by cass green
‘Where is the baby? Where is Zach?’ he repeats and she seems to come to life then, blushing, which is a bit weird. Of all the emotions right now, embarrassment is bizarre.
‘Oh, he’s over there.’ She scurries out of the room and emerges a few moments later, clutching a – silent for once – Zach, who looks around the room with his alien, depthless eyes, small skull resting against Nina’s shaking hands. He is swiftly taken from her by the burly copper and the baby looks comically small in his beefy arms. Angel feels a sharp stab of resentment towards the infant. If it hadn’t been for him, they could have got away. They could be in Scotland now, feeling cool, soft rain on their faces.
‘Sir, look at this,’ says the female copper. She’s holding the replica gun up by a blue-gloved finger to show a tall, thin man with grey curly hair. He nods at her and she puts the gun into a see-through evidence bag.
Angel wants to say, yet again, ‘It’s not even a very good fake,’ but senses now is a time to keep quiet. Is this really happening? It can’t be real. Can it? She can’t keep track of the people swarming around the room now. More police seem to be appearing all the time. She’s having trouble getting her breath. It’s like there is a finite amount of air and she can’t get her share.
‘Angel Munro,’ says the female copper, ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of possessing an imitation firearm with intent to cause fear of violence; false imprisonment; child abduction; and assisting an offender. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say, may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’
The feeling of unreality seems to be seeping deep into Angel’s bones now. She has the urge to laugh at hearing these words spoken in real life. And then she does, a shaking, hysterical giggle that rumbles so deep inside her it feels like her organs are chafing and grinding together. She knows there is something meaningful she is expected to say but what comes out is, ‘That sounds like a long list,’ and then she starts to cry, loudly and with a wrenching pain in her stomach.
The grey-haired copper is leaning over Lucas and barking, ‘Lucas Munro, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder; child abduction and false imprisonment. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say, may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’
Angel hears her brother respond. Always been so fucking polite, she thinks. Even now when he’s just been zapped like a troublesome fly, he feels the need to respond to an authority figure.
Murder, child abduction, false imprisonment.
They sound like such terrible acts. The kind of acts done by cruel, bad people. That’s what people are going to say, that they are rotten.
They were trying to do the right thing.
She only ever wanted to help her brother.
She meets Nina’s eyes at last and Angel wants to communicate so many things.
But she doesn’t know how, even if she had all the time in the world, so she drops her gaze and stares at the floor as she’s led roughly out of the kitchen and through the front door.
37
Nina
I’m numb as I’m led out of the house with a gentle grip on my arm, by a policewoman with a flushed complexion and auburn hair. She has the soft beauty of a Thomas Hardy milkmaid.
But I saw the way she slammed Angel onto that table and handcuffed her, as though Angel’s long limbs were as powerless as a puppet’s. I feel a little frightened of her, even though I haven’t done anything wrong. Have I?
The policewoman is saying something now but I can’t focus on it. My attention has been sucked towards one of the four police cars parked on the road outside, along with an ambulance. A slim, tall man with cropped grey hair is standing there, leaning against the bonnet, with a strangely insouciant expression, smoking a cigarette. It might be the senior police officer, perhaps watching with satisfaction as his team carry out a job well done. But wouldn’t he come inside? Is that what they do in real life?
Something is bothering me about this but I can’t grasp it. Then, as though the dial on a radio has been tweaked, turning white-noise static into comprehensible words, I hear the policewoman saying, a little too loudly, ‘Nina?’
‘What?’ I say, flinching, and sending a silvery shiver down my arms. The sunlight out here is so bright I’m freezing cold.
‘I said,’ repeats the policewoman, more quietly now, ‘do you need any medical assistance?’
‘I’m not sick.’ I feel baffled by this question.
The policewoman gives me a new, kindly look then, as though I’m a little bit simple and says, ‘What I mean is, did they hurt you at all?’
I think of Angel’s slap across my cheek, just after Lucas arrived. It feels like a lifetime ago. I should probably tell them.
‘No,’ I find myself saying, ‘they didn’t.’
The policewoman gives me a curious look and then says, ‘We’ll just pop you over to the paramedics to be sure. We’ll get you quickly checked out before we go down to the station for a chat.’
Her talk of ‘popping’ and ‘chatting’ is entirely at odds with the steely look in her dark blue eyes. I’m aware that I am a victim, to be spoken to in a particular way. To be handled carefully.
But it all feels off kilter. The boundaries between aggressor and victim don’t feel so clear cut. I picture Lucas lying on the ground, limbs twitching and spasming after the pain zapped blue through his body. Of course, it wasn’t really visible at all. But I somehow felt I could see the violence of it inside him. I shiver again, a hard, muscular tremble from head to toe, just as if I had been Tasered too.
‘Will he be alright?’ I say and the policewoman regards me again, thoughtfully.
‘They’re checking him out now,’ she says. ‘He’s too little to know what was going on, which is a great blessing.’
This is baffling for a couple of seconds. We are at the ambulance now. My thoughts seem to be moving like slowly shifting mud. Then I understand.
