False Accusations_Nothing to fear if you have nothing to hide...

by Cora Harrison

  ‘I see,’ Flora said in a non-committal way.

  ‘I think I’ll call in to the police station at about eleven to press again for bail or the hospital. I’m worried about Rosie. Any chance of meeting you there? We could go for a coffee beforehand and have a chat.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Flora said briskly and replaced the receiver as soon as she could. She didn’t want to miss Jenny.

  Jenny’s number was engaged when Flora rang, but she was obviously not a chatterer, because two minutes later, Flora got through to her. Jenny, it turned out, had everything well under control. The Brocklehurst Express had an article that very morning and the same picture. ‘They wanted one of me, too,’ said Jenny, ‘but I know the photographer there and I persuaded him that one picture would make more impact. He’s just been on the phone to me to tell me that he’s had enquiries from the Daily Mirror and the Sun about buying the rights to print the photo. They are going to do phone interviews with me. He’s setting that up. I’m going to pop home in my lunch hour and do the interviews there.’

  ‘I see,’ Flora said. She hesitated for a moment, and then said in her most innocent tone, ‘It was good that the local TV didn’t mention that she was being questioned by the police, otherwise I’d say that there might have been trouble.’

  Flora could almost hear the grin in Jenny’s voice as she agreed. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Morgan,’ she said. ‘I know what I’m doing. I want to get Rosie out of that place.’

  Flora put down the phone feeling comforted. And then, of course, it rang instantly again.

  ‘Wasn’t it wonderful?’ said Paula.

  Chapter 19

  Flora arrived at the police station at fifteen minutes before eleven. She wanted to talk to Sergeant Dawkins before seeing Rosie. She had wrestled with her conscience overnight, but the thought of Rosie’s tearstained face overcame her doubts.

  ‘I wonder are you considering other possibilities — other than Rosie, I mean,’ Flora began. She would not mention the TV program, she decided.

  ‘I can assure you, Mrs Morgan, that the police consider all possibilities.’ He was beginning to get on her nerves with that robotic voice of his. He reminded her of one of those voices that tell you to mind the doors on lifts in multi-storey carparks.

  ‘It’s just that there is a young man in the village who has been expressing great dislike of Mrs Trevor,’ Flora said rapidly. ‘He was overheard doing this in a late-night pub sessions.’

  A flicker of something passed over Sergeant Dawkins’ face. Flora thought he was going to make an ordinary friendly joke about retired headmistresses and late-night pubs, but he was too disciplined for that.

  ‘What’s his name?’ he asked, drawing a notebook towards him and taking a pencil from his tray.

  ‘Jason Osmotherley,’ Flora said feeling an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of her stomach. She would not be able to face Mrs Osmotherley if anything came of this. She had been responsible for this boy at one stage and now she was using her knowledge of him as a child in order to bring him into danger. It seemed a betrayal of confidential information, a betrayal of the doctrine of impartiality which had governed her professional life. Why should Rosie be more important than Jason, or than the other poor boy, Darren?

  If they are innocent they will be freed, she told herself.

  ‘That name has already been brought to our attention,’ he said and the relief made her heart thump. Who was it, Flora wondered? Jenny, perhaps?

  ‘I’d like to see Rosie, now,’ Flora said, standing up and injecting a note of authority into her voice. ‘I’m terribly worried about her.’

  He didn’t get up. He just sat for a moment, looking thoughtful. ‘You did say that you might be willing to put up bail, and perhaps take her into your house and under your supervision,’ he said then, turning his pencil around between his fingers.

  This was a surprise. Flora sat down again instantly.

  ‘Has something happened which has made you change your mind?’ Flora asked innocently. Her thoughts went instantly to the TV program. Had the sergeant seen it? And if so, had he decided that there was unlikely to be a conviction of Rosie for the murder of her mother? Was she beginning to win her battle with this obstinate man?

