Behind Closed Doors

by Catherine Alliott

  I stared, horrified. ‘But – but that’s just not true! That’s a lie! When I came down, Michael was lying in a pool of blood by the coffee table!’

  ‘Quite so.’ He stared at an iPad before him and I wondered if this was being recorded.

  ‘What – so you mean—’ I was thrown; thinking aloud now. ‘You think Michael came back inside and then fell? But surely there’d be mud on his shoes – from the garden. Or – or you think – someone pushed him then? But who, that’s so unlikely!’ The detective stayed silent and I realized I was talking far too much. But then the silence grew and was appalling. Endless. ‘I mean – you’re surely not suggesting … you’re surely not just going to take the word of a common thief!’

  The word ‘common’ hung in the air like something Leslie Phillips would say in a Carry On movie. In a posh accent. A larky comedy from the sixties, except this wasn’t a comedy. Not at all.

  ‘Your sister-in-law, Amanda Palmer, told my colleagues in London that relations between you and your husband were very strained.’

  I inhaled sharply. ‘Yes. Yes, they were,’ I agreed in a whisper. What was he implying? This was worse. This wasn’t me being slow to call for help as Michael lay dying; this was me giving him a mighty shove. And they’d already spoken to Amanda. When? Recently or a long time ago? ‘But I would never have …’ I stopped. Licked my lips. ‘Relations are strained in many marriages.’

  ‘Indeed. And you said at the time, and just now, that when you came downstairs, you found him unconscious on the rug.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not puffing back up the garden, staggering a bit in the dark, drunk, disorientated, making no sense. Whereupon you had a flaming row and you gave him a push?’

  ‘No!’ I was horrified. ‘And God – if anyone says I did, if the woman at the back – I would never have done that!’

  He considered me, evaluating me. The room was very quiet and still. I sensed the policewoman behind me, but she made no sound.

  ‘Tell me, if you would, please, about the woman at the back.’

  I licked my lips. They were dry as dust. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I said huskily. ‘I’d like a solicitor. And I’d like to speak to my daughter first.’

  ‘Of course.’ He nodded efficiently and closed his laptop. I imagine he supposed that the look he gave me was inscrutable. But there was an element of satisfaction in it. An element of a job well done. His job. I watched him tuck a pen away inside his jacket. I wanted to ask him if he had any idea what it felt like to be owned by someone. I wanted to tell him that, had I given Michael a push, that too would have been understandable. But I never laid a finger on him. Just as he never laid a finger on me. He was far too clever. Never a bruise, not one. Just dark enclosed spaces where I could contemplate potential accidents as he called them. There was a lot I could say.

  ‘And I’d like to go home.’

  ‘Naturally. PC Williams will see you out. We’ll be in touch, Mrs Palmer.’ And with that he got up and left the room.

  After a moment, the policewoman came round and waited for me to get up and follow her. She was totally expressionless. A very different young woman to the one who’d smiled at me in reception and asked me to wait, please. And he, my interviewer, was definitely not an older version of the nice young copper who’d overseen my cycling proficiency test. The one who’d smiled as I’d completed winding through some cones. With trembling hands I pushed my chair back and followed her out.

  Outside in the car, I rang Imo. No answer. But her phone was always off at work. I sent her a message.

  ‘Please ring me when you can.’

  I was about to start the car but she rang back immediately. Because I would never normally write that.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong? Is it Granny?’

  ‘No, it’s not, it’s me.’ I had to pause a moment. Fight for control. ‘Darling, I’m outside the police station in Thame. I’ve been asked lots of questions. I have a feeling they’re going to ask me some more. I need a solicitor.’

  There was a silence. Then: ‘Shit. OK. Don’t do anything. And don’t go for their duty solicitor, if they offer. I’ll get you one. And I’ll come down.’

  ‘Thanks, darling,’ I whispered.

