by N V Peacock
I hear footsteps and look up to see DC Steadman. Silently, he collects me and walks me to a small room, which is empty apart from a table and four chairs. I sit down. DC Steadman takes a seat on the opposite side of the table. DC Kimmings then comes in. Does this police station only have two working police officers?
They switch on a tape recorder, and DC Steadman states the date and the names of those present.
‘Cherrie Forrester. We need to ask you a few questions. Hear your side of events,’ says DC Kimmings.
‘What event? I didn’t burgle anyone.’
This may be all about Greer’s house, but I need to be careful. I’ve committed multiple crimes: stealing the butcher knife, attacking the man in the Ghost Train, breaking into a private property. Oh, wait I’ve done that twice; technically, I also broke into the green-doored caravan. I doubt a strangled invitation from the rapist would exonerate me from rifling through his den of pot noodles and porn.
‘We want to know what happened. Can we start at the beginning?’ DC Steadman leans forward, tenting his fingers like Mr Burns from The Simpsons.
‘You can contact a solicitor if you like, but it will slow things down considerably.’ DC Kimmings gets comfort-able, sitting back in his chair like it’s a sun lounger in Spain.
‘Okay.’ DC Steadman inclines back in his chair, mirroring his partner’s relaxed demeanour. ‘Where were you at around seven o’clock last night?’
I don’t want to give anything away. You see those idiots on TV dropping facts like breadcrumbs for DCs Hansel and Gretel to follow back to their gingerbread house confession. I know that I’m not good at this. I remember my first visit to Mariah, the nervous chatter that had me answering all her questions. I need to calm down. Play this cool.
‘I was searching Black Friars Park for my son. You remember Robin, who you are supposed to be out looking for.’
‘Did anyone see you there?’ asks DC Kimmings.
‘Of course they did. There was Tracy and her gran, and Patricia – doesn’t she work for you? I’d hope she is a credible witness.’
DC Steadman taps his iPad, then shifts in his chair. ‘Yes, but she only saw you once, before the search,’ he says, wheezing from the movement.
‘Jai saw me.’
‘Who?’ the DCs ask together.
‘Jai Patel, that idiot who does the podcast. He recorded me talking to him.’
They exchange looks I can’t quite work out and then DC Steadman asks, ‘What time did you leave the search?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Did you go home straight after?’ DC Kimmings chimes in.
‘I haven’t been sleeping. I don’t remember.’ It’s not much of a defence; however, I don’t have a defence to speak of since I am guilty.
‘Do you remember Mr Duffill coming home?’
‘Vaguely, we spoke a little when he came to bed.’
‘He came home later than you?’ DC Kimmings asks.
Leo left the search at the end, if I’d have been there the whole time we’d have left together. I can see where these questions are going. ‘You’d have to ask him that.’
DC Steadman purses his lips. ‘We have a report that a woman matching your description was seen on the Hallow’s Gate Estate near Oscar Greer’s house. Can you confirm this was you?’
‘No.’
‘No, you can’t confirm, or no, it wasn’t you?’ DC Steadman pushes.
‘I’d like to go now. I’m in a robe. I’m tired. I want to go home.’
‘You’re under arrest, Ms Forrester. Just a few more questions,’ one of them says, but I can’t tell which one now, as it’s getting harder to open my eyes after every blink.
Embarrassingly, my stomach growls, loud enough for all to hear. I also really need a pee. This is how they successfully interrogate prisoners; keep you for hours in a cell, then when they are ready for the interrogation, offer no comfort breaks between their questions. I’m not the criminal. Oscar Greer should be in my seat, answering their questions. Sweating under their stares.
‘Do you remember getting home last night?’ DC Kimmings asks.
‘Yes, but I didn’t look at my watch. The search was harrowing. It was cold, so I wanted to get home.’
‘So you went straight home?’ DC Steadman pushes again.
‘I will not admit to something I didn’t do, and you need to stop staring at me and search that bastard Greer’s house. Paedophiles swap kids between each other.’
‘Yes,’ DC Steadman says. ‘We know that.’
