No Further Questions

by Gillian McAllister

Interesting. In her denial, she had incriminated herself.

  Becky got a lawyer immediately. She no-commented like a pro, and asked for the Duty Solicitor. Keysha telephoned him: an affable, sporty young solicitor from Hove, called Pete. She had always liked him. After fractious initial interviews, sometimes, late at night, they would smoke outside together. Disgusting habit, she knew.

  ‘Becky, if you were co-sleeping … charges wouldn’t be pressed,’ Keysha said in their next interview. ‘Rolling-over smothering is very common.’

  Becky’s cheeks turned pink. ‘I wasn’t co-sleeping.’

  ‘Tell me exactly how you found her.’

  ‘On her back … white. Unresponsive.’

  ‘How did the room look?’

  ‘Just … normal.’

  ‘No signs of anything? A discarded blanket? A sign she had rolled over, maybe?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was the door closed or open?’

  ‘Closed.’

  ‘Okay, and how was it when you entered the room? What do you remember?’

  ‘It was dim. Um …’

  ‘Did you alter anything in the room, anything at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you move the blankets? Move the Moses basket?’

  ‘I pulled the blankets off Layla to try and revive her.’

  Pete became obstructive after that, rendering any questioning pointless, so Keysha decided to look at the papers properly, then recall Becky.

  She took her time over the evidence, just the way she liked to. The phone. The Fitbit. The internet search history. She looked at them in turn. They were strange; they sat on the knife edge between normal and suspicious. Hadn’t she had her fair share of desperate evenings when Lebron was little, after all? The texts she, herself, had sent …

  She took them in turn.

  The text messages to Marc at seven o’clock:

  Becky: Jesus, I’m worried about Layla. And me!

  Marc: It always feels worse at the time. I still had a list from when Xander was small. Here it is. Feed. Change. Burp. Fart. Tired. Dirty nappy. Cold. Hot. Lonely. Teething. Pain. Overstimulated. Understimulated. Ill. No Reason. xx

  Marc: Internet says if crying for no reason: sucking, swaddling, music, white noise, fresh air, bath, motion, massage. Take a break. You didn’t ask for this, Samuel, when you took it on. I know that. xx

  A phone call to him at 7.31, lasting three minutes.

  She turned to the Fitbit. Keysha’s tech assistant had downloaded it all for her.

  She clicked on the folder: data from 26 and 27 October. And there it was, a map of Becky’s movements, right on the screen in front of her.

  Keysha traced her finger across the map on the screen. She checked, then checked again: always double-check everything, her old boss used to say to her.

  She sat back in the chair and folded her arms, looking up at the ceiling rose. How interesting this Becky was shaping up to be.

  On the screen, there were two blue lines. One moving away from her house, one moving back four minutes later. She had been four hundred yards down the road at 7.45 p.m., after the texts to Marc and the phone call. Keysha brought up Google Maps and typed in the address, then zoomed out, her eyes scanning. Ah, there it was. A Londis. The Calpol, purchased immediately. It wasn’t indicative of anything. It wasn’t. And yet, somehow, in that sensory part of her gut that came to life in investigatory moments like this, it just was.

  But, more than that, Keysha’s gut cried out: Becky had said she hadn’t left the house.

  Becky had lied.

  Becky had, Keysha suspected, left the baby alone.

  Later that evening, she went to Londis to get their CCTV.

  ‘I went to Londis for the Calpol, yes,’ Becky said in the third interview.

  Pete crossed and uncrossed his legs next to her. He shot Keysha a look.

  And, finally, Keysha found the Google search. Two words, googled at 9.12 p.m.

  Calpol + Overdose.

  Those two condemning words.

  Keysha brought up the medical evidence of the post-mortem on her screen. Blanket fibres in the lungs. Minor signs of a struggle. A bruise on the back of the ear lobe: an unusual location, almost always indicative of abuse.

  But more than that: the time of death. Between eight and nine thirty. Absolutely no later, the pathologist said. It would be impossible. Becky hadn’t even put the baby to bed by then. That was a strange thing for her to have said. Keysha suspected she’d been drunker than she said and had no idea of the timings, because Layla was found dead in the bedroom.

