With a Narrow Blade

by Faith Martin

  Janine glanced at her watch, and swore. It was nearly 1.30. She had half an hour to get to the registry office. Damn, why did the case have to break now? Hillary had spent nearly twenty minutes in Danvers’ office, and then a team of lawyers had arrived. Danvers had come out and given Janine the necessary facts to get the warrant to serve on Weekes, and she’d sent Barrington over to get it. Once it arrived, she knew Hillary would be going over to Bicester to serve it and bring Weekes in. Janine was dying to know what the hell was going on, the whys and wherefores, and sit in on the interview. The case had been going nowhere ever since it started and now, just when she couldn’t possibly get in on the act, it broke. She felt like screaming.

  Then she looked up and saw Detective Superintendent Philip Mallow standing outside the door of the main office, tapping his watch. He was dressed in a beautiful steel-grey suit, and had a pale pink carnation in his button hole. He looked handsome, successful, wealthy and happy.

  Janine sighed, grabbed her bag, and left. Somehow, she didn’t think Hillary was going to make it to her wedding.

  An hour later, after being processed, Caroline Weekes was ushered into interview room three.

  Hillary looked up from her position seated to one side of the table and glanced behind her. Where was her solicitor?

  Just as Janine had predicted, she had gone to Bicester, with Keith Barrington, to make the formal arrest and charge. She’d expected either her mother or husband to be at home, and wasn’t particularly happy to find the woman alone.

  Caroline Weekes hadn’t said anything whilst her rights were being read out to her by the word-perfect DC Barrington, and had been similarly silent on the drive to Kidlington, a fact that Hillary was grateful for. The back of a police car was no place for chit-chat. By-the-book-barristers had been known to get cases thrown out of court because of idle conversationn, carried out without the presence of the accused’s legal representative.

  ‘DC Barrington,’ Hillary said quietly. ‘Has Mrs Weekes’ solicitor arrived yet?’

  ‘No guv,’ Barrington said. And Caroline Weekes spoke for the first time.

  ‘I don’t want a solicitor. I waive my rights to one. That’s the correct term, isn’t it?’ she asked listlessly.

  Hillary glanced at the tape recorder, whirring obligingly on the table. She sighed, and introduced herself for the tape, with Keith following suit, and said firmly, ‘Mrs Weekes, I must ask you yet again, for the record, if you want to call a legal representative. If you can’t afford to hire one, we can appoint one for you.’ She repeated her rights in this matter again.

  But Caroline Weekes shook her head. She was sitting opposite Hillary, lightly resting her hands on the table, her fingers looped to make a double fist. ‘I don’t want a solicitor,’ she said stubbornly. She looked exhausted and ill. She was wearing a long black and grey dress and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She wasn’t wearing make-up. Her eyes stared blankly down at her hands.

  ‘Your husband then?’ Hillary pressed, and saw Keith Barrington look at her with a slightly puzzled frown. Hillary knew they now had Caroline Weekes safely on tape, eschewing the need for a lawyer. Legally they were covered. But she wasn’t going to take any chances.

  ‘Oh no. I don’t want my husband here,’ Caroline said quickly, her voice rising to a squeak.

  ‘As you wish,’ Hillary said calmly. She was determined to make sure that everything was as watertight as it was possible to get. There would be no retraction of any confession later, not on her watch. Nobody would be able to listen to the tapes, either, and even hint that there had been any coercion or even a breath of bullying going on in this interview room.

  ‘Mrs Weekes, do you understand that you’ve been arrested for the murder of Florence Jenkins?’ Hillary continued, softly softly.

  Caroline nodded.

  ‘Mrs Weekes has just nodded her head,’ Keith Barrington said automatically for the tape.

  ‘Can you confirm that please, Mrs Weekes,’ Hillary prompted.

  ‘Yes.’ It came out slightly strangled, and Caroline Weekes cleared her throat. ‘Yes, I understand I’ve been arrested for killing Flo,’ she repeated clearly.

  ‘And I have to tell you now, Mrs Weekes, that you will almost certainly be charged, the moment this interview is over. Do you understand that also?’

  Caroline’s eyes filled with tears and she nodded, then gave a little start, looked at the tape, and leaning forward said huskily, ‘Yes. I understand.’

