The Pact_A gripping psychological thriller with heart-stopping suspense
Page 28
Transcript of interview with Emily Mirabelle Wood (extract)
Emily Wood: It’s important the girl has the cup with the orange flowers whilst Owen and myself have the blue. I have the capsules for my back; I get them off the internet. I have quite a stockpile, actually, could probably wipe out a whole family if I wasn’t careful. [Laughs] After that, I fetched the cloth from the cupboard under the sink. I popped a few drops – just a few, mind – of the chloroform on the cloth and placed it over the girl’s mouth. She was already drowsy. She looked up at me, but she didn’t see the cloth, and then she was out like a light.
DS Andrews: And can you tell me what happened after that?
Emily Wood: Yes. After that, I cleared the table and washed up while Owen taped her mouth. Then he carried her out of the back door and through the side gate.
DS Andrews: Can you explain what you mean by the side gate?
Emily Wood: Happy to. It’s a gate in the fence between our back gardens. Owen fitted it so we wouldn’t have to use the front doors to go into each other’s houses. Nosy neighbours, what have you. It’s a terrace, you see, the row. So we can’t access the backs of the houses otherwise. Owen’s very good at carpentry and so forth. And then, let’s see, I brought her little boots and her bag through to Owen’s house and popped them by the front door. And then I went upstairs to run a bath.
DC Caton: A bath, Emily? Why did you run a bath?
Emily Wood: I… Owen likes things done in a certain way. He has to have a particular lavender-scented bath soap. Our mother used it, we bathed in it as children, so we’ve always used it too. Only when I got upstairs, I remembered I hadn’t picked any up like I was meant to. I knew he’d run out and I had it in my mind to buy some that morning. He has to have the Radox one or there’ll be trouble. [Laughs] I hadn’t forgotten. I’d like that on the record. Is that on the record? Oh yes, we’re on tape, aren’t we? So no, I hadn’t forgotten. I had gone to the chemist’s on the high street and they usually have it, but that morning, yesterday, I should say, they didn’t have it, but I couldn’t go elsewhere because I would have been late picking up the girl.
DS Andrews: Picking up Rosie Flint had been prearranged between yourself and Mr Wood?
Emily Wood: Yes. But Rosie was different. I planned to do it myself, lead her to Owen via his phone and what have you. Owen is too erratic. Having him outdoors is nerve-racking, to be frank. But she kept getting ill. The girl. Rosie. Little Red. And when the audition route failed, I knew we’d have to use our tried and trusted pincer movement. But I had to make sure that no one would be able to place me in the café at any point, do you see? All roads had to lead to number 29 and not to 31. If I hadn’t forgotten the soap, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Silly, really.
DS Andrews: Emily, let’s go back to yesterday afternoon. You’re saying that your brother, Owen, and yourself were going to wash Rosie in the bath? And that you needed a specific soap? For the tape, the suspect is nodding. What happened after that?’
Emily Wood: After that, well, I was very agitated because I knew Owen would be terribly cross. But I had to tell him because there was no way he wouldn’t spot it if I used his Imperial Leather. So I told him. And he began to get cross.’
DS Andrews: And how did that manifest itself?
Emily Wood: Well, as it always does. He sucks air in through his mouth and blows it out. That’s what he does. Over and over. And he pulls his fingers, one by one, so that they pop. And then he… lashes out, you might say.
DS Andrews: Emily? Does he become violent?
Emily Wood: How long have you got, Officer? [Laughs] Let’s see, he’s broken my arm, cracked three ribs, pulled clumps of my hair out. But mostly just bruises. He did push me down the stairs though. That’s how I broke my back. I tell people I have a dicky hip, but it’s my back. Three months in a brace, physiotherapy and what have you, but I never worked again after that. Anyway, I said to Owen, ‘Now, dearest, if you don’t calm down, it’s all going to go to pot.’ I told him I wouldn’t be long, that he wasn’t to worry.
DC Caton: Emily, you’re saying that your brother pushed you down the stairs?