  ‘We’ve had a witness,’ he said slowly. ‘A man who operates a digger for the council, in fact, placing the young man, who is presently assisting us with our enquiries in connection with the missing pearl necklace, in the vicinity of the house at around six a.m. that morning. Apparently there was an all-night party on that little island in the middle of the river.’ Sergeant Dawkins stopped and looked across at Flora. ‘It’s a bit difficult to understand this man, but I gather there were a group of young men in the vicinity of the bungalow.’

  Simon! I’ve put Simon in danger. I should be looking after my son, not running around stirring up suspicions against other people’s sons. The words ran through Flora’s mind as she struggled for composure. She felt the blood drain from her head and was glad that she was sitting down.

  ‘This means that there are now two suspects, which broadens the picture a little,’ added Sergeant Dawkins.

  ‘Six in the morning?’ Flora recovering herself with an effort. ‘I thought that the murder was supposed to have taken place at eight. Was your witness reliable?’

  He took his time over answering this, turning the pencil over and over in his fingers, but said nothing. There was a sharp frown, splitting his forehead into creases.

  ‘And the time of death?’ She pressed this point. It was important. She had been up at half past seven, had let Piper out of Simon’s bedroom. At that time, Simon, himself, was spread-eagled across the bed. There was a good chance that Jason had returned by that time also.

  ‘That can never be completely accurate,’ he said gruffly. ‘Also, it appears that in the drawer by the bed there was, as well as the pearls, an envelope containing three thousand pounds; money that Mrs Trevor had withdrawn from the bank to pay for a new conservatory. Miss Jenny Trevor remembered that.’

  ‘I see,’ Flora said. She would leave the question of the time of death. Sergeant Dawkins was not a man to push too far; he already looked as if he were regretting his confidence; Flora’s heart still beat heavily. All of the young people of the village had been at that party and had straggled home at some stage or other. She had been so thankful to be sure that Simon was at home and snoring long before eight in the morning. Now she needed to divert the sergeant from enquiries about this all night party on the willow-covered island in the middle of that shallow river.

  ‘About this possibility of bail…’ she began.

  ‘It won’t be anything to do with me,’ he interrupted her quickly, a look of annoyance on his face. ‘This is no longer my case. Headquarters are sending in a couple of detectives. They are on their way. I got a phone call about half an hour ago.’

  Flora nodded. She didn’t know whether commiserations or congratulations were in order, so kept her face neutral. ‘Thank you for mentioning it to me,’ she said, gravely. I’ll be prepared if the offer is made, Flora thought. Against her will, the words of the cheerful young doctor came to her. ‘What if she puts a pillow over your head while you are asleep?’

  Chapter 20

  ‘Probably no point in asking for anything today if the case is being transferred to the murder unit,’ said Ted, eating a Danish pastry with relish. ‘This is my breakfast,’ he said by way of justification.

  ‘You don’t need to make an excuse,’ Flora said. Paula, who knew everyone, had told her that Ted’s wife had died last year. No reason why he shouldn’t make breakfast for himself like anyone else, though, she thought. She was in an irritable, jumpy mood.

  ‘Oh, by the way, I’ve bought some of the morning papers.’ She reached into her woven shopping bag and hauled them out.

  ‘Lovely Rosie questioned about her mother’s murder’. That was the headline on one.

  ‘Rosie is as gentle as a kitten, says a neighbour’, said
another. ‘My sister has learning difficulties and lives in a world of her own’ says Jenny, her younger sister. ‘I don’t know why the police are holding her. I hope they are not being distracted from the real task of tracing my mother’s killer.’

  Ted flicked through them quickly. They were all more or less the same, varying only according to the style of the newspaper.

  ‘Well done, Jenny,’ he commented as he handed them back to Flora. ‘I’m not surprised that a couple of detectives have been put on to the case, now. This is getting to be very high profile. The police are going to find it hard to keep on getting extensions to question Rosie — either they are going to have to charge her, or else they will have to release her. Even if they do charge her, they will probably have to release her on bail. Especially as she seems docile and well-behaved.’

  ‘I think we should go now.’ Flora felt fidgety and uneasy, unable to concentrate on anything other than the thought of Simon coming back through the empty lanes from that all-night party on Willow Island. There was nothing really to talk about to Ted — he knew all that she knew — except for the private worries that were in her head and she didn’t feel like divulging these.