‘No, no,’ I say. ‘I know Zach’s OK because I’ve been looking after him all night. I mean Lucas. Will he be alright, after being Tased … Tasered?’ I don’t know the correct term and for a moment think that’s behind the odd look from the policewoman now.
‘I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ she says crisply. ‘Now let’s get you checked over, shall we?’
I’m greeted briskly by a paramedic, a shortish black man with wide shoulders and serious eyes.
There is a second paramedic – a white woman with a black ponytail and glasses – inside the ambulance, who is evidently checking Zach over. I can hear his miserable, tired cry and the gentle shushing of the paramedic. There’s a wash of intense gratitude that someone else has this job now and it isn’t all on me. Compliantly, I sit down on the step at the back of the ambulance, as directed by the man, who then starts to probe me with questions.
Have I been assaulted?
Can he just have a little listen to my heart?
He’s just going to take my blood pressure, is that OK?
Is it alright if he looks at my hands?
I endure all this and am then encased in a silver thermal blanket, which has a rapid effect on the shivering. I find myself saying, ‘I can pretend that I’m a runner now too, can’t I?’ then realize this would make absolutely no sense to the paramedic, even though he smiles kindly.
The policewoman is back now, peering at me. She says, ‘Do you feel up to giving your statement now? Much better to get things down while they’re still fresh.’
‘OK,’ I say, because I feel I should comply.
We walk towards one of the police cars. The burly bald policeman is already waiting in the driver’s seat.
‘Mind your head as you get in,’ says the policewoman. ‘That’s the way.’
I climb into the back of the car, pulling the blanket around me gra
tefully. I can see Lucas in one of the other cars, head bowed, and the proud Cleopatra profile of Angel in another.
As the engine starts and the car does a smooth three-point turn to head back towards town, I glance out of the window and see the good-looking policeman walking in an unhurried away towards the paramedic carrying Zach in a bundle against his shoulder.
Then it hits me.
That’s not a policeman. It’s Nick Quinn.
My heart starts to thud, hard. Something is wrong about this scene, like the colours are off or something. What is it? It’s just out of reach. I’m too exhausted to work it out. Why is my body reacting before my sluggish mind can catch up?
He was presumably allowed to come, told to wait in the car until the situation was under control. I would have been frantic if Sam was a prisoner somewhere. Ian too.
Yet he had been calmly smoking a fag and waiting, in no evident hurry to be reunited with his son. His expression had been completely calm, like a man in control. Not one who had just lost his wife to a murderer and had his son snatched away.
I crane my neck, watching Nick Quinn recede.
As he slips out of sight, I turn back to face the front, freezing cold once again.
38
Lucas
As Lucas was getting into the police car, he’d seen Quinn, standing there. Watching.
It was the first time ever that Lucas hadn’t felt frightened of him. After all, what more could he do? Their eyes had locked and Quinn had given him the smallest smile, probably undetectable to anyone else, but full of triumph and a strange sort of curiosity. It seemed to say, ‘I’ve finally destroyed you. How does it feel?’
It wasn’t the first time Lucas had seen that toxic mix.
Lucas is now lying on the narrow, smelly bed in a police cell. It feels like every five minutes that the metal flap opens and closes. He guesses he is on suicide watch. Wishes Angel hadn’t said anything; hadn’t told them about what he’d done earlier. About the road.
The look in her eyes had been terrible. So much pain, caused by him.
He can’t get anything right.
All he’d wanted was for the noise in his head to end. To stop all thought and have some peace. He didn’t really want to be dead. Did he? He wishes he knew the answer to a question like that.
After a cursory examination by a brisk, tired-looking female doctor, who he assured that he wasn’t going to tie his bed sheet to the light fitting, he has been told that along with a solicitor he is going to be assigned an Appropriate Adult. Lucas thought it was only children who got these in police custody, but his actions earlier now qualify him as a ‘vulnerable adult’. He knows he ought to feel ashamed. Doesn’t, really. The numbness from earlier has returned. It’s quite pleasant, like his ragged, throbbing nerve endings have all been cauterised. Maybe he can stay like this. It would be so good not to feel.
Some time passes – it’s hard to say how long – and the door to the cell opens.
An attractive man in a dark blue suit comes in and tells Lucas he is Dev Shah, his appointed solicitor.
He shakes his hand and they sit. Shah asks him some questions and explains what is going to happen next. Charges, remanded in custody, bail, blah. Meaningless words that buzz and fly inside his head, bumping against his skull. Shah’s brown eyes are on him all the time; bright with intelligence but there is a kindness there too.
Lucas nods but can’t really take in what he says. Shah regards him for a moment, and when he speaks again his voice is slower; more measured.
‘Look, Lucas,’ he says. ‘I know you have seen the Forensic Medical Examiner and that in her opinion you are fit to be interviewed. But I can see that you are still in quite a distressed state.’ He pauses. ‘I’m not convinced you are able to provide the full picture of events to work with and, in the light of this, I’m concerned that you might harm your chances in the interview. My advice to you is to exercise your right to silence.’ Another pause.
