts, I think. Don’t you? We’re all human. I haven’t been able to concentrate on my work. Some horrible things have been said about us online and in the papers. He thinks I don’t trust him, which I do, completely, but we have had arguments, I’ll admit. So no, it’s not been easy and I guess things came to a head tonight. We had this argument and it all boiled over and … I guess … I guess that’s why I came, because of everything …’

  I trailed off. Forget the Footlights, this was my RADA, LAMDA, West End, Broadway and Hollywood audition rolled into one! Sladden leant back in his chair, nodding, assessing, processing the information, turning it this way and that, probing for the chink. Had I got a place? After what seemed like forever, and with my heart beating like a tom-tom (surely they could hear?), he flicked a glance at Mac that clearly said, ‘What do you do with bonkers women?’ and his face softened.

  ‘I understand. It can’t have been easy.’

  I wanted to punch the air like a Wimbledon winner but I remained demure, my bag clasped tight in a sweaty mitt, shoulders hunched like a midnight-homesick schoolgirl. Sladden contemplated me for a moment longer and added, ‘Well, I hope this has put your mind at ease. If it has at least it’s served some purpose – if maybe not one worth coming out at four in the morning for.’ He glanced at Baker. ‘It can’t be easy being married to one of those types who admit to crimes they didn’t commit. What’s it called?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  I said, ‘Munchausen’s by proxy.’

  Sladden started to stand. ‘That’s the one.’

  I smiled, gracious to a fault, happy to help. I was ready to walk out of the harsh light of the police station into the velvety arms of darkness.

  I knew what I had to do. I walked out of the police station as slowly as I could, resisting the temptation to dance and leap and holler like a chorus girl and plant a giant smacker on Baker’s great curve of a cheek. He offered a sweet ‘Goodnight, best of’ as he held the flap up so I could pass out into the empty reception. I bobbed up on the right side of the law and caught sight of a photofit of a man wanted for armed robbery stuck to the wall. He looked like Ned Kelly in his armour. Where do they get the guys who put these things together? It would take about two minutes to find someone if they actually looked anything like that, and they’d be guilty. You couldn’t look like that and not have a motive. Ned glowered down from the wall, unable to believe I’d got away with it when there were more holes in my case than his armour. I just about managed ‘you too’ in reply to Baker, even though my mind was sliding around like a loose cargo in heavy seas and my mouth was so dry I could hardly articulate the words.

  My hands were still shaking so hard it took two attempts to hit the ‘unlock’ button on the Golf and when I did the whole car seemed to light up like an attention-seeking Christmas tree.

  Luckily it started first time. I didn’t want anything to draw attention to me now. Moments later I was cruising along an empty road towards the centre of town at 29.99 mph, every yard taking me closer to a new and shinier future. My original plan was to go home and wake Ed with the news, but as I reached the James Barton roundabout I realized I had unfinished business I needed to deal with first.

  So, instead of heading up Park Row towards the university and Clifton, I turned right under the 5102 apartment building, the Cerberus that guards Stokes Croft, and rolled north towards the Carriage Works. The abandoned pubs and industrial clubs were shut or had never opened. Gigantic canvases for graffiti artists and urban activists. I touched the brake as a police car glided out of St Pauls. It was as silent as a shark, all gleam and menace for the desolate figures silhouetted against the dirty windows of caged off-licences and late-night grocers, the men in vests, like drummers. A match flared, the orange tip of a cigarette swung in the air. No problem. It was my road now.

  I cruised on and parked opposite the TV-familiar apartments with their Byzantine arches and stylized brickwork. For a few moments I sat in the car staring ahead at the empty road, trying to take everything in. That woman’s motives were clear. The narrative made sense.

  I pushed open the door, which felt as heavy as lead, and got out. My legs were hollow, still shaking. The air was cool, autumnal for the first time in weeks, and a drum-roll of thunder in the distance barrelled through the night. It held the promise of cleansing and renewal. It had been too hot for too long. I walked around to the passenger side and looked up at the building. There was a fain
t smell of tar as if the weeks of heat had melted the road. I had a stabbing desire for a cigarette. The building had security lights (but no cameras!), an empty foyer behind the central arch on the ground floor, darkened windows. For some reason I had expected them to be ablaze, lit up like a toy. Fifteen metres downwind a taxi snoozed against the pavement. I looked up at the three infamous windows on the third floor – argument, attack, accident – but they were dark. It was impossible even to tell if there were curtains. The sky was prehistoric. I felt I’d lived a thousand years.

  I pulled my mobile out of my jacket.

  Was Ed lying awake in our bed, staring at a sliver of light on the ceiling, waiting for the squad car to pull up, the doorbell to ring? Or was he dressed and prowling, fear pitting his stomach, defeat burning in his nostrils? Ed understood how to shape the present to create the future. He saw it every day at work. There was no more running now.

  He would be ready. He always was. He would be wearing his charcoal suit, a crisp white shirt, the Hermès tie I gave him for his birthday. It was his smartest tie. Ed never lost his dignity or his sense of place. He would be roaming the house, committing humdrum objects to memory, writing letters of love and explanation for the children. Not for me. Not even Ed could write to the wife who had failed to trust him.

  I switched on my mobile. I hadn’t taken it to Devon because I’d wanted to get away from everything and everyone. The children could call me on Granny T’s number if they had to. The screen lit up and I typed in my password. I just wanted to whisper ‘You’re safe’ and ‘I’m so sorry’ and ‘I love you’, but I knew my voice would crack. Not because the sentiment wasn’t true, quite the reverse, because it was too keenly felt.

  There was an email waiting. I was about to ignore it and carry on with what I had to do but opening an email was easier than deciding precisely what to say to Ed. I clicked on the icon. The title, ‘Sunday morning, 1.45 a.m.’, and the sender, Marianne Hever, sprang into life. It had been sent while I was at Highlands. Marianne? Why would she be emailing me? We hadn’t exchanged a word since I left Bow House, hurrying to my car with my eyes down, my head burning under that inescapable sun, Marianne watching impassively from upstairs, with an unspoken but irredeemable sense we had reached the end and would never speak again. I opened the email. There was one sentence. ‘Instinct is more powerful than knowledge.’ That was it. No signature. I stared at the words, wondering why she had sent it and how they related to the email’s title, until I realized there was an attachment below. I clicked on it, waiting restlessly for the opening circle to complete and, finally, the attachment to open.