  And then: the delay. Potentially twelve hours between death and calling the ambulance. Delay in seeking medical attention: the biggest red flag there could be.

  It was always the way. They tried to fix it, to cover it up, concoct a story.

  Becky had looked in on Layla in the small hours, by her own admission. Keysha gritted her teeth and shook her head. It was fabricated. To make her look attentive. But, of course she hadn’t looked in. A few hours earlier, at between eight and nine thirty, Layla had died, and Becky had been the only person in the house.

  And so, when perpetrators realized they couldn’t cover it up, they faked it. A frantic 999 call, made hours after the event.

  The texts.

  The solo trip to Londis. The lie.

  There would be more evidence, but that was enough.

  Becky was charged with murder forty-eight hours later.

  34

  Martha

  Calpol.

  Overdose.

  Two incriminating words. Or are they?

  The more I think about it, the less sure I am. What would I google, if I were unsure of dosages? Maybe that, yes. There was no Calpol found in Layla’s body. That is not how she died. For the prosecution, this is about intent: evidence that my sister couldn’t cope. That she was looking for solutions.

  I glance sideways at Scott, sitting here next to me but not speaking, not allowed to speak. I shift my body closer to his, feel the warmth coming off him. His jaw is quivering. He’s trying not to cry. We link hands together in the public gallery.

  They show the jury the Scenes of Crime Officer’s photographs. I can’t see them, and I don’t want to, though I can imagine them. The Moses basket in the corner, on the floor. The blanket. The changing mat on top of Becky’s old white chest of drawers that she’s had since university. Flappy, the yellowing old cuddly toy, found on the floor.

  The defence lawyer, Harriet, stands up. She doesn’t say anything for a few moments. She looks down, shuffling her papers, but doesn’t speak. Eventually, she looks up, and straight at Keysha.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Thompson,’ Harriet says, ‘how many days passed between each of your interviews with the defendant?’

  ‘Between the first and the second: seven. Between the second and the third: one.’

  ‘I suppose, then, that Becky could easily have deleted those texts, and cleared her Fitbit?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She could easily have already deleted a phone call.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A text.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A Google search, even.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she didn’t.’

  ‘Evidently not.’

  ‘When you asked the defendant whether she had been to Londis, what did she say?’

  ‘She admitted it.’

  ‘Admitted? Or just answered honestly?’

  ‘Well, she previously led me to believe she hadn’t been anywhere—’

  ‘In her first interview she gave you an extremely brief account of her evening, which did not revolve around going to get Calpol.’

  ‘She omitted it entirely,’ Keysha says smoothly.

  ‘But as soon as she was asked, she told you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take you to the Google search. It was exactly this: Calpol plus overdose.’

  �
��Yes.’

  ‘Detective Sergeant, if I wanted to know the limits of how much Calpol to give a baby, what might I google? I might google Calpol plus dosage limits. I might google Calpol instruction leaflet. But I might also google Calpol plus overdose.’

  Keysha says nothing, merely stands and stares at the barrister. Then she folds her arms, very slowly.

  ‘Witness is not a Google search engine expert,’ Ellen says.

  ‘Nothing further,’ Harriet says.

  Ellen stands up. Re-examination. The last-chance saloon to rescue the witness from things admitted in cross-examination.

  ‘Detective, what might a criminal google if they were searching for ways to give a baby too much Calpol – a lethal dose?’

  ‘Witness is not an expert,’ Harriet says, leaping to her feet. Her cheeks are flushed. ‘You just said that yourself,’ she says to Ellen, looking childlike, hurt, almost.

  ‘Please refrain from asking the witness to comment on what criminals might google,’ the judge remarks benignly.

  Keysha has said nothing, but the damage is done.

  35

  Martha

  ‘Let’s go for a walk or something,’ Scott says to me in the foyer at lunchtime. His body language is off: his gaze downward, a hand to his throat. ‘I can’t deal with any more of this shit.’

  Ethan is standing in the foyer, looking at us. No doubt he has views on the damning evidence, but I don’t want to hear them.

