Bonnie was escorted to the toilet and Barrett, Henderson and David Charles sat in the interview room, backs relaxed against the chairs.
‘Could you perhaps have a quiet word in Mr Brookland’s ear that it would be best if he ceased from contact with his wife,’ said David Charles, raising a brace of hopeful eyebrows at Henderson, who nodded by way of response. He’d be more than happy to do that. Brookland fancied himself as Columbo and Quincy combined and that sort of prat could easily damage an investigation.
‘She’s very keen to spill all the beans, isn’t she?’ said Barrett. ‘Too keen. I’d call that suspicious.’
‘Would you now?’ David Charles dismissed Barrett’s deduction with acute disdain.
That annoyed Barrett so she sniped, ‘Yep. It’s looking more like a murder than an assisted suicide to me.’
‘It’s not your place to be judge and jury, is it?’ said David Charles, clearly irritated.
‘Pardon me for speaking,’ tutted Barrett, looking for support from Henderson, but finding none.
‘She doesn’t have to prove she’s innocent, madam,’ said David Charles, loading the word with scorn. ‘You have to prove she’s guilty. That’s how it works in this country and you should know that.’ He stood up abruptly and left the room to have a word with Bonnie before she came back in. He wanted to check she hadn’t felt coerced into saying things she shouldn’t.
Barrett sat in a cowed silence, with warm pink cheeks.
‘Word of warning, don’t try and be a smartarse with David Charles,’ said Henderson. ‘He will chew you up whole and spit you out in bits. And keep your theories to yourself.’
‘Lesson learned,’ said Barrett, saluting him.
‘Go get some teas in,’ Henderson ordered. ‘I’ve never been as ready for one in my life.’
After Bonnie had read and signed her statement, she sat in the interview room and drank the last of her lukewarm brew whilst being told what would happen next.
‘You’re being bailed to come back to the police station, pending further enquiries. It’ll be about six weeks, you’ll be given the actual date before you leave. You and I will be in touch, obviously. The police will probably appoint you a Family Liaison Officer to—’
‘I don’t want anyone,’ replied Bonnie. ‘I just want things to take their course now.’
‘Okay.’ David Charles didn’t press her on that. She might decide that she did need one after all when the high intensity had settled down. ‘Let’s go and get your possessions signed for and then you can go home.’
Bonnie looked at him in confusion. ‘Really?’ She had expected to be there for hours more at least.
‘You aren’t going to run off anywhere, are you?’ asked Henderson, with warmth and just the right amount of humour.
‘No, not at all,’ said Bonnie quickly.
‘The police now have to gather evidence and present it to the Crown Prosecution Service, who will judge whether it is in the public interest to prosecute you. We can talk it through in more detail when you come and see me,’ added David.
‘The tea’s rubbish here, isn’t it? Get yourself home and have a proper cup,’ said Henderson after Bonnie had been reunited with her belongings. She had been booked to return to the police station on 5 July. Henderson watched her leave the building cautiously, as if she expected alarms to start going off and policemen to start running at her. He had an old copper’s hunch that this woman’s version of events was much closer to what actually happened than what her husband had said. It sounded to him as if Stephen Brookland quite deliberately put doubt in her mind that she’d tilted the bottle and doubled his chances of controlling her. If he couldn’t manage to incriminate her, then, as a person with a conscience, she was likely to incriminate herself. Then again, he’d been fooled a couple of times over the years. Some people were masters of spinning a convincing yarn. His job was to gather every piece of relevant evidence and let the CPS do the rest. Stephen Brookland was a despicable man, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t telling the truth.
He didn’t say it aloud, but he wished the woman well because if what she’d told them had been true, the next few weeks at least were going to be hell for her. Decent people found it very hard to live a normal life with a possible trial hanging over their heads, especially one that could send them to prison for fourteen years.
Chapter 61
Gemma looked absolutely terrible as she walked towards Lew. She had swollen eyes and appeared totally battered by life in stark contrast to twenty-four hours ago when he’d met her in Tesco and she’d looked radiant, beautified by her secret pregnancy and was looking forward to having a fun evening with some of the people she loved best in the world.
Lew stood up to greet her and kissed her on the cheek, but her arms wrapped around him and she held on to him tightly.