  Hillary let out a slow breath. Right then. No wriggling room there. Taking her time, she eyed Caroline thoughtfully. There were two possibilities here. Either she knew the game was up, and had decided to act for all she was worth, and try to lay down a case for mitigating circumstances. Or she really was as defeated as she seemed to be.

  Hillary was inclined to think it was the latter, but she was going to keep a sharp eye out for any signs of the former. ‘We know you used to do errands for Florence Jenkins, Mrs Weekes,’ Hillary began carefully. ‘You did the odd grocery shopping for her. Ran her into town to collect her pension, that sort of thing. You said as much in your original statement. Do you remember that?’

  Caroline Weekes nodded. Then, when Barrington said flatly, ‘Mrs Weekes has just nodded her head,’ winced.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Caroline said, making some effort to sit straighter in her chair and pay attention, as if determined to pull her socks up and get things right.

  Hillary nodded. In the observation room, she knew that Paul Danvers was listening carefully. ‘And did these errands sometimes mean that you got Florence’s lottery ticket?’ Hillary asked softly.

  Caroline Weekes drew in a harsh shuddering breath. But speech seemed suddenly beyond her. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her eyes flooded once more and tears oozed out, but she never sobbed. She simply stared at Hillary, like a cow facing the man taking her to the abattoir.

  Hillary opened the folder in front of her, and said quietly, ‘Do you remember telling me how much Florence was looking forward to her birthday party? It would have been today, wouldn’t it? She would have been seventy-seven?’

  Caroline licked her lips and nodded. ‘I was going to make her her favourite chocolate cake,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. She was born on 9 December, 1930.’ Hillary wrote three numbers on a blank piece of paper. ‘Do you know what day Mrs Jenkins celebrated her wedding anniversary, Mrs Weekes?’

  Caroline Weekes shook her head, then, remembering the tape, said, before Keith Barrington could respond, ‘No, I don’t.’ She spoke it rather loudly, and looked surprised at the strength of her own voice.

  On the table, the machine carried on recording the interview, oblivious to the tension in the room.

  ‘It was on Valentine’s Day, in 1949,’ Hillary said, writing three more numbers on the piece of paper. This she then turned around to show Caroline Weekes. ‘Do these six sets of numbers mean anything to you, Mrs Weekes?’ she asked, then added, ‘For the benefit of the tape, I am showing Mrs Caroline Weekes a piece of paper with the numbers, 2,9,12,14,30 and 49 written on it. The mixed numbers of Mrs Florence Jenkins’ date of birth and wedding date.’

  Caroline Weekes stared at the paper. ‘No,’ she whispered again.

  Hillary nodded and, reaching into the folder, withdrew a sheet of newspaper. ‘For the tape, I’m now showing Mrs Caroline Weekes a copy of last Monday’s Oxford Mail newspaper. In it is an article that concerns an uncollected lottery win.’ Hillary went on to describe the story, about how the ticket had been bought in Oxfordshire, and how the time was running out for whoever held it to collect the jackpot. When she was finished, she carefully folded it up and put it back in the file.

  Caroline Weekes watched her, as if fascinated by her neat, precise movements.

  ‘Florence always used these same numbers, every week, for the Saturday lottery draw, didn’t she, Mrs Weekes?’ Hillary asked. ‘Her neighbour, Mr Walter Keane, confirmed as much for u
s just this afternoon.’

  Caroline Weekes nodded. ‘Yes,’ she agreed.

  ‘And you sometimes got the ticket for her, didn’t you? If she felt too unwell to get it herself?’ Hillary carried on gently.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you got the ticket for her that week, didn’t you, Mrs Weekes? The day those numbers came up?’

  Caroline Weekes said nothing.

  ‘We’ve contacted Camelot, Mrs Weekes. They’ve confirmed the serial number of the winning ticket.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hillary tensed. ‘Yes, what, Mrs Weekes?’

  Caroline licked her lips again. ‘I got the ticket for Flo that week. The week the numbers came up. I got it Friday, just after work. I was going to take it to Flo the next day, but something came up. So I still had it the following Monday morning.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘And when you saw the numbers, you realized Florence had won.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hillary nodded, and paused for a moment. It was deathly quiet in the room, with only the gentle whirr of the recorder breaking the hush. ‘So you went to Flo’s that morning, expecting her to be cock-a-hoop. You thought she’d be celebrating, waiting to kiss you and hug you when you came through the door,’ Hillary said, letting her voice soften.