DC Kimmings brings out his iPad and glares at it for a moment. ‘On the night of Friday 13th of October, you called 999 and said Robin was missing. Is this correct?’
Where is this going? ‘Yes.’
‘The emergency call operator claims you sounded calm on the phone. Would you agree with that statement?’
‘No, I wouldn’t agree with that statement. I’d just lost my son. I was just trying to keep calm so I could answer all the pointless questions she was asking me.’
‘There was a gap of about twenty minutes between when you lost sight of Robin on the Ferris wheel to when you called 999. Is this correct?’
I did waste time at the pathetic lost child stand near the Coconut Shy.
‘Maybe, I thought I’d just lost track of him and he was still at the fair. I went to the old woman running the lost child stand. You interviewed her, right?’
‘Yes, yes, we did. So you would agree that you waited to call the police?’
‘Not waited to call the police. I searched the area myself. I waited to make sure Robin was actually missing.’
‘But he wasn’t with you from the time he ran towards the Ferris wheel?’
‘Yes, but he could have been just around the corner. I didn’t want to call the police without knowing I needed them. Everyone thinks like that.’
DC Kimmings taps on his iPad. ‘Do you remember your movements at this time?’
‘What are these questions about? Didn’t you arrest me for burglary?’
‘Please, just answer what you can.’ DC Steadman leans forward in his chair.
Sighing, I quickly think through my response. ‘When I realised Robin was not on the Ferris wheel, I asked the teenager running it to check the carts to make sure he wasn’t still on there. When I saw he wasn’t, the teenager told me to go to the lost child stand. I spoke to the woman there who said they found a little boy, but the boy was not Robin. I then called the police.’
‘Did you text Mr Duffill at all?’ DC Kimmings asks, not even looking up from the iPad.
‘Yes, I was texting him before my son went missing. I then texted to see if Robin was at home.’
‘You told us Robin doesn’t run away, yet you thought he had?’ DC Steadman narrows his eyes at me.
‘You’re twisting my words. Robin would never have run away.’
‘Yet you checked to see if he had run off back home?’
The two police officers’ questions are blending. I’m finding it hard to concentrate and not say something I shouldn’t. They are now accusing me of doing something to Robin. Jai has infected the police with his vicious lies. It’s becoming blindingly clear they have arrested me for burglary, but are fishing for a murder confession. Should I tell them what I found at Greer’s house? Evidence he was keeping a boy there; and was planning on stealing another younger one who would fit in the Moses basket. Gemma is a witness. No, they searched the house, I remind myself. Surely, they would have found the room? Well, depending on when they searched. Greer could have decorated after they left.
‘Ms Forrester, are you okay?’
My thoughts fall apart as I look at each of the DCs’ faces to determine who just spoke to me. I can’t tell, so I say, ‘I love my son and would never hurt him, and if for some bizarre, unknown reason I did, why would I call the police? Why would I go through an appeal and a search party?’
‘You mean the TV appeal where you made threats, the search party you left early an
d the calm call to the police?’ DC Kimmings looks over at DC Steadman who has just accused me of a collection of seemingly trivial things, all of which could add up to me killing my flesh and blood.
‘I’d like to leave now.’ I get up.
‘You are under arrest, Mrs Duffill. I suggest you sit down and answer our questions before we take you back to your cell.’
Again, with the Mrs Duffill, but I’m too tired to correct them.
‘Just a few more questions,’ DC Steadman adds.
I sit back down. ‘I want to go.’
‘We understand. Can you try to remember what time you came home last night?’
‘I want to leave.’
‘We interviewed people at the search party who said they saw you the first couple of hours, but there are no sightings of you after. Where did you go?’
‘I’m not answering anything else. Take me back to the cells.’
DC Kimmings puts down his iPad. He looks different now, less like the man determined to find my son and more like an asshole looking to close a case any way he can.
‘One more thing, Mrs Duffill. Did you coax Harry Doncaster into your car yesterday?’
What. The. Fuck.
I lean forward and slowly speak into the recorder. ‘I was putting up flyers in the Rosemount Estate for Robin. I met Harry Doncaster in the newsagent. He was alone, so I gave him a lift home to keep him safe.’