Silence. It sounds like a beautiful, silvery thing. Lucas longs for it. He’d wrap it round him like a silk shroud and stay there forever.
He nods. ‘Alright,’ he says in a murmur.
‘I have to warn you that this can be held against you by a jury,’ Shah continues. ‘But that might be better in the long run than giving an interview you are not mentally prepared to deal with. Do you understand?’
Lucas nods again. He feels like one of those Churchill dogs you see in cars.
‘Right,’ says Shah, wearily. ‘I’ll tell them you’re ready to start. But remember what I said. Beyond the most basic questions, say nothing or that you have no comment.’
Inside the interview room, Lucas is greeted by an Afro-Caribbean grandmother type, clutching a shiny, black handbag like a shield. The Appropriate Adult, he’s told. She is very large, but with curiously thin legs that disappear into patent black shoes that match her bag. She reminds Lucas of a sparrow. She says she is Alfretta … something; he doesn’t catch it. Her lips make a dry, clickety sound when she speaks, as though she needs to drink some water. She clears her throat a lot.
Lucas sits between Alfretta and Shah, feeling sandwiched by flesh. The room smells of sweat, coffee and Alfretta’s pungent perfume. It irritates Lucas’s gritty eyes, making them sting.
Two people come into the room; a man and a woman Lucas remembers from earlier.
The man, in his fifties with a tired air and grey curly hair, introduces himself as Detective Sergeant Colin McKinney and the red-haired woman as Detective Constable Rosanna Gilbey.
They start the tape and say all the stuff he recognizes from the telly.
Lucas is finding it hard to concentrate. It’s so hot in here.
They ask Lucas for his name, date of birth and address. He looks at Shah, who gives the smallest incline of his head. This is the bit he should say. But pushing enough air up through his voice box and out of his mouth feels like the most enormous effort. He can’t imagine how he has spent all these years speaking as though it is nothing.
‘Can I get you to speak a little more loudly, please, for the benefit of the tape recorder?’ says Gilbey in a flat tone.
‘It’s very hot in here. Why don’t you have a drink of water?’ says Alfretta, in such a loud, confident voice that Lucas, surprised, takes a sip from the glass in front of him. It does help. He glances at her and she gives him the smallest smile in return. He’s suddenly glad she is there, pictures himself nestling against her shelf-like bosom and never coming out again. He wants to wrap his arms around her substantial waist, hold her squishiness tight to stop himself from drowning.
McKinney’s talking to him again and he says, ‘Sorry, what?’
‘I said I’m aware it’s very warm in here so if you need a break or need more water, you can tell us, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘So, Lucas,’ he continues, ‘you’re here today because you’ve been arrested this morning for the offences of murder, child abduction and false imprisonment and that is what we are going to be questioning you about. Do you understand?’
Lucas nods. His body is turning to wet sand. It’s too heavy to cart around. He’s so tired.
Zach is probably worn out now. He hopes he gets a good, long sleep. He hopes Zach has some silence. He hopes he isn’t missing Alice already.
‘Before we start,’ says McKinney, ‘I’m going to ask you if you are responsible for the murder of Alice Quinn?’
Lucas doesn’t reply. He focuses his attention on his hands, which are hanging loosely between his knees. He can hear the slightly laboured breathing of Alfretta.
What a question.
No comment, he thinks but the words seem to echo inside his aching head.
Responsible. The murder of Alice Quinn.
She’s never coming back. He may as well have stabbed her. He can’t even save Zach now. It was stupid to take him. Zach will end up with Alice’s parents because Quinn won’t want the hassle of a baby. He wasn’t interested in him before. Why wo
uld he care now?
I’m so sorry, Alice.
The silence stretches on and on until the female one says, ‘Lucas, can you please answer the question for us. Are you responsible for the murder of Alice Quinn?’
He raises his head, his huge, heavy head, and looks at Alfretta. He gives her a small smile. He wants her to know that he’s grateful she came here today and made him drink some water. His Appropriate Adult.
He doesn’t want to have to make any decisions for himself any more. He wants it all to stop.
‘It’s all my fault,’ says Lucas, finding his voice at last.
He hears the sharp intake of breath from the solicitor next to him.
‘Lucas—’
Gilbey leans across the table a little closer.
‘You’re saying you are responsible for the murder of Alice Quinn, Lucas? Is that what you’re saying?’
Lucas feels as though he is far away from the room as he hears his own voice again.
‘No comment.’
39
Angel
Angel climbs into the car. The white Range Rover is so high, she must pull herself up by holding onto the leather strap hanging just inside the door.
Typical Leon car. A cock on wheels.
She looks at him as she pulls on her seatbelt. He is watching her, a wary but soppy expression on his face. She wishes he would stop looking at her like she is a bomb that might need defusing. People have looked at Angel that way her whole life, it seems.
She feels disgusting; smelly and coated in cell filth. Uncomfortable too because he brought the wrong clothes for her. Sighing, she tugs the too-tight trousers away from her crotch, where they are digging in. It’s so him, to have brought an outfit that he likes, rather than something comfortable.
But he was the only person she had to call. The reason she has bail.
