by Amanda James
‘That’s not going to be easy. Not with the retreat and everything,’ Dan says evenly.
I know it, but if he doesn’t get out of my face immediately, I’ll swing for him. ‘Get. Out. Of. My. House.’
The noise of Dan’s chair scraping back and toppling over as he leaves sets my teeth on edge, and the slamming of the door vibrates through my legs and into my belly. Suddenly woozy, I clutch the edge of the table to steady myself. I need sleep – oblivion.
In my bedroom, I draw the blinds and crumple onto the bed, pulling the duvet up over my head. It’s dark and warm and comfortable, but all I can think about is a cold slab somewhere with my old friend’s naked form upon it ready for dissection. Brocklehurst said there would be a post-mortem, even though the cause of death seemed obvious. Poor Penny. Poor, poor Penny. I close my eyes, but silent tears still pour down my cheeks until at last, I feel myself drifting into unconsciousness.
12
Penny, oh God… it’s so weird to think you aren’t here any more... But then you did kind of ask for it. Ever the doormat, you just allowed yourself to slip away – never put up a fight. You never did put up a fight, even when it mattered, I remember…
It’s so sad, because when I think about it – you were a bit of a non-person. You pretended to be the life and soul, without much of either really. A sad spineless cow that owed everything to her husband. It was as if you sucked everything of any value from him like a leech. A big FAT leech. You stayed close, basking in his glory, hoping that some of his personality would seep into you and become yours. Make you interesting to know. Luckily, he had enough charisma and sparkle to share – but it really didn’t make an awful lot of difference in the grand scheme of things, did it? You wore his reflected glory like cheap Christmas baubles on a cut-price tree.
And now you’re dead and gone. Dead and gone with hardly a mark to show where you’ve been. No children to carry on your memory, or your line. Just as well. You were a one-off. It could have all been so different if you hadn’t opened your legs all those years ago. Your husband would have been with the love of his life, and you wouldn’t be dead. But you are, and that’s down to you. You brought it on yourself without a thought for your poor husband. What on earth will he do without you? Who will he go to for comfort?
Don’t trouble yourself too much, though… I expect he has a few ideas about that.
13
How many more times must I go over what happened? I’ve been here at the police station for four hours and I’m beginning to feel like I might actually be guilty of murder. They haven’t accused me, but they’re suspicious and it’s not looking good. After all, there are still gaps in my memory from two nights ago. Could I have killed her, slit Penny’s wrists? I shake my head and try not to laugh at that surreal thought. I’m not amused, just hysterical, but laughing wouldn’t be a good idea would it, not with Brocklehurst and Jennings sitting across the table from me, taping my every utterance. So many questions they’ve fired at me every which way, until I’m not sure who I am any more. My name is Sam Lane, Sam Lane, Samantha Lane…
‘Mrs Lane? Sam?’ Jennings says.
‘What?’
‘I asked if you still take the antidepressants, sleeping tablets and painkillers that Naomi Peters told us about. The same ones that we found in Penny Thomas’s system. The same ones that you researched on your laptop history that we’ve been looking at.’ Jennings paused and flicked through her notes. ‘The same history showed us you had also researched suicide in both warm and cold water by slitting wrists.’
I blow down my nostrils and close my eyes. ‘How many times? That was for my suspense novel. I’m a suspense writer, I have to do research. It’s not unusual. And in the book, she was in the ocean, not a hot tub.’
‘Yes, Ms Peters told us this when we interviewed her. She said you told her and a few others about the novel at a recent dinner party. One character killed another but made it look like suicide.’
I open my eyes. ‘Yes, so surely that means Penny’s death is more likely to be suicide?’
‘Why?’
‘Because would I be stupid enough to commit a murder in exactly the same way as a character in my own bloody novel? A murder which I’d told people about at a fucking dinner party!’
‘It could be a clever double bluff to fox us. I mean, who would suspect you, as you say?’ Jennings says, patting her sleek black hair as if she’s scored a point.
Fury boils up from my depths. ‘A double bluff to fox you? What? We’re not in an Agatha fucking Christie play, you know!’