‘The same newsagent, which was the last place Thomas Doncaster was seen alive?’
‘Yes, but by that logic, I’ve unknowingly visited many old crime scenes. Hey, wait a minute.’ I lean towards them. ‘You two show up at crime scenes a lot too. Is there something you want to confess?’
‘Okay,’ DC Kimmings says. ‘We’ll take you back to the cells.’
I get up and shuffle in Leo’s trainers out of the room, flanked by the officers.
Suddenly, I’m alone again in the cell.
Everything is falling apart. If the police are looking at me, then they’re not looking at Greer and certainly not looking for a Mr Bones copycat. I should come clean. Robin’s safety is what’s important, not mine. Standing up, I lift my fist to bang on the door, intending to grab the attention of a nearby policeman and gush out a confession. As I do, the Michael McIntyre lookalike opens my cell.
‘Mrs Duffill, please come with me,’ he says leading me to his desk.
‘How many times do I need to tell you idiots, I’m Ms Forrester!’
‘You can stow the attitude, Ms Forrester, or I’ll throw you back in that cell.’
He bends down to fiddle with some paperwork. ‘You’ve been bailed, but you must report back here to the station after your bail period on the 20th of November. Do you understand?’
Looking around me, I don’t see anyone brandishing a wad of cash for my bail. ‘Who bailed me out?’ I ask.
‘What country do you think you live in? This isn’t the USA. No one has to bail you out here. You can go now, but you’re still under arrest, so need to be back here at the police station on the 20th November.’
‘Okay.’
‘Sign here,’ he says, passing me a form and a pen.
I scribble my name, but when I put the pen down, I notice I’ve signed it Leigh-Ann Hendy. Inwardly seething at myself, I’m about to ask the custody sergeant for another form when he snatches it back. He then passes me a bag containing my robe belt and Leo’s laces. After I shove the bag in my pocket, he shoos me away.
As I slowly walk through the police station, I see Patricia leaning over someone at a desk. I need to talk to her; perhaps she’ll listen to what I found in Greer’s house. I don’t care that she’s with someone else right now. The other victim can wait.
I march up to Patricia and tap her on the shoulder. As she twists around, I see who is with her; it is Mrs Doncaster. I recognise her from the online articles about Thomas’s disappearance. She’s even wearing the same tearful look on her face as she stares at something on the table.
‘Patricia, I need to speak with you. Now.’ I reach out to grab her elbow; a move she has done to me many times before. Seeing my hand thrust out, she jerks away.
‘I’ll come over to your house later, Cherrie.’
‘Please, just a minute.’
Patricia motions for me to step away from her desk. Great, I don’t even warrant the privacy of a room.
‘If this is about Oscar Greer, I’ll warn you not to say anything. I’m duty-bound to report back anything illegal.’
Shit! Okay, new tactic.
‘Is there a copycat?’ I ask. Greer may be my only suspect, but the police could have another.
‘A copycat of what?’ Patricia tries to look coy; but comes off looking guilty.
‘Mr Bones, my dad.’
Tutting, she inches away from me. ‘This isn’t the movies. Real life is more obvious and far less dramatic.’
‘Less dramatic than my son being abducted? ’Cause, that’s pretty fucking dramatic.’
‘Oh, no. That’s not what I meant.’
Strangled silence spreads out between us. Patricia fills it with, ‘I’m not saying what’s happened isn’t bad.’
‘Just not as dramatic as a film.’
She moves back towards Mrs Doncaster. Fuck it, she’s my only link to the police; I need her information. I reach out to grab her hand. She jerks back again, nearly falling over.
‘It’s not like I’m claiming the Blair Witch has my son. Mr Bones abducted boys around the same age, I’m his only child, and now my son is missing. It doesn’t take a genius to see there’s a connection.’
Visibly squirming, Patricia nods. ‘I’ll check it out but it won’t do you any good thinking like that.’ She glances at a non-existent watch on her wrist. ‘Mrs Doncaster is waiting. I have to get on.’ The last thing she does is pat my arm with patronising precision, before slinking back to her desk.