Emily Wood: I don’t see what this has to do with anything. It was a long time ago.
Stephen Richardson: My client is correct – this is not relevant.
DC Caton: We’re just trying to build up a picture. Emily, did he push you down the stairs?
Emily Wood: No comment.
DC Caton: Did he abuse you in other ways?
Emily Wood: No comment.
DC Caton: Emily, did he sexually abuse you?
Emily Wood: No comment.
Sixty-Five
Toni
Your auntie Bridge and I are drinking coffee in the kitchen and going over events endlessly. It is late morning, almost midday. You are on the sofa in the living room, watching Netflix in your onesie. You are calm; you seem OK. Soon, your auntie is going to walk to Twickenham Police Station for her taped interview – that is if the police don’t come and arrest her first. She’s not hungry, but she wants to have one last coffee, in her special cup, with one of her favourite brown sugar cubes. She and I both know that once she leaves this house, she will not come back, possibly for a long time.
‘You’ll get self-defence,’ I say for perhaps the twentieth time. ‘Especially if you volunteer yourself. You can show them your fork wound.’
‘It was a three-pronged attack, Officer.’ Bridget sips her coffee. ‘Death by cutlery.’ She glances at me, sees that I’m not laughing. ‘It’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I might get a suspended sentence. At least my record is clean.’ She levels her gaze at me and raises her eyebrows.
‘Not like some we could name,’ I say. I am trying to join in, to save us both, but tears are coming from nowhere and all I can do is smile through them and hold her hand.
‘What will you tell Rosie?’
The doorbell goes.
Your auntie Bridget jumps out of her chair and throws open the kitchen door. There’s a clear view of the front door from there, as you know, and she must see the black uniforms through the glass.
‘It’s the police,’ she says, and pulls at the hem of her T-shirt. ‘This is it then.’
‘Don’t answer it,’ I say.
‘I have to.’
We are both crying. She walks towards me and takes me in her arms.
‘I can’t do this without you,’ I say. ‘I can’t, Bridge.’
‘You can.’ Her words are muffled against my shoulder. ‘You’re going to be fine, sis. You can do it because you are amazing, yeah? It’s in the genes.’
She lets go, and without looking at me leaves the kitchen.
‘No,’ I call after her, but I can’t say any more. I am useless, helpless, yet again. I push my face into the cradle of my arms and weep.
The sound of the door opening. The sound of voices, serious tones. Serious, I think, but no one is reading your auntie Bridget her rights. I think I would recognise their rhythm, even if I couldn’t hear the words.
A moment later, two uniformed police, a man and a woman, fill the kitchen doorway: an alarming sight, all black, white and glints of metal. No handcuffs. And thinking about it, I didn’t hear a siren in the street.
‘Good morning,’ I manage to say. ‘Can I make you both a cup of coffee?’
The woman, ridiculously young looking, with startling blue eyes and long brown hair, takes off her hat and smiles. ‘That would be lovely, actually, thank you.’
‘Please sit down,’ I say and move over to the kettle.
I prepare coffee, listening intently.
‘This is Police Constable Bell,’ the woman says, ‘and I’m PC Loving, but you can call me Louise.’
‘Robin,’ the man says.
‘Call me Toni,’ I say, joining in. There’s a pain behind my eyes, but I ignore it. ‘Everyone calls me Toni,’ I rattle on in my confusion. ‘My parents wanted a boy, but there you are, things don’t always go to plan, do they?’
‘What’s going on?’ you say.
I introduce you to the police; try to ignore the shock on your face.
‘I thought you were going to the station,’ you say.
‘We just need to have a talk, love,’ I say, ‘after what happened.’
‘Will I have to talk?’ you ask.
‘We’ll need to take statements from all of you,’ says the female officer. Louise. ‘But we’re just here for a chat at the moment.’
A chat?
‘You go back to your film, honey,’ I say. ‘We’ll give you a shout if we need you, all right?’
You nod and pad back to the living room. You still look tired, I think. Droopy, that’s the word.