‘Calm down, Mrs Lane,’ Brocklehurst says.
‘Calm down? Yeah right, when you’re accusing me of murder?’
‘We haven’t yet accused you–’
‘As good as!’
‘You agreed to help us with our enquiries.’
‘Yes, but I’ve been here ages. I’ve had enough now, we’re going round in circles rehashing the same old shit.’ They stare but say nothing. ‘So I’m free to go?’
Brocklehurst and Jennings look at each other. ‘We’d rather you stayed a little longer,’ Brocklehurst says.
‘No. Either charge me or let me go. If you’re going to charge me, I want my solicitor here bloody sharpish.’ I try to make my voice sound assertive and strong, but I know I just sound terrified.
Brocklehurst carries on as if I’ve not spoken. ‘You didn’t answer the question about the antidepressants and sleeping tablets.’
‘No. No, I’m no longer taking them. I haven’t been for months. I have said this at least ten times.’
‘Yes, but if that’s true, where did Mrs Thomas get them from?’
‘How the hell should I know? From her doctor, I expect. They couldn’t have been mine, I threw them out months ago.’ Even as I say this, there’s a little nagging image of me tucking some behind the cleaning cloths in the bathroom cabinet. I swallow and close my eyes. Yes, I remember now. As an act of defiance, I’d written I will beat you on all the packages in red marker pen, but when I had beaten them, I couldn’t quite bring myself to chuck the last few packets in the bin.
Jennings leans forward, gives me a smug little smile. ‘The thing is, Samantha, her doctor had prescribed sleeping tablets, but not antidepressants and there was no evidence of packaging for any of those tablets. We searched the place the night it happened and nothing. Nothing in bins, cupboards, nowhere.’
‘What’s your point? She could have got them from a friend or off the Internet. God, I don’t know. And after she’d taken them, she chucked the packets over the wall into the sea. The hot tub is right next to the wall.’
‘She could have, but unlikely,’ Brocklehurst says. ‘It would be more likely that she took them and then just chucked the package in the bin if it were empty, or on the table, anywhere. She wouldn’t be concerned with hiding them if she was about to take her life.’
I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. I’ve no clue where he’s going with this. Dan had phoned me yesterday and told me they’d questioned him for hours too. He told me to be strong and just try to keep calm if they did the same with me. I take a deep breath. ‘I’m not really sure what you’re getting at, Detective Inspector.’
‘I’m wondering if it wasn’t suicide, Sam, but murder. Wondering if her murderer put the tablets in her drinks and then once she was unconscious, slit her wrists. Just like the character in your novel. They obviously didn’t think about it clearly enough though. You know, the fact that missing packaging would look odd. Because they had committed a crime and they probably wanted the evidence gone – not too bright.’
‘Or she just chucked it into the sea…’ I say and close my eyes again. I need to get out of here before I start screaming and can’t stop.
‘Hmm.’ Brocklehurst taps his pen on his chin. ‘Also, there’s the argument you were heard to have, by your ex-colleague, Alison Hardy, and a few other guests mentioned it too during their interviews.’
There’s a twist of unease in
my gut. This is new. ‘With who?’
‘With Mrs Thomas, of course.’ He looks at me as if I’m stupid. Then he consults his notes. ‘Ms Hardy says that Mrs Thomas, regarding her husband, said words to the effect of, “He’s all over Sam like a rash because he still loves her. He’d leave me like a shot if she’d have him.” Then you snapped at Mrs Thomas, raised your voice and said words to the effect of, “For God’s sake, Penny, let it drop. I keep telling you it isn’t true! There’s nothing going on and I’ve so had enough of listening to you fucking moan”.’
My mouth drops open. I can’t remember that at all. Must be yet another gap in my memory. But I wouldn’t use language like that, surely. Not in front of all the guests. Drama queen Alison probably made the whole thing up.
‘I- I don’t remember that.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. I told you I’d had a lot to drink that evening and there are a few gaps–’ I stop. I’m walking right into the shit there. ‘What I mean is, Alison does tend to exaggerate, you know.’ I hope that’s covered up the first sentence.