  We rang off and I stared out at the drizzle on the windscreen. I wouldn’t ever, ever worry her. And I despised mothers who did. Who loaded their own problems on to their children. Melissa had talked to her children far too much. Lauren, her eldest, had been very weighed down: very affected. I’d kept Michael’s treatment of me from them as much as was humanly possible, always. Except of course it wasn’t always. Possible. Both had witnessed enough and Imo had once found me … anyway. I’d done my best. Because I didn’t want them to be damaged. But this was different. This required prompt, clever action and I needed Imo fast. I sat there. My mind was racing. Most of this was palpably not true. Michael giving chase was ludicrous. He’d have been catatonic. I was amazed he’d even got up from the sofa. The slightest shove would have had him over like a ninepin. But the intruder told it differently. Well he would, wouldn’t he, in the words of Mandy Rice-Davies. Lying through his teeth to stop them pinning a murder charge on him. Inventing a story about being pursued. And now I’d stupidly mentioned Ingrid. Who might not even have been in the equation. I shut my eyes. Imagined the detective now on the phone to the Met. Telling them to conduct another house to house, particularly concentrating on the houses at the back.

  It seemed to me I stayed like that for a very long time. But at length, I reached for my keys and started the engine. I drove slowly home. Was I in serious trouble? I wasn’t sure. Surely they wouldn’t let me go home if I was? Surely they would have cautioned me, which he’d mentioned? From my work, I knew that was the step before being arrested, which I definitely hadn’t been. So that meant they had no evidence. Although he had asked me if I’d like anyone with me. Why? To frighten me? Was that even allowed? And the interview room – so intense. Surely if they just wanted some clarification of events that night, they’d have popped round? But of course, they had. And I’d been out. This should have just been a cosy chat in the sitting room with a cup of tea. Biscuits, even. I began to relax. I’d only been in that ghastly room because I’d gone to them, and it was the only place they had to talk. And surely if the Met really thought I’d done it they’d have come down themselves? Had they just asked the local branch to go through the motions for form’s sake? I made myself loosen my grip on the wheel. I was overreacting as usual. They were obviously going to re-question everyone concerned. No, not re-question, just ask for confirmation of what had actually happened that night.

  As I parked in the drive, I got a text from Imo.

  ‘Helena and I will be down first thing tomorrow.’

  I messaged her back:

  ‘Darling I have an awful feeling I’ve overreacted. I’m sure we could talk on the phone.’

  ‘We’re coming,’ came the immediate response.

  Slipping my phone into my bag, I couldn’t help feeling relieved. Imo and Helena. The cavalry.

  25

  Helena and Imo did indeed arrive the following morning. I’d had to tell whoppers to my parents along the lines of them both having the day off and wanting to hotfoot it down to see the cottage, but neither of them believed me.

  ‘But they’re both so busy …’ said Mum anxiously as she passed me the marmalade over the kitchen table. ‘Helena never even has a day off if she’s ill.’

  Dad was silent but he didn’t look at me. And last night, he’d diplomatically said they were very tired after all the excitement of the Frobishers and were going to have an early night. At eight thirty. I’d thanked him with my eyes. Up until then I’d done rather well: had said on my return that there was nothing at all to worry about, and that the police were just making routine enquiries, now that they’d caught the intruder, which was absolutely standard procedure. I’d cooked us all scrambled eggs on toast and watched Gogglebox with them, which we all lo
ved. But at one particularly hilarious moment, I hadn’t laughed, and Dad had looked my way and caught me staring into the middle distance, no doubt looking rather tragic. That’s when he’d suggested an early night.

  Luckily Helena had sent me an inspired text saying – ‘Please tell Mum how excited I am! How lucky that Imo and I are both off together!’ – which I was able to show her over breakfast. She took the phone as I passed it to her, then got her reading glasses out of their case and peered. She read it aloud slowly, word by word, as old people do, and then her face cleared with joy.

  ‘Oh! How marvellous! And what a lucky coincidence!’

  I took the phone back. ‘But she says she’s booked a table for lunch at the Rose and Crown just for the three of us, because apparently we have to go through all the power of attorney and inheritance tax stuff.’ I rolled my eyes.

  ‘Power of …’

  ‘Remember the girls are going to do that for us,’ said Dad helpfully, but his voice was gruff. ‘Take all the business side of things out of our hands.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good.’ Mum’s face cleared again. ‘Yes, you were finding it all a bit much, weren’t you, darling?’