  The phone was ringing when they were walking back through the dark hallway of his office. Through the glass-top of the outer office, Flora could see the secretary, phone clamped between shoulder and ear, lift an interrogative eyebrow and point at the phone.

  ‘I’ll wait here while you take that.’ Flora was half sorry that Ted was coming with her now. She thought she might do better with Rosie if she were on her own. ‘No, better still,’ Flora said rapidly, ‘you’re busy; I’ll go by myself. If there is anything new to report, then I’ll drop in on my way back.’

  Before Ted could make any objections, she had slid out of the dark doorway into the sunny street.

  The police station was familiar territory to Flora. She walked briskly down the corridor, up the stairs and had just turned the corner, her hand already lifted to tap on Sergeant Dawkins’ door, when she stopped abruptly. There was no question of listening at doors; his roar filled the whole corridor and a couple of uniformed policewomen, meeting in the centre of it, glanced at each other apprehensively and then scuttled away, leaving Flora uncertain as to whether she should retreat or not.

  ‘What the fucking hell did you think you were doing?’ The loss of control made her wince more than the bad language. One doesn’t like to think of a policeman who can’t control himself, thought Flora. ‘Don’t you know the first thing?’ Sergeant Dawkins’ voice went on mercilessly. ‘Don’t you know that you never leave a prisoner alone in that room, under any circumstances? Why the hell do you think there is a bell in there? Have you any fucking brains in your fucking head?’

  ‘Sorry, Sir.’ The voice was female — female and in tears, she guessed.

  That’s enough of that, Flora thought, feeling as if she were overhearing a foul-mouthed eleven-year-old delinquent. She wasn’t going to stand outside the door and listen to this kind of language. In any case, if that was P.C. Markham inside, the prisoner was most likely Rosie. What had happened to her? Flora wondered, as she rapidly knocked firmly and loudly on the door.

  There was silence from within for a full minute and then a mutter, before the door was opened and P.C. Markham brushed past her with a murmured greeting. She was clutching a tissue and her eyes were very red.

  ‘Come in, Mrs Morgan.’ Sergeant Dawkins looked fairly normal, except for a patch of red just in the middle of his forehead. ‘I’m afraid that we’ve had a problem with Rosie Trevor.’

  ‘Yes,’ Flora said calmly, sitting down and looking at him attentively while her mind whirled. Rosie couldn’t have escaped; she hadn’t the courage for that. No, this would be something worse.

  ‘Apparently, when P.C. Markham brought the young lady into the interview room,’ began Sergeant Dawkins. His voice was its usual steady monotone. Flora wondered whether the bad language and shouting was just there for disciplinary purposes. She didn’t think much of him if that was true. It was disgusting, she thought severely, to shout like that at a woman. ‘Well, the young lady got very agitated and she started to cry. There were only a couple of tissues left in the box on the desk and these got used up quickly.’

  They would do, thought Flora. Rosie, when she started to cry, always seemed to weep larger tears and in a greater quantity than any child that she had ever known.

  ‘So P.C. Markham decided to fetch another box.’ His voice was quite unemotional and matter-of-fact now.

  ‘Yes,’ Flora said again.

  ‘She, quite correctly, locked the door,’ he went on, ‘but unfortunately, while she was absent, the prisoner apparently took a chair…’ He looked down at the accident form on his desk which he had obviously been filling in while shouting at P.C. Markham. ‘The chair had been moved from behind the desk and was lying on the floor by the window and the window had been broken. The prisoner was pulling large shards of glass from the window and unfortunately her wrists were cut.’

  ‘A suicide attempt?’ Flora asked quietly.

  ‘No, there is nothing about that here.’ He looked down at the form again.

  ‘It’s hardly likely to be an escape attempt,’ she told him firmly. ‘After all, the interview room is two storeys up. I can’t see even Rosie thinking that she could fly.’

  ‘You can rest assured that we will make all possible enquiries,’ he said stiffly. Flora began to think that she preferred him when he was swearing. At least he sounded more human then.