‘As I said, a few other guests corroborate her statement.’ Brocklehurst sets his pen down and puts both hands behind his head, and rocks back slightly on his chair. I look at the floor. If he’s supposed to be feigning nonchalance he won’t win an Oscar. ‘You said there are a few gaps? Does that mean there are parts of the evening that you might not remember. Things you might have done, for example?’
He was like a dog with a bone. Shit! Now what do I say? Once again doubts creep from my depths and tighten a grip around my heart. If I can’t remember the argument because I was so drunk, I might have killed Penny and then blocked it all out… Oh God. And the tablets in the cabinet… were they still there? I feel sick.
‘No. I don’t know. I want to go home. I want to go home now.’
Brocklehurst stands up, says the interview is terminated, the time, who is in the room and turns off the tape. He asks Jennings to step out for a moment with him and tells me to sit tight a few more minutes.
Once the door closes behind them I lower my forehead to the cool tabletop. This is not happening, can’t be. Where have Brocklehurst and Jennings gone? Are they having a conversation outside about whether to charge me with murder? My blood runs cold and I rake my hands through my hair, take a hank and twist it hard until my scalp hurts. Think. I must think what to do, to say. Before I can think anything much, the door opens and they walk back in.
Brocklehurst stands opposite and folds his arms. Jennings stands next to him fiddling with her ear. ‘We’ve had a chat and we think it’s time for you to have legal representation,’ Brocklehurst says, his tone flat, his eyes stony.
Jennings stops the ear fiddling and straightens her back. ‘Did you have someone in mind or do you want us to arrange–?’
‘Are you going to charge me with m… murder?’ My voice comes out as a whisper. My legs feel like someone else’s.
Brocklehurst nods curtly. ‘Samantha Lane, we are charging you with the murder of–’ He’s interrupted by the door flying open and a young officer steps in, waving an evidence bag containing a piece of paper. ‘What the bloody hell? Can’t you see we’re busy, Officer Kelsey?’
Kelsey blushes scarlet. ‘Yes, sir. But this can’t wait – it is directly related to what you’re about to say.’
Brocklehurst snatches the bag, scans the paper, rolls his eyes and then passes it to Jennings. She can’t help twisting her mouth in what I think is a show of pent-up frustration. He takes her to one side and they talk in low voices. Then he comes back to the table.
‘It appears we have a suicide note from Mrs Thomas. For now, you’re free to go, but we will need to speak to you again when we’ve investigated further.’
The weight in my heart lifts and I can’t get out of there fast enough.
As I hurry down the corridor, I wonder where they found the note and why they hadn’t found it before. In the end, I couldn’t give a damn. Nothing matters now. I’m free, and the most important thing in my head is the knowledge that I haven’t killed my old friend in some drunken stupor. I’d seriously started to doubt myself as the interrogation went on, and Brocklehurst and Jennings kept turning up evidence against me. Flimsy evidence, yes, but flimsier evidence had been made to stick before. I’ve seen those TV programmes on miscarriages of justice.
Outside, the afternoon sun is warm on my face and I stand by my car for a few seconds, take some deep breaths. Thank God I’m out in the world again. The hours spent inside that claustrophobic interview room in the station feels more like days. A glass of wine and a hot meal have my name on it at home.
Just as I open the car door I hear a shout from across the car park.
‘Sam! Thank God you’re out! Helena told me you’d been gone for hours.’ Dan arrives at my side and puts his hand on my arm.
He’s the last person I want to see and shrug his hand off. ‘Yes, well I was about to be charged with fucking murder. Can you believe that?’ I throw my arms up, let them fall. ‘That was until they found a suicide note at the last possible minute.’
Dan smiles. ‘I know. I’m the one who brought it to them.’
14
Why will he never take no for an answer? I open the front door to Dan and walk back down the corridor. I’ve just stepped out of the shower and looking forward to that drink and meal I promised herself when I got out of the station, but no. No. Now I have to listen to what is so bloody urgent it can’t be left until tomorrow. We face each other across the living room and I pull my bathrobe close about my neck.
