Only the Crows Know

by Ese McGowan

  ‘Oh, you cold?’ Miriam stands, walks over to the door, opens it wide and requests someone fetch the witness something warm. ‘I didn’t think it was too bad in here but shock can often make you feel cold can’t it?’ Alicia makes no comment. She twists her tongue into her teeth as if trying to claw out a remnant of food. She gives the impression that being here opposite the detective is not something she should be enduring.

  Do they know I can hear everything or is that the point?

  ‘Can you take me through what happened last night,’ Miriam begins.

  ‘Am I a suspect or something? I told you who you should be speaking to and that isn’t me. There’s not much I can help you with.’ Oh dear. Alicia has certainly not planned on being hauled into the station. I wonder if they’ve caught up with Adam yet. Can’t say I’ve heard his slimy voice ricocheting around the chipboard walls.

  ‘Sure, I can understand why you would think that. But you know, I find that, mostly, there are actually things that don’t seem initially pertinent yet turn out to be exactly that. Tell me when the party started. Can you do that?’

  ‘There wasn’t some strict entry time, like everyone must arrive at eight—’ Alicia is snappish.

  ‘You sound a little defensive Alicia, why is that?’ asks Miriam with a clear tone of sarcasm. Good. This is exactly the stance I want her approached from because she is a liar and nothing that leaves her snake-skinned tongue will have a shroud of truth.

  I sense, and I think wisely, that Miriam has taken an instant dislike to her. Maybe she doesn’t like people throwing accusations at other people with no foundation to them. Although, Alicia will make her case and she is far from sinking into the realms of ignorance and stupidity. She’s a schemer and if I’m honest, I’m just a little bit scared of her.

  ‘You’re treating me like a suspect,’ she says but not as though she’s anxious about it. It sounds more like she is reprimanding someone for doing something inanely idiotic.

  ‘No, I’m asking a few questions to work out how your husband came to fall off the roof. I’m not recording anything as you can see and you can leave at any time. However,’ she pauses and takes in a tiresome breath, ‘it would be really useful to me if you could describe last night, leading up to your husband’s sudden death. Would that be ok with you?’

  ‘Something tells me that if I walk out now, freely as you put it, that it won’t be ok with you,’ responds Alicia coldly, if she’s capable of responding in any other way. Somehow I doubt it.

  ‘I won’t stop you but I will have to wonder, why you would refuse to answer questions that might help us understand how your husband died. Can I remind you that you have accused your neighbour of pushing him off the roof, yet you don’t seem amenable right now in explaining to me you reasons for making such a judgement?’

  ‘But she did do it,’ she states and releases one arm from propping up her chin and hooks it over the back of the chair. Is she poised for a confrontation? Is she grounding her stance to show her strength? It cannot be a comfort to her that she has had no time to preen herself from the wretched, bedraggled after-party look that she currently displays and the rapid alighting into the police car after Miriam’s instructions definitely gave no way to an ablution of the teeth. She won’t like that much.

  ‘So— you saw her push him?’

  ‘No, I already told you I didn’t see her but she did do it.’

  ‘Ok. Did anyone else on your property at the time make the same allegation?’

  ‘I can’t remember. It happened very quickly. Suddenly. Probably. I was in shock, I still am. My husband’s dead. Murdered.’

  ‘Yes, it isn’t easy for you,’ says Miriam with a certain wry acceptance of her poise. ‘Can you remember who was at your house last night? That would be really very helpful to me.’

  ‘Dana, from across the road, Dana Begum. The couple at the back, I don’t know them that well, Jason and his wife, Amy or Abigail or something— who I wouldn’t take any notice of, I think she’s on Prozac. Mabel, Erin’s friend, not that you’d know she was – all she did was slag her off. And me, Joel,’ she stops herself to wait for the gulp in her throat to clear, if there is one, it all sounds a touch affected. ‘My friends, our friends, Missy and Alex Peterson, Yvonne Delaney, Tilly and Andreas Andersen from number 29, I don’t know, I can’t think of anyone else right now. There were people there I didn’t know.’

  That’s a lie.