  ‘And how is Rosie now?’ She asked the question with a slight dread. It wouldn’t be too serious, she told herself — Rosie never liked to hurt herself; she always made a huge fuss if she ever fell over in the playground. This was probably something that she had seen on TV and thought looked dramatic.

  ‘The doctor is with her at the moment. I’ll bring you straight there.’ He sounded weary as he got to his feet and ushered Flora out of the door. Another couple of days of this and he would be begging me to take her away, Flora thought.

  It was Dr Rowling again. Flora could hear his cheerful voice chatting about swallows nesting in his garden shed as they came to the door.

  ‘Oh, that’s lovely. I love little baby birds,’ came Rosie’s soft voice and it sounded so like something that a six-year-old would say that Flora felt tears sting her eyes and she had to blink sharply and rearrange her features into a calm smile.

  ‘You stay sitting down, Rosie.’ Flora was ready for her almost before she was through the door. Rosie always did rush up to people and Dr Rowling was just finishing winding the bandage around her left wrist. The right wrist looked untouched, so she hadn’t got very far in trying to slash both of them, or else it had been too much of a problem for her. Rosie, she remembered, was very strongly right-handed. Flora had held her hand, teaching her to form her letters, for so many hours of two-minute-long practices that she was quite sure about this.

  ‘No stitches needed, fairly superficial,’ said Dr Rowling with a glance at Sergeant Dawkins.

  ‘Badger! You’ve come!’ said Rosie ecstatically as P.C. Prior came in carrying a small board and a hammer.

  ‘Hello, Rosie,’ said P.C. Prior. He gave her a nice smile and didn’t even bother looking apologetically at his superior. It’s funny, Flora thought; if you’ve known them as children, you know them through and through and they don’t really change, although the veneer might. Jim Prior, Badger, had been a decent, nice boy at eleven and he was still that. Her mind went to the others. Had Gaoler changed, or was the fundamental essence still the same? And what about the others? What about Jenny? And why had she named Simon as ‘Weasel’?

  The next few minutes were filled with the banging of a hammer as P.C. Prior nailed the piece of board over the broken window. He did it very efficiently, though Flora was surprised that they hadn’t sent for a workman. Still Jim Prior was the type to say ‘I’ll do it’ and to do it with no fuss and with competence. It was quite a small
pane of glass and she didn’t think that even Rosie could have imagined that she would have been able to escape through it. This was a definite attempt at self-harm and it made Flora quite worried and quite frightened that Rosie would do it again. Flora got to her feet, gave Sergeant Dawkins an authoritative signal to follow and went out through the door, closing it carefully once they were in the corridor.

  ‘I think, Sergeant Dawkins, that the first time we met, you expressed a worry that Rosie might commit suicide if she were allowed bail.’

  Sergeant Dawkins flinched a little, but made no reply other than a slight nod.

  ‘This, obviously, was that sort of attempt, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It should never have happened.’ He spoke with venom, almost shooting the words out. ‘I can assure you that it won’t happen again. Another officer, in whom I have complete confidence, will be assigned to the case.’

  ‘I thought perhaps that you might change your mind about bail,’ Flora said blandly, eyeing him.

  An unexpected look appeared in his eyes, for just a few seconds. She could have sworn that regret was now mixed with annoyance, but then he shook his head firmly.

  ‘I can make no decisions on this case today,’ he said, ‘but I will make an appointment on Monday for you to talk with one or both of the detectives assigned to the case.’ He took out his notebook. ‘Would ten o’clock suit you? I think that they would like to speak to you before talking to Rosie Trevor, and I’m sure that you would like to be present at the interview.’

  ‘Yes, ten o’clock. I’ll go back in and talk to Rosie then,’ Flora said. She eyed him carefully. This matter had shaken him and she was never a woman to allow scruples to get in the way of taking an unfair advantage. ‘Sergeant Dawkins,’ she said confidentially, ‘we both want the same thing; we want to find out what really happened on that Monday morning when Mrs Trevor was smothered. We’d also like to know why Rosie confessed, how she’s really feeling, and whether her thoughts are now suicidal. Why don’t you allow me to talk to her, just me, by myself?’