  Caroline nodded, her eyes once more threatening to brim over. ‘Yes. But when I went in … there was nothing,’ she said, sounding amazed. ‘She was just the same as usual. She talked about having had a bad night, and I realized that she hadn’t checked the numbers, that she’d probably forgotten to do so because of feeling so ill.’

  ‘So you just never mentioned it,’ Hillary said, careful to keep her voice calm and soft, without any hint of judgement.

  ‘Yes. I kept expecting her to cotton on. You know, all that summer, every time I went to her house, I kept thinking, Today’s the day she’ll remember. She’ll ask me about the ticket. And I had it all planned if she did,’ Caroline said, looking at Hillary earnestly. ‘I would tell her the ticket must be in my old purse. I’d go and fetch it and show it to her, and that would be that. But she never did. And I began to think.… I began to think it might all work out for me.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘You knew Florence Jenkins was dying?’ she said softly.

  ‘Oh yes. She was so desperately ill. I thought … any moment now, she’ll just go to bed and never get up again. But the months went on and on, and still she clung on. She was so determined not to die!’ Caroline’s voice rose to a squeak again, and she slapped a hand against her mouth, hearing her own hysteria and being somehow shocked by it.

  In the observation room, Janine Mallow, having come straight from her wedding, was now sitting next to Paul Danvers, hanging on to every word. Occasionally, she’d shake her head in disbelief. Trust the boss to nail it on the head.

  In the interview room, Hillary sensed they were coming to the crux of the matter, and hoped Caroline Weekes would hold out just a little longer. ‘Yes, Flo enjoyed life, didn’t she?’ Hillary said softly. ‘No matter how ill she sometimes felt. And time was running out for you. You knew you only had so long left to claim the ticket, before it became invalid. Which put you in a bit of a bind, didn’t it, Caroline?’ Hillary said softly, then shut up. She wanted Weekes herself to lay it all out for the tape. That way, once it got to court, no weasely lawyer would be able to say that she’d put words into his poor, distraught client’s mouth.

  ‘Yes,’ Caroline sighed heavily. ‘But I kept hoping she’d just … you know. Die.’ She sighed again, and stared down at her hands. ‘And then disaster struck,’ she said quietly. ‘That day, Monday, I was at work. One of the secretaries had bought a paper in her lunch break, and I saw that they’d rehashed the story and run the numbers again. I knew if Flo saw it, she’d realize they were her numbers.’

  ‘But you knew Florence had the papers delivered at night?’ Hillary chipped in.

  Caroline nodded.

  ‘For the tape, Mrs Weekes has just nodded her head,’ Keith Barrington said again.

  ‘So what did you do, Caroline?’ Hillary asked.

  ‘I went over that night. I thought, if she already knew about the numbers, then that was it. It was all over. But she didn’t. She invited me in just as usual. She went straight to her chair and began to watch the telly, without a care in the world. But I felt sick. I was shaking. I felt so much worse than she did!’ Again Caroline Weekes’ voice rose to a fever pitch of self-pity, and again she broke off abruptly to take a deep breath.

  Hillary nodded. ‘You felt so bad because you knew what it was you had to do?’ she murmured.

  Caroline’s eyes overflowed again, and she nodded. Quickly, before Barrington could speak and break the flow, Hillary went on, ‘And just what was it that you had to do, Mrs Weekes?’

  Caroline looked at her, as if asking permission to speak. Hillary nodded encouragement. ‘I had to kill her,’ Caroline finally whispered the dreadful truth out loud. Hillary was glad the tape was sensitive enough to pick up even the softest sound, but she knew she couldn’t leave anything to chance.

  ‘Please speak loudly and clearly for the tape, Mrs Weekes.’

  ‘I had to kill Flo,’ Caroline repeated obediently, and in the observation room, Paul Danvers let out a long, slow breath of relief.