  ‘And Adam Konstantas?’

  ‘Er, yeah, he was around.’

  Mostly around you, over my kitchen table and not for the first time.

  ‘You didn’t hang out with him?’ asked Miriam.

  ‘If you’re asking me if I was with him specifically then no, not that I can remember, no more than anyone else. It was a party. I was drunk.’

  Sobered up pretty quick though didn’t you?

  ‘Ok,’ Miriam doesn’t believe her. Good. Alicia’s raised the bridge at the mere mention of his name. She has physically withdrawn more so than the defiant expression planted like cement across her face that she has sustained from the minute Miriam joined her in interview room three. Her arm is no longer dangling care free from the back of the chair. She does not like the way she is being questioned.

  ‘Take me through how you found Joel. Where were you at the time?’

  ‘I was in the garden.’

  ‘Did you hear him fall?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see him fall?’

  ‘No. I think I’ve already made that quite clear.’

  ‘Who were you with in the garden?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  Yes you do Alicia. Yes you do.

  ‘What were you doing in the garden?’

  ‘Getting some air, I don’t know, I don’t remember. What the hell difference does it make? Why don’t you ask Erin? Ask her why she killed my husband. Ask her about that.’

  ‘Why do you think Erin pushed him off the roof?’

  ‘Have you seen the roof?’

  ‘Yes, I took a look. Why is it like that up there? Did you and Joel do that?’

  ‘No. Pearl. She said she was having an extension just before the recession. Loft extension. The builder went bust so she levelled it off. She didn’t have the money to ever finish it.’

  ‘Levelled it off?’

  ‘Said to make it waterproof. What difference does it make? Ask her about it not me. How would I know?’

  ‘Who’s Pearl?’

  ‘Pearl Ritter. Owns the house.’

  ‘And Erin?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘You don’t seem to like her much.’

  ‘You don’t say! She’s just murdered my husband. Would you?’

  ‘I sense you have never liked her. Did something happen that has led up to all of this?’

  ‘She’s mental. She makes things up. Dramas. She tried to break Joel and I up. She’s trouble. Evil. She’s jealous of me. She wants to destroy me.’

  I do now.

  ‘That’s a lot of stuff there Alicia. Can you break it down for me? Explain it all to me?’

  ‘I want to go home.’ Looks like she is rattled. Not quite as simple as pointing your finger at someone and being believed is it? Welcome to my world.

  ‘You can’t go home yet I’m afraid. It’s a crime scene. It won’t be for long,’ Miriam tells her. I think Miriam will be as difficult as she can to disrupt her accommodation unless she wants to watch who goes over to visit her. We’ll have to wait to find out. I can’t quite see where that’s going and anyway, Joel died outside, not inside the house so why keep her out?

  ‘You told me to contact your parents and I believe they are on their way here,’ continues Miriam. ‘Can you stay with them?’ Miriam struggles to comprehend why Alicia would even want to return home is she is so distraught at the sudden departing of her husband, to the scene of his death and, and an intelligent woman should surely know this: his body has yet to be removed. These things take ti
me. All evidence must be signed, bagged, dated, logged, whatever hell else they do in forensics but it, for sure, takes longer than an hour or two. Hasn’t she ever watched a cop show on TV? Shit, she works in TV. Hasn’t she paying attention to any scripts, ever?

  ‘Yes, of course I can. They’re my parents,’ she snaps with a pipe in her voice that heckles and ridicules the question. ‘Are they here? Can you check please. I need to get out of here. I can’t breathe.’

  ‘Sure,’ replies Miriam. ‘You need a doctor?’ That was definitely sarcastic and Miriam receives no reply. She goes on, ‘I’ll check for you but just so you know, Alicia, I will have to talk to you again. I’ll need a formal statement from you.’

  ‘My parents are rich. Did you know that?’

  Miriam turns her mouth down. What is the relevance here? Oh yes. The elite don’t get questioned by the police or follow the rules or fall within any legal system that can prosecute them. We all know that.

  ‘Erin couldn’t cope with that. She doesn’t like people who she sees as having an easy life. Like I said, she wanted to destroy me.’