One thought rattles about my mind: if it is a copycat, Robin is probably already dead. Dad killed his abductees quickly; lack of artistic inspiration was never Mr Bones’ problem.
I go to shuffle past Patricia’s desk, and Mrs Doncaster looks up at me.
‘Shine a light! You’re fake Cherrie. That child killer’s daughter.’
‘My son is missing too,’ I say to her.
‘Thomas isn’t missing anymore; he’s dead.’ Mrs Doncaster stands up to face me. As she does, I can see a pair of boy’s white trainers in a plastic evidence bag on the desk.
‘I’m sorry about your son,’ I say.
‘How dare you be sorry about my son!’ she yells at me, poking her finger into my robed chest.
I step backwards out of her reach and almost trip over Patricia. ‘My son is missing. Don’t you have any sympathy?’
‘You brought it on yourself. You and your defective killer genes. It’s good your son is dead. Better that than he grows up like his …’
I pull my arm back and punch Mrs Doncaster in the face. Pain explodes across my knuckles where they collide with the bony bridge of her nose.
‘Robin is not dead. Neither of us are anything like my dad.’
Patricia is rooted to the spot. She doesn’t even try to separate us. Instead, she takes a few steps back to give us more room. Suddenly I’m back on the playground. It wouldn’t surprise me to be walloped back to a chorus of fight, fight, fight!
Mrs Doncaster’s palm flies to her nose, and she rubs it in disbelief.
‘Want to say it again?’ I ask her, my fingers uncomfortably curled into a fist, ready to hit her harder.
‘Crazy bitch,’ she whispers.
DCs Kimmings and Steadman flood out of the interview room and stop at the scene before them. A mother-fight in the middle of the station.
‘What’s going on?’ DC Steadman asks.
Patricia looks over at him. ‘Mrs Duffill hit Mrs Doncaster.’
‘I’m not Mrs Duffill, you incompetent dumbasses!’
‘You’re not Cherrie Forrester either, are you?’ Mrs Doncaster
chimes in.
I step towards her. She backs away, hitting her butt on the desk behind her as she does.
‘I legally changed my name. I have a passport to prove it. I am Cherrie Forrester. My son Robin is missing and yes, I have the unfortunate family fate of being the daughter of Mr Bones, but it was assholes like you lot who drove me to change my name to hide my past. I’ve not killed anyone. Although, I can see now why some people do it.’ Pulling my robe protectively around my chest, I turn on my heels and stride out of the police station. I’m sure they all loved my outburst, and no doubt, they’ll arrest me for assaulting Mrs Doncaster, but no one was in my corner. Patricia, for all her promises, did nothing. I can’t trust her.
I walk down the street in a triumphant, violent haze like a gangster from a cheap film. People give me strange looks – I don’t care. It’s just over one mile from the police station to my house, so I keep shuffling forward in Leo’s lace-less trainers, holding my beltless robe together for warmth.
Shine a light. I stop. That’s what Mrs Doncaster said. I read that expression on the Concerned in Rosemount blog. Could she be the author? But then, why didn’t she write something about her son’s abduction and murder? Maybe I have it all wrong. Other people must use that expression; I’ve just not heard anyone use it around here.
An hour later, exhausted, cold, and with blisters all over my feet, I arrive home.
I open the door to find Leo in the living room, with Mrs Duffill. Great.
Chapter 36
Leo stares at me. ‘The police let you go?’
‘I’m out on bail for the burglary. Oh, but I also punched a woman in the face at the station, so I’m sure they’ll be adding to the charges.’ I plonk down onto the couch and push off Leo’s trainers to air my throbbing feet.
‘Who did you punch?’ he asks.
‘Mrs Doncaster.’
‘You punched that poor woman who just lost her son?’ Mrs Duffill flicks her palm to her head as if to swoon.
‘She said Robin was dead and it was for the best, considering where he came from.’
‘Robin’s not dead.’ Leo sits down beside me. ‘We’d have felt it if he were.’