‘Come on, sit down, Gem,’ he said, pulling the chair out from under the table for her. He’d picked a quiet corner one on Higher Hoppleton Garden Centre’s terrace. ‘You all right?’ he asked, though it was a daft question.
‘Lew, I’m so sorry,’ said Gemma. ‘The one person I shouldn’t have hurt was you. You didn’t deserve it.’
‘I got us a pot of tea,’ said Lew, pouring it out. ‘Hope that’s okay.’
‘Fine, thank you.’
They both drew comfort from the warmth of the cups as they cradled them in their hands. Neither of them knew what to say.
‘So, where to start?’ said Lew eventually because otherwise they would have been sitting there in silence for ever.
‘Have you spoken about it to . . .?’ asked Gemma. She couldn’t bring herself to say Charlotte’s name.
‘No. Have you and Jason talked?’
‘We haven’t done anything but talk,’ said Gemma.
‘Does he know you’re here with me?’
‘Yes. I think he’ll try and get in touch with you . . .’
‘Tell him not to bother,’ said Lew, jaw tightening. ‘We have nothing to say to each other.’
‘I’m so angry,’ said Gemma, ripping a serviette out of the holder on the table in preparation for the tears that were pressing against the back of her eyes. ‘I punched him after you’d left.’
‘You need to remember you’re pregnant, Gem.’
‘I don’t want to be a single mum,’ said Gemma, lowering her head and Lew saw tears splash on the surface of the table. ‘I hate him, I hate him so much. What a mess.’
Lew reached over and squeezed her arm. ‘You don’t have to make excuses, Gem. It’s not up to me if you leave him or not.’
‘Will you leave Charlotte?’
‘I don’t know,’ he lied, because he did know.
Gemma sighed deeply. ‘It was supposed to be his day off yesterday. I was going to surprise him and do a pregnancy test as soon as we woke up so we could sit and watch the lines appear together but he got up early and went into work. So I did it alone because I couldn’t wait to find out. I’ve kept thinking, if only I’d woken up earlier, I’d have persuaded him not to go in, we’d have had such a great morning, we’d have gone to tell our parents and I’d have missed Regina calling. I’d never have known . . .’
‘Let me stop you right there,’ said Lew. ‘Regina would have told you at some point.’
‘Do you think?’
‘Of course she would. She must have been desperate for an opportunity and she’d have made one if she hadn’t found one.’
Gemma said resignedly, ‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’
‘So what exactly did she say to you? Please don’t hold anything back, Gem. I need to know it all.’ He knew that Gemma was the type to soften things at the edges so they didn’t hurt so much. Usually. ‘Please. Don’t do me any favours.’
Gemma nodded. ‘Then I’m so sorry for anything I’m going to tell you today. I will try to say it all exactly as it happened.’
‘Thank you.’
Gemma took a fortifying breath. ‘Regina was waiting for me when I came
back from the supermarket. She said she was just calling by. I knew she must be desperate for company because she had never done it before. I told her that she and I were not friends because she’d always treated me like a lesser being and then she started spitting like an old cobra. That was when she told me that Charlotte wasn’t my friend either because’ – Gemma drew speech marks in the air – ‘ “She’s been screwing your husband for months.” My heart stopped, Lew. I asked her what the hell she was talking about because my first thought was that she was lying, shit-stirring, being Regina, but too many things rang true. She told me that when Charlotte stayed over after Patrick walked out, they’d both got pissed together, played some daft truth and dare game. Charlotte decided to share her big secret that she could be every bit as wild and wanton as swinging Regina. She was probably so hammered she thought it might impress her. I don’t know why she did that to me – and you – but I do know why Jason shagged your wife, at least I do if he’s telling me the truth.’
Jealousy. He wanted some of what Lew had, it was obvious to him. A modern-day equivalent of a cannibal eating someone to absorb their qualities. Plus daring, laddishness and a soupçon of excitement with an attractive, well-preserved woman. Even though he had a beautiful woman of his own, who was a much nicer person than Charlotte.
‘He told me everything,’ said Gemma. ‘It started about six months ago. Just after his business had really begun to take off. It was just sex, no-strings thrills, they didn’t actually go out on dates or anything. I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.’