  No, I just don’t like you. And yes.

  ‘Thank you Alicia. That’s very interesting,’ remarks Miriam starting to peel off the scab of whatever deep resentment was brewing enough for the callus to be ripped off and a murder committed, if this really was a murder and not an accident. It’s only Alicia’s say so. Crime Scene Investigators will offer up a clearer picture on that. Miriam is ultimately prepared, though, to have no clear picture on who was where in the house at the time, foreseeing each attendees’ DNA, fingerprints, physical traces to be everywhere throughout the house including the roof contaminating any possibility of transparent evidence on anyone specifically, hopefully, or not.

  Alicia’s parents are waiting out front in the Police Station reception area, apparently. Her father, Nicholas, is pacing up and down, irritating the desk sergeant. He’s loud with a booming self-righteous voice. They have driven up in their Lexus from an affluent suburb in Surrey and are keen to retrieve their fragile daughter, as they have described her. What a bloody joke that is. They always knew something like this would happen. He’s barking, according to the desk sergeant, not that anyone in here needs clarification on that. Her father is making sure everyone can hear his thoughts. It was a ticking bomb, that relationship but one thing’s for sure and that’s that Nicholas and Sylvia Simms’ daughter had nothing to do with Joel death. Is he referring to my relationship with Adam? The ticking time bomb? What’s he on about? ‘Suicide is more likely,’ he goes on and threatens that if they continued to interview his daughter sans lawyer they will demand a complaint be raised imminently. Actually, I don’t think he’s helped her much here. He’s accusing me (well he’s not accusing her anyway) and he’s saying Joel was suicidal, I think. You would have thought I’d be happy with that conclusion drawn but I’m not. I want Alicia’s wrist clinked together with lead. And Joel could never be suicidal or more precisely could never have been.

  Whatever the truth is. My truth.

  Miriam escorts Alicia to her parents who fling their arms around her like she’s a small child who had been kidnapped from her doting guardians. It is quite the display. Only child, thinks Miriam, it’s obvious she thinks that, I’m sure everyone does and they’d be entirely correct, not that I have concise facts on her family. I actually know nothing in that regard. It just seems likely more than not to be that way around. ‘And I’ll bet your wealth has come from the expense of the naïve,’ she mutters, Miriam, loud enough for me to hear, she’s standing near my door, watching them carry her out, virtually, Alicia from the building. Is she coming in here? Am I next? I’m not ready yet.

  ‘You get their details, address, phone numbers and so on?’ she asks the desk sergeant.’

  ‘Pinged to you already Boss.’

  ‘Great. All social distancing flies out the window when there’s a disaster doesn’t it?’ she remarks.

  ‘Yes it does,’ he replies. ‘Just one of the seismic problems we’re having to deal with Ma’am.’

  ‘Ok, enough of the Ma’am. It’s too hot,’ she says, watching the Lexus from the glass door drive away from the station. She turns to walk back to the interview rooms where I am waiting, but I’m not waiting so much as listening and learning and looking as much as I’m able. If she comes in here I’m going to start coughing or something. I need more time. She ebbs away from the door and I hear her voice fading away a bit. She says, ‘Thanks for that,’ to the desk sergeant and then, ‘Let me know if anyone else comes in regarding the Joel Mason murder would you? Or more likely calls. What am I talking about? No one’s coming in.’

  ‘Yes Ma’am, will do. Sorry, Boss.’

  6

  ‘You’ve got to read this boss. It’s the weirdest non confession I’ve ever come across. Think she’s a candidate for the nut house. She’s written it like a fairy tale, a detailed one.’

  I can hear you for fuck’s sake.

  ‘That’s a lot of words in a short space of time,’ says Miriam, taking the papers, that I have written, commencing my detailing of what I believed happened to me, let alone Joel Mason and his pig wife Alicia. And I haven’t finished. No one actually asked me that, whether I was done with the damn pen, before a stroppy policeman, who looked quite disrespectfully scruffy with rolled up sleeves and his face unshaven, snatched it from under my hands as I was still scrawling away with the crappy scratchy biro they gave me.