  That wasn’t happening yet. The power of attorney. It might, one day, and Helena had discussed it with Dad, but at the moment he was still quite capable. That’s what I mean by whoppers. For the second time in twenty-four hours, Dad and I communed with our eyes, and I thanked him. I also tried to convey that I’d talk to him later, but it was quite hard, all that, in just one glance.

  My mother’s no fool, but she was clearly convinced because my father was, often the narrative of their marriage. Added to which, she was already so full of skippy excitement about the cottage that when Helena and Imo did arrive, she could barely pause to kiss them on the cheeks, hurrying off immediately to find them some wellies. When we all got to the cottage door, she then informed them it was shoes off.

  ‘I thought you always said that was naff,’ commented Helena, nevertheless doing as she was told on the threshold. She then boggled at the little white slippers in a cellophane wrapper we were handed.

  ‘What’s this, Granny?’ exclaimed Imo in wonder.

  ‘They’re from the local spa,’ Mum explained. ‘They let me have a few, because I go there regularly now for my toenails. Lucy takes me, and my frightfully nice girl gave them to me. And your father.’

  ‘Dad! Pedicures at a spa?’ Helena blinked at him.

  ‘It’s more pruning of the rhino tusks, actually,’ Dad drawled. ‘With hedge clippers. But yes, they do mine too. So much cheaper than a chiropodist.’

  ‘Neither of us can reach, you see,’ Mum explained. ‘And your father’s were growing out of his socks.’

  ‘Oh please.’ Helena was horrified.

  ‘Come on, let’s go in.’ Dad was equally excited and impatient, I realized, and in we shuffled, in our spa slippers.

  More had happened since last I was here, and Imo and Helena rightly oohed and aahed over the shiny granite worktops and wooden cupboards now in situ, all the drawers sliding noiselessly in and out. Mum demonstrated and Imo, rising to the occasion, joined in, hamming it up like a schmoozing saleswoman. ‘The drawers don’t so much slide as glide,’ she purred in a low voice, demonstrating, and we all laughed. Yes, I made myself. And actually, it was so lovely having my family around me, particularly these two highly intelligent women, I felt better already. How could anything ghastly happen? I was sure it would all be fine.

  When everyone had gushed sufficiently, we headed back for a quick coffee in the kitchen, exchanging snippets of news. As Helena showed our parents photos of the twins on a recent school trip to France, I put a chicken pie for two in the oven and told Dad it would be ready in half an hour. Then, with huge hugs all round, and promises to come down again soon, the three of us set off in Helena’s car.

  The car was silent. For some time. At length, Helena spoke. She tried to keep her voice light.

  ‘Well, that little house has got Mum and Dad written all over it.’

  ‘It’s a no-brainer,’ I told her. ‘And actually, had this just been a normal day, we could well be doing just that. Going to the pub to talk about what to do with Pope’s Farm, when they both move into the cottage.’

  ‘It is a normal day,’ put in Imo from the back. ‘The more I think about it from the little you’ve told me, the more the whole thing is absurd.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Helena staunchly. ‘But let’s do this over lunch and a glass of wine. I think I’m allowed to sip a small one for the road.’

  The pub was full, so it was good that Helena had booked. I could see her looking around with interest at her old haunt, as I had done when I first moved here. When we’d got our table and ordered our food, she leaned in and folded her arms on the table. She fixed me with her blue, Hartley eyes.

  ‘OK. Suppose you tell us exactly what happened at the police station.’

  I took a deep breath and filled them in, trying to tell it as verbatim as I possibly could. It took a while, and they both took a moment to absorb, once I’d finished. I could see the cogs whirring.

  ‘R-ight,’ said Helena slowly. ‘So they asked if you wanted someone present …’

  ‘But they didn’t charge you,’ finished Imo.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Which is odd, isn’t it?’ asked Imo, turning to her aunt. ‘Scaremongering, d’you think?’

  Helena shrugged. ‘Possibly. And the whole story about Michael legging it after the burglar is total bollocks, as is the suggestion that you came down and had a furious row with him, presumably about him being pissed and incapable of giving chase, and gave him a shove.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Exactly, as in, you didn’t?’