When you’ve gone, the police ask how you’re bearing up.
‘She’s doing great,’ I tell them. ‘She’s tired, a bit fuzzy, you know? She can’t remember much.’
Then they ask me and Auntie Bridge if we’re all right. They tell us about victim support and counselling services. They have leaflets. My stomach is in knots. The pain behind my eyes throbs. When are they going to arrest Bridget?
I put the coffee pot on the table. Your auntie Bridge has already put out cups, milk, sugar and the biscuit tin. It is all so bloody polite.
‘So,’ PC Loving says, when we are all settled at the table. ‘Last night my colleagues attempted to interview Emily Wood, but her solicitor prevented it on the grounds of exhaustion. So we had to wait till this morning to interview her, and I can tell you that she has now confessed to the abduction of your daughter and the abduction and murder of a further two girls in the west London area.’
Across the table I meet your auntie Bridge’s eye. Her gaze is steady, her mouth set in a flat line.
‘There’s something I need to—’ she says.
‘If I could just finish,’ the female officer says, throwing Bridge an apologetic smile. ‘Ms Wood also confessed to the murder of her brother, Owen Wood, using the family shotgun stored at his property at 29 Parkview Close…’
She is still talking, but I hardly hear her. The last thing I see before my eyes fill is your auntie Bridget’s face. Her eyes are round, and she clamps a hand over her mouth. On her ring finger, her silver skull looks as shocked as she does.
‘Apparently he was out cold when she found him.’ Here PC Loving glances at your auntie Bridge. ‘Reading between the lines, he’d made her life a misery, and she took her chance.’
‘So were her fingerprints on the gun?’ Bridge can’t take the incredulity out of her voice.
‘We haven’t had that information yet, Ms Casement. She says she found the gun on the floor next to him, so it seems reasonable to assume that she picked it up and, as I say, took her chance. Clearly there was a lot more to her attack on Rosie than we first thought.’
‘She picked it up,’ Bridget repeats, as if in a trance. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t – we didn’t – we should have told the whole story…’
‘You’ve both been through a great deal,’ the policewoman is saying – this lovely, lovely woman, on whose cheek I want to plant a big kiss. ‘We’ll still need to take your statements. Ms Casement – Bridget – we’ll need to record yours because you’re an important witness, obviously, and we will need to question you about the assault on Mr Wood. So if you could come along to the station with us, we can do that as soon as you’re ready. ’
‘Will there be any charges against us?’ The question pops out before I have a chance to think.
‘There’ll be the matter of the assault on Mr Woods,’ Louise says, glancing at your auntie Bridge. ‘Ms Wood is alleging that Ms Casement—’
‘I… I threatened him with the gun,’ your auntie Bridge says.
‘We’ll get to that in due course,’ PC Loving replies.
Your auntie Bridget hunches her shoulders. She seems smaller, far away, as if her chair has receded beyond the walls of the kitchen. Her face is impassive, a reflection, I’m sure, of my own.
‘I was there,’ she says. ‘I hit him. I kicked him…’
‘We can deal with that in your statement, Ms Casement.’ It’s the other officer, the man, PC Bell, was it? He is talking now. I know I should listen, but my ears are humming and I want to fly out of that kitchen and into the living room and take you in my arms and say, it’s all right, it’s all right! Auntie Bridge isn’t going to prison! We are still a family!
But I have to keep it together.
‘No one is going to press charges,’ PC Bell is saying, ‘and there are what you might call extenuating circumstances.’ He sips his coffee.
‘So my sister won’t go to prison?’ I ask, can’t help myself.
‘I doubt that very much,’ says PC Loving, breaking a digestive biscuit in half. ‘We have a right to protect the ones we love.’