  ‘Get her something to eat would you.’ Miriam requests. ‘I need to go through this before I go in there and I’m a slow reader. Any sign of Adam Konstantas?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Thank fuck.

  7

  Erin Green’s ramblings, in interview room four.

  That’s how they described it. This is my version, not the verbatim issue they held under their eyes, snatched from my grip.

  I’ll always remember that knock on the door. It was the day every changed for me. I didn’t know it at the time. It seemed innocuous. She seemed innocuous. That was the biggest mistake I have made in my life, well almost, because right now, from where I’m sitting, it might not look that way, I don’t see it like that though and you won’t once you have read this. Because this is the truth and it’s important that you know this before they feed you their lies.

  It was about a week ago, ten days maybe, I can’t remember exactly, it might even have been two months. I didn’t write it down. I don’t keep a diary. Not on other people anyway. I had been working really hard, at home more and more and I lose track of days when that happens. Anyway, there was a knock on the door and she said, ‘Thought I’d pop round and introduce myself,’ on me opening the door to her. I had no idea who she was and why she was standing there.

  ‘Ok,’ I replied, my face surely emanating confusion. Who are you? I’m busy. I don’t do cold callers. Although she didn’t look much like one, if there is such a look. Bit mumsy looking, all pale pink, shoulder length blonde hair, ordinary jeans, ordinary t-shirt. There was nothing remarkable about this woman. Nothing that screamed of a nightmare waiting to happen but I was wrong, very wrong about her and I don’t know how she did it all. Was there a plan?

  ‘I’ve moved in, next door,’ she told me. I hadn’t noticed, and I really hadn’t. Things like that didn’t bother me or concern me. My fiancé, Adam, Adam Konstantas, and I worked long hours and when we weren’t doing that we made the most of not having kids and drank in bars, partied, had a good time because our sanity demanded it. He told me it did. He told me a lot of things. We both worked in the media, him in film, me on a magazine. Our hours were random. We could go weeks barely seeing each other. I would come in a 4am and he would leave at 5am. It worked. Maybe the distance, the lack of quality time, too little time, kept us together. Five years and neither of us had had the ‘it’s not working’ conversation. It worked, then. For him it worked. I hadn’t realised how my life had been dictated by him, he was subtle.

  ‘Sorry, I
didn’t know—’ I said to her.

  ‘You didn’t see us moving in?’ she said and I wasn’t sure if this was in a haughty manner or what. I still didn’t know, no correction, didn’t really care if she had moved in or not, as long as she didn’t bother me, us. I had been in his world for so long that I only paid attention to him. And in all honesty, I was unaware the house had even been up for sale. The woman, the previous owner, Pearl, she was as quiet as a mouse. We must have driven her mad coming in and going out at totally unsociable times of the day. She never said anything. Maybe that’s why she moved out. Maybe we drove her out, she might say that but she never said a word about it to us, whatever she tells you. It was Pearl I was thinking of when this woman on my doorstep was moving her lips. I wasn’t listening to a word she was saying. This was the first morning in three that my mouth wasn’t parched from the alcohol the night before and that’s because I get so little time to relax so I make the most of it. Not so drunk that I’m falling over or anything like that, just enough to take the edge off, to stop thinking about deadlines as I have a lot of deadlines, it’s the nature of my work. Drunk enough not to question how I was living, ever.

  ‘Because we blocked your driveway for hours, not that we could help it, because there was nowhere else to park but I was surprised you didn’t ask us to move.’

  I wonder where Pearl went to?

  ‘Did it bother you?’ she asked me whilst my eye caught sight of the cherry blossom on the weeping tree. Truly beautiful, kissed by a warm spring light and punched brighter pink by a cerulean blue sky. These are the things I notice. My eyes tilted back to the angle of her profile, following my gaze so distracted I clearly was. I didn’t mean to be rude but it might have come across like that, she might say that.

  ‘Sorry?’ I said and now she was eyeballing me, maybe because she did that sort of thing, not necessarily confrontationally, well that’s how I saw it at the time.