  ‘Okay,’ I say to Scott, last night’s conversation forgotten, subsumed into the swamp.

  So what if we disagree about what happened to our daughter? It won’t change anything, after all.

  We stand on the steps together in the blazing heat.

  ‘It’s too hard to listen to,’ he says. ‘Like watching a car crash.’ He runs a hand through his hair.

  I think about what he said about Layla deserving better. He won’t unpick the events of the night of out of respect for her. Somewhere, something quiet and soft and optimistic swells in my chest. He is a good person. A better person than me, maybe.

  ‘There isn’t even an accusation of a Calpol overdose,’ I say quietly, unable to stop myself from going over it.

  ‘I know. It doesn’t make any sense. They’re trying to establish evidence of a motive, I guess. That she was looking for ways to …’

  I tune him out.

  A couple of years ago, Becky and I met up one Sunday for a walk. It was early spring, and Marc had moved out a few months before. The weather was just beginning to warm up, and Becky was wearing a striped T-shirt. She brought a hand to her face to gather her hair – it was windy – and I saw her knuckles were grazed.

  ‘Been fighting?’ I said with a small laugh.

  ‘Only with walls,’ she said.

  ‘Walls?’

  ‘Marc and I had a row. He wanted to switch our weekends around because of a curry with the lads when he wouldn’t switch with me so I could come to London with you.’

  ‘You punched a wall?’

  ‘I felt like an idiot, afterwards,’ she said ruefully. ‘I did wait until he’d gone before I did it.’

  ‘Jesus,’ I said.

  I’d laughed it off with her at the time but, now, I think: Would I have ever done that?

  No. I wouldn’t.

  Was it normal? I didn’t know. That edge of hers, that temper.

  I open my mouth to talk to Scott. But then he turns to me, and his blond hair catches the sun, and here we are, together, on the steps, and all I can think is: He looks so much like Layla. Strawberry blonde. The slightly turned-down mouth. The wide-set eyes.

  The look of sadness that crossed both of their features, sometimes.

  Scott heads back inside but I stay out on the steps, telling him I want five more minutes. I walk back to the seafront, my phone in my hand. I think about Marc’s lack of alibi, about Theresa’s testimony in which she wondered if Becky was alone, about Becky leaving Layla as she walked to Londis, and suddenly I know what I’m going to do.

  My fingers find Marc’s contact details on my phone and then I’m calling him before I can stop it. I shouldn’t be. It is probably a crime. We are witnesses on opposing sides of a murder trial.

  ‘You have no alibi,’ I say when he answers.

  ‘Martha?’ he says.

  ‘You have no alibi,’ I say.

  ‘For that night?’ he says.

  ‘Of course, for that night.’

  ‘God, Martha,’ he says. ‘I was at home.’

  ‘Did you go and help Becky? Were you there? Did you go over there when she was out?’ I say, the words rushing out. ‘Are you letting her take the rap?’

  ‘No,’ he says.

  ‘Theresa said Becky didn’t sound like she was alone.’

  ‘Well, she was alone,’ Marc says. ‘Nobody came over. I won’t listen to these questions, Martha. I’ve been asked too many times.’ His voice is tight.

  ‘By who?’ I say.

  And then, to my surprise, he hangs straight up, without answering me. Without explaining at all.

  It is only later that I consider the very specific language he used. Came over. Nobody came over.

  A word he would only use if he had been there himself.

  36

  Becky

  Early evening, Wednesday 25 October

  ‘Can I play, though?’ Xander says.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I say impatiently. I am looking after Layla until Friday, and it’s only Wednesday evening. Martha left for Kos this afternoon. Scott was supposed to be coming back tomorrow but has decided to stay two nights at a really useful developers’ conference. Thanks, Scott. No, no – you booze away, don’t mind me. I wouldn’t mind, really, except he didn’t ask. He merely told me. As though I was the help. His text pinged in as I was unloading the shopping from Sainsbury’s.

  I drafted text after text in response:

  Well, yes, actually, I do rather mind, and I think your crying daughter does, too, one said.

  Or maybe: Sure, my overtime rates are £500/hour.