  ‘I knew about the paper knife, about how sharp it was.’ Caroline Weekes spoke quickly now. ‘And Flo wasn’t watching me, she was watching the television. She was so used to me being there, doing a bit of dusting or tidying, you see, she never really took much notice of me. I just reached up for the paperknife, went up to her and … pushed it down into her chest.’ Caroline took a deep, shaken breath. ‘It was so easy. I never expected it to be so easy. I stood there for a moment, not realizing it was all over. Flo never made a sound. She didn’t even bleed much. I just stood there, looking down at her, and realized, well, that was it. It was done.’ She shook her head, seeming to be genuinely amazed. ‘I thought it would have been harder. Wouldn’t you have thought so too?’

  Hillary ignored the question. ‘What did you do next?’ she asked instead, keeping her voice matter of fact.

  As if picking up on it, Caroline Weekes suddenly did the same. ‘I knew my fingerprints must be on the handle of the paperknife, so I used the hem of my skirt to wipe them off. Then I went out, making sure the door latched behind me, and went home. Later that night, I realized I would have to go back in the morning, and be the first one to “find” her again. Just in case I’d done something silly. Made a mistake or whatever.’

  Hillary nodded. ‘So, the next morning, you went to “find” Mrs Jenkins, played the part for any neighbours who might be watching, and reported finding her.’ She waited a moment, knowing this next bit was crucial. ‘You did it because you needed the money of course?’ she asked casually, almost as if it didn’t matter.

  And Caroline fell for it, merely nodding absently. ‘Yes.’

  ‘For the IVF treatment. You and your husband were trying to have a baby, that’s right isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. But I’m too old, and the National Health wouldn’t pay for it. My husband has a good job, and so do I, but we live right up to our income. The treatments could last for months – maybe even years. I needed that baby. You have to understand – I knew I’d lose him if I couldn’t give him a child. He’d find someone younger, someone who could conceive at the drop of a hat!’

  The voice was rising yet again, and Hillary nodded soothingly. ‘Don’t distress yourself,’ she murmured the words almost automatically.

  But Caroline Weekes had just admitted to the premeditated, cold-blooded murder of an elderly woman strictly for monetary gain. No jury in the world, surely, would show her leniency now.

  ‘I understand. You needed money badly. And Flo – well, she was an old woman, wasn’t she?’ Hillary said, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Exactly,’ Caroline rushed in, glad that the policewoman seemed to understand at last. ‘She was in her seventies. She’d already had he
r child. She was ill and dying. What did she need the money for? She only had that dreadful drug-addict grandson, and what would he use the money for? Drugs,’ Caroline spat. ‘I wanted it to create another life. I knew Flo would understand.’

  If Flo would understand, Hillary suddenly thought savagely, why didn’t you just tell her about the lottery ticket and ask her for a loan to see you through the IVF? Knowing Florence Jenkins, she probably would have done so without a single thought. However her face registered none of her thoughts.

  ‘So you killed Florence Jenkins for her winning lottery ticket, and then gave it to your mother to claim it. Did she know it was Florence’s?’ Hillary asked abruptly.

  Camelot, when legally required to, had indeed coughed up the name of the person with the winning ticket. But it had not been Caroline Weekes, but one Martha Hoey who’d claimed it.

  ‘Oh no!’ Caroline said, appalled. ‘Mother knows nothing about this. I told her I wanted her to claim it because I didn’t want my husband to know. And Mother – well, Mother doesn’t like John much, so she was happy to.’

  ‘But in reality, you didn’t want to claim it yourself, just in case it got back to us, and we began to wonder?’ Hillary offered.

  Caroline nodded, her eyes tearing up once more.

  ‘For the tape, Mrs Weekes has just nodded her head,’ Keith Barrington repeated one last time.

  ‘So, that’s it then,’ Paul Danvers said later that night. It was dark outside, and below stairs, Caroline Weekes was spending the first of what would, Hillary hoped, be many years behind bars.

  The newlyweds, herself, Barrington and Danvers were all squashed together in his office, drinking champagne supplied by Mel, partly as a wedding celebration, partly as a case-closed party.

  ‘I feel kind of sorry for her,’ Janine said thoughtfully, glancing across at Mel. She would have kids one day, she supposed vaguely. Not yet, but one day. ‘It must be hard to really want a baby, and not be able to have one.’

  ‘Yeah, and I think she was right about that husband of hers too,’ Barrington said. ‘I reinterviewed him during follow-ups, and he came across as the sort who’d cut his losses and go for a newer model, if the old one couldn’t provide the goods.’