Sixty-Six
Transcript of interview with Emily Mirabelle Wood (extract)
Emily Wood: I knew something was amiss because he wasn’t there at his back door going from foot to foot like a goose on a hot floor like he usually is, and I thought, well, that’s odd. Then I thought, oh my, it’s one of his rages, and my heart started with the old b-bum b-bum, you see, and I thought perhaps he was still cross about the bubble bath, so by now I’ve got a severe attack of the collywobbles and I’m bracing myself for a shouting fit. Or worse. It was my fault about the soap, but as I said to Owen, I didn’t forget. I didn’t forget the soap.
DC Caton: Emily?
Emily Wood: The chemist’s didn’t have any in stock and I didn’t have time to go anywhere else because I had to pick up the girl from outside the café, and I had to be on the dot or I would miss her, and we’d already missed her the week before, and my scalp still hurt from where he’d pulled me across the kitchen floor by my hair.
DC Caton: Emily? Emily. Ms Wood? Would you like to take a break?’
Emily Wood: What? No, dear. Let’s crack on. Procrastination is the thief and all that, n’est-ce pas?
DS Andrews: All right. Emily, can we focus on what happened when you returned to the property at 29 Parkview Close?
Emily Wood: Of course. So I open the door and I call out to him. ‘Owen?’ I call. I’m pushing on the door, my heart going ten to the dozen. ‘Owen? I’ve got your lavender soap, dear.’ And that’s when I found him. He was in the hall.
Sixty-Seven
I wanted it to stop, always. And once we killed that first girl, I wanted no more to do with it. I wanted out, as they say now.
I had laid the ground long before, when I set him up with his own iPad, his websites, his porno and what have you. His young girls. I tell you, there’s enough filth on there to put him away, but I guess that’s not necessary, not now. And that’s all I wanted, to put him away. To have the state take care of him. To be free to live what remained of my life.
When he said he needed another girl, that it was getting too strong again, I suggested we try a little technology. I suggested a long con. I believe that’s the term. I told him we needed to update our methods. He believed me. He’s always relied on me for everything; why wouldn’t he believe his sister? I was already living half my life online by then so there was little I couldn’t do. I lived for the people that I could meet, no, that I could be on that screen. Star of the small screen, you might say. That was, after all, my career. But my acting days were over the day he pushed me down the stairs. I had to learn to walk again, one excruciating step at a time. I had to accept that mine would be a life lived in constant pain. And so technology became my escape. I suppose it was a way of continuing the art to which I had dedicated my professional life.
I have three online boyfriends, all in their twenties.
I have seven Facebook identities, all living the most marvellous lives.
I have a neat little line in getting refunds for
goods that I claim not to have received.
But these things are not relevant here.
It was technology that enabled me to avoid the shame of having to buy those filthy magazines from the local shop, and it would be technology that would lead the police to his door.
I bought Owen a phone, in his name, with his money. I set him up as Ollie Thomas and began following and friending as many local young things as I could. I went for the theatre types, the extroverts, the ones who wanted to be adored, recognised, followed. Loved. It’s a numbers game for them. They collect likes as if they were trophies. They’re dependent on them for their self-worth. It’s an epidemic! It is so easy to infiltrate a world if you know what that world wants. And all they want is looks, youth and likes.
I contacted Rosie Flint from there. I needed a shy one, one who wouldn’t cause a scene when the time came. I knew her mother was a single parent. She was perfect. Of course I knew her back to front before she’d ever met me. And Owen enjoyed his role play. It was like the old days.
I set up the agency website, the backstory, my character. And in the way of the more successful scams, much of it was true. How I had missed acting! I had missed it so much! It felt wonderful to be doing character work again. I would be outmoded, a relic, no one anyone would look at, no one anyone would give any credit to. It wasn’t far from the truth. The acting profession didn’t want me any more. They’re all over you when you’re fit and beautiful, when your limbs are strong and supple and your skin is like apricots in a basket, firm and plump and sweet. Not so great when the apricot browns and wrinkles. No one wants it then, do they? Of course not! It’s left in the bowl to rot! And I walked with a limp. Three months in a brace is no joke.
I made sure to brandish my old Nokia in front of Toni, the mother. We even shared a joke about the two of us having dinosaur phones. As far as they knew, I was hopeless.