‘Look, Dan. As I said in the car park, thanks for bringing the note in, but I just need to be left alone for a while to gather my thoughts. It was an ordeal in that bloody interview room today and–’
Dan holds his hand up and goes to sit on the sofa. ‘I know, I know. They did the same with me as I said. But I needed to make sure you understand a few things… just in case they call you back in.’
A shiver runs down my arms. ‘Call me back in for what?’
‘No idea, and it’s very unlikely, now they have the suicide note…’ His eyes slide away from mine. ‘But you know what they’re like.’
‘Okay, but why can’t this wait?’ I say, feeling more apprehensive by the minute.
‘It could, but I’ve been keeping something from you since that night and you ought to know really.’ Dan’s dark eyes fix on mine and my stomach turns over.
‘The look in your eye tells me I might need a drink. Want one?’ I walk into the kitchen, take a glass from the cupboard and slosh a glug of red wine into it. He comes in behind me and takes the glass. I pour one for myself and suggest we sit on the balcony.
Dan leans his elbows on the rail, looks out over the ocean and takes a breath of air. ‘So peaceful here, isn’t it?’
I drag a comb through my wet hair and sigh. ‘Yes. But can we get to the point?’
He sits opposite me at the table, watching the comb and gives me a sad smile. ‘Your hair was wet on that night too.’
My hand stills and my mouth goes dry. ‘Which night?’
‘The night Penny died.’ He takes a swig of wine and looks at the table. ‘What I’m about to say now makes me ashamed, in light of what’s happened… you know, saying nothing to the police… but I have my reasons. Let me explain.’ His eyes flick to mine, his stare intense. ‘That night I woke in the early hours and thought I heard a woman laughing. Penny wasn’t there, so I went outside to investigate. I saw that the back door to your house was open, so I went inside. There was nobody in the kitchen or anywhere downstairs and all was quiet. Then I went to your room. I heard you giggle, and I opened the door.’
‘You came into my bedroom?’
‘Yes… If you want the truth I wanted to see you. Needed to.’ Dan stops, draws his hand down his face and looks sheepish. ‘The drink had made me bolder than I would have been in the cold light of day. Sam, I just couldn’t stop thinking about you. Still can’t, despite wha
t’s happened. You haunt my dreams and you’re in my head all the time.’ He jabs a finger at his temple.
There’s a tickle of apprehension in my belly. What the hell had happened when he’d come into my bedroom? I’ve no recollection of it whatsoever. Nothing. ‘And then what?’
‘And then I found you kneeling on the floor, naked apart from a pair of knickers. You were wet through and trying to dry your hair with a towel. Because you were so pissed, you kept dropping it and giggling.’
I’ve almost stopped listening. The words naked and wet punch into my consciousness. Fears that had whirled around my mind when I’d been in the interview room shove their way back into my thoughts and I’m desperately trying to calm my nerves. What if I was with Penny in the hot tub that night? What if I’d actually killed her – completely out of it… rolling drunk? But then, if I’d been that drunk, I wouldn’t have been capable, would I? An unwelcome answer pops up – not unless Penny was already unconscious with the drugs that you’d given her, Sam. Then it would have been pretty easy… Then I remember the suicide note and get a grip. I’ve been through a lot. My brain is fried.
‘You okay, love? Your face has drained.’ Dan reaches his hand across the table, but I put the comb down, fold my arms.
‘What do you think? You tell me you come into my room in the middle of the night, find me naked and… so what happened? Just get on with it!’ I feel my face flush with anger.
Dan puts his hands up. ‘Hey, don’t get upset.’ He leans back, mirrors my pose. ‘I took the towel and put it round your shoulders. Then I got a new towel from the bathroom and dried your hair off a bit. I asked why you were wet, but you just kept laughing. Then you stood up, dropped the towel and tried to kiss me.’
My mouth drops open. Incredulous, I say, ‘I tried to kiss you? Yeah right. And you what, pushed me away? Played the gentleman?’