  ‘No, of course I bloody didn’t!’

  She nodded. ‘Luce, I had to ask. But surely then,’ she frowned, ‘if that’s the case, you have nothing to worry about?’

  I felt my mouth drying again. ‘I … didn’t call the ambulance immediately.’

  They stared at me. I saw Helena’s eyes widen slightly. Not Imo’s, though. In hers I saw a flash of recognition.

  ‘How long?’ She leaned forward intently. ‘How long did you wait?’

  I took a deep breath. This old chestnut. ‘I think about half an hour.’

  Neither my sister nor my daughter recoiled in horror at this news, though Helena’s mouth pursed a bit. Then they both sat back and digested it for a moment.

  ‘So it could have been longer?’ asked Helena.

  ‘Conceivably. But I’ve since learned,’ I leaned in, lowering my voice, ‘from someone I know, someone who’s an expert in these things, that there is no actual legal compunction to save a life. For example, if someone was drowning—’

  ‘Hang on,’ interrupted Imo. ‘Jesus, Mum, who? Who have you talked to?’

  I explained about Josh, the criminology professor, saying criminology professor about six times. Obviously not someone I’d met in the street. ‘Ned’s met him,’ I said. ‘He really liked him.’

  ‘No one else?’ asked Helena quietly.

  ‘No.’ I felt stupid. ‘No one else.’

  They looked at each other. ‘I wouldn’t see him again,’ said Helena.

  ‘OK. Except – he’s asked me to lunch. With other people,’ I added quickly. ‘Won’t it look a bit odd?’

  Of course I’d cancel if necessary. Now that my world had changed for the catastrophic, Josh was low down my list of priorities. Who was that woman who’d considered having her eyebrows plucked professionally, maybe even having them tinted to remove the grey? Not the one sitting here.

  ‘Yes, it might,’ agreed Helena slowly. ‘Important to carry on as normal. All right, go, but don’t talk about it, OK?’ She struggled but failed to keep the bafflement from her voice. I could see her and Imo thinking, God, we always knew Luce/Mum wasn’t brain of Britain, but this level of stupidity is unreal.

  I lowered my head. Hard to explain. About always having been
on my own. Always fighting my constant battles, alone. Always keeping Michael to myself. Hard to explain, when you’ve been locked in a dark cellar, sometimes for hours at a time, how it had felt to talk to someone who seemed incredibly kind and concerned and who knew about these sorts of people. By whom I meant Michael and Amanda. Understood the way their minds worked. But when I raised my eyes, both pairs of eyes regarding mine were kind.

  ‘It’s all right, Mum,’ Imo said gently. ‘I get why you told him.’

  I nodded. Made my mouth move a bit, but couldn’t smile.

  Helena leaned across and squeezed my hand. I nodded mutely. They both gave me a moment.

  ‘Do you think, if it came to it, you could possibly bring yourself to talk about Michael to anyone else?’ asked Helena gently.

  ‘Who?’ I whispered, but I knew.

  ‘The police,’ she said quietly. ‘These days, there are very many more women who are coming forward, with lives like yours. Who, because of what they suffered, are being dealt with leniently.’

  ‘Would it have to be … public?’

  ‘You mean a trial?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And newspapers?’

  ‘Possibly. But as,’ she hesitated, ‘your – friend – told you, and just going by the zeitgeist, I have every confidence that even if it did go to trial, and to the press, you’d be dealt with fairly.’

  Dealt with. I felt very cold, I realized. And the pub was warm as toast, a fire in the grate beside us. ‘It’s not really that,’ I said, forcing myself to raise my voice above a whisper. ‘It’s just, if it was public … if it all came out. All of it …’ I trailed off.

  ‘Ned and I would know the extent of it,’ Imo said gently.

  I looked down at my hands. Tears began to stream down my cheeks. I couldn’t stop them. More and more they poured, like a valve that’s been bursting and suddenly opened. Imo darted to sit beside me and held me tight but I couldn’t stop. I was gasping, eyes shut, shaking. Luckily my back was to the rest of the pub but I was oblivious to everyone else anyway.