  In the end, I sent them all to Marc, wordlessly. He rang me immediately, his voice deliciously low and amused. He didn’t know what I was talking about. I tried to ignore the way that voice made me feel, tried not to look at the goosebumps that appeared on my arms.

  ‘You gone mad, Samuel?’ he said.

  ‘I was going mad at you so I don’t go mad at Scott,’ I said.

  There was a pause.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, after a few seconds, no doubt replaying the text messages in his mind and working it all out. ‘I see. Jesus, Sam. They’re playing you.’

  ‘He’s a twat,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. What’s he doing? They can’t both be away? For another night? She’s only eight weeks old.’

  ‘Maybe he’s sleeping around,’ I said. I didn’t mean to say it. It just slipped out; mindless speculation with no basis.

  Marc paused. It was awkward.

  God, why did I say that, after what I did to him?

  ‘I doubt Scott gets around much,’ Marc said.

  I was grateful for his gentle humour. That humour carried me through years of ovulation kits, of pregnancy tests, bought needlessly and used before my period was even due. Once, Marc used one, too, just to cheer me up. ‘There,’ he’d said. ‘We’re both not pregnant.’

  ‘No,’ I said into the phone then, with a small smile. ‘I doubt Scott does.’

  ‘I was thinking I might say something to them,’ he said to me. ‘About this arrangement. If you’d like me to – if you feel you can’t?’

  ‘No, Marc,’ I said. ‘No, don’t do that.’

  ‘Her crying is annoying me, and I’m not even experiencing it,’ he said. ‘Maybe she’s unwell.’

  ‘She’s not unwell. She’s just …’

  ‘I could come over. I can get babies to stop crying.’

  ‘No, you could get Xander to stop crying, but I’m learning he was a pretty easy baby.’

  ‘I bet I cou
ld,’ Marc said.

  I remembered him holding Layla one evening at Martha’s. ‘She’s seriously loud,’ he’d said to me, over the crying. ‘Why won’t she stop?’

  I hmm-ed, instead of saying anything, and said goodnight.

  Layla is crying in her bouncy chair. I jiggle it with my foot while I unpack Xander’s lunch box, removing a blackening banana skin, but it does nothing to stop the crying.

  ‘How long have I got?’ Xander says, hanging around the door frame of the kitchen.

  ‘One hour,’ I say to him.

  ‘You cut my hour short on Monday, by five minutes,’ he says. ‘Remember?’

  ‘Did I?’ I say vaguely. Layla’s tears escalate, so I reach to get her out of the bouncer. I cast about for her blanket to swaddle her; something which occasionally soothes her.

  ‘Yes! Because we were late for swimming? And then when we got back it was too late, because we had to have the oven chips?’

  ‘Right, right,’ I say. Children are so strange. The detail of it! Oven chips.

  ‘One hour five minutes,’ he says, looking at me.

  He always used to be so eager to help me, to please. This exacting, relentless questioning is new. Perhaps he will grow up to be one of those combative journalists on TV. I shudder.

  ‘Fine,’ I say, disposing of a crust from his lunch box into the bin and holding Layla close to me. ‘You should eat it all, you know. Crusts, too.’

  Layla is still crying, her face turning purple. ‘Stop shouting,’ I say. ‘There’s nothing to be angry about.’

  As Xander goes to leave the kitchen, he turns to me. ‘I wish she wasn’t crying,’ he says.

  ‘Me too. It’s loud,’ I snap.

  ‘No. I just mean, I wish she wasn’t sad.’

  My eyes fill with tears. Like, here he is. My boy. My boy that I’ve known and loved for nine years. I stretch my arm out to him, and he comes over, briefly, and leans his body against mine in an imitation of a cuddle.

  Layla continues to scream, one navy-blue eye making fleeting contact with mine until she looks away again. She looks just like Martha.

  ‘One hour, five minutes,’ I say, as Xander leaves the kitchen.

  I set Layla down on the kitchen floor, even though it is tiled and cold. The bouncy chair doesn’t work. Holding her doesn’t work. She can lie there, swaddled, just for a moment. I’m ashamed that I feel angry. I feel angry with her.