That they risked hurting their partners for something they could both have had at home . . . that made it worse in Lew’s book, but he didn’t say it aloud. Something danced on the edge of his thoughts about the dinner party at Patrick’s and Regina’s: Jason and Charlotte talking about cars: I need something more satisfactory than I have at the moment. A little less conservative and more racy. They’d been flaunting it in plain sight, enjoying their sordid little secret. Come in my office.
‘I don’t want to ever see Charlotte again,’ said Gemma. ‘I know that it takes two to tango but I have to hate her for the both of them. I expect you feel the same about Jason.’
Lew gave his shoulders the merest shrug but if he was honest, the ‘affair’ paled into insignificance against the other truth he’d learned. He was wounded by Jason’s duplicity and petty jealousy and he knew that if he suddenly appeared in front of him, Lew’s testosterone levels would spike and his fists would bunch, but everything was drowned under the weight of what Charlotte had done to their child.
Lew’s voice was a croak when he spoke next. ‘Tell me the truth about my baby, Gemma.’
‘Oh God, Lew, I am so sorry. I couldn’t tell you, I swore to her that I’d keep her secret. She put me in a terrible position when she asked me to go with her to the clinic.’
‘You went with her?’ Lew’s tone was disbelieving, laced with disappointment.
‘Please don’t look at me like that, Lew. I was her best friend and I was there for her but – I know this sounds really bad – until yesterday, until I saw those two lines on the test, I didn’t really grasp the full impact of what she’d done.’
Lew put the cup on the table before it fell out of his hands. ‘Why did she do it?’
‘Oh God.’ Gemma shook her head slowly from side to side. ‘This should come from her.’
‘How can I trust her to tell me the truth?’ said Lew. ‘Tell me, Gemma. No lies. I’ve had years and years of them.’
‘She changed her mind.’ Gemma blurted out the words as if they were too hot for her mouth.
Lew let the words sink in. ‘Changed her mind? Like it was a handbag?’
Gemma licked her lips nervously as if lubricating the way for the words which would come out next. ‘She said that she didn’t want to be left alone with a baby whilst you were working away all week. She said she’d mistimed this pregnancy and she would be better off having a child later on.’
‘But we talked about what would happen. She wouldn’t have been alone. I would have got another job, come back up north . . .’ Gemma raised her eyes to him and Lew thought how strange it was that you could read so much in two round circles of colour, almost a psychic message. Gemma didn’t need to say anything; her stare said it all. ‘I would have come back up north . . .’ The penny dropped. ‘. . . for less money. That’s why, isn’t it?’
‘I told her, Lew. I told her that it wasn’t right. I’m so sorry. You are the loveliest man I know. You deserve better.’ She slipped her hand into Lew’s and felt how cold and limp his fingers were. Dead as the rest of him was. Dead as his marriage because there was no way back from this.
Chapter 62
David Charles kindly dropped Bonnie off at home, right to the door. He had told her that best case scenario, the CPS would find there was no public interest in a prosecution even if there was enough evidence to bring this case to trial. But if it did and she was found guilty, she could face a maximum of fourteen years in prison. It was, however, unlikely she would get the full fourteen, she could get ten which would mean she was out in five and the last couple of years would probably be served in an open prison. If she was found guilty and sent down, they would appeal against the conviction. He didn’t want to scare her but he had to give her all the facts. She only had to read the newspapers if she wanted to inform herself what might happen. Recently there had been a highly emotive case of a man who had assisted his elderly sister to end her life. The prosecution had gone for his jugular, insisting he had murdered her for personal gain and the jury had bought it. The subject of euthanasia polarised opinion and in the present climate, the courts were definitely swaying towards intolerance of it.
When Bonnie got out of the car, everything seemed too bright in the sunlight and she scuttled inside, seeking the dark and security of the dear four walls of her rented home. She felt dazed and battered, as if she had been hauled over painful coals of her past. She’d told the truth to the police and could swear to all of it but the part where she lifted the bottle to Alma’s lips. Then again, she’d been so careful to let Alma call the shots at every stage, she wouldn’t have done what Stephen said she must have and taken the lead. Now it appeared he was accusing her of more: of declaring to him that she had forced the bottle’s contents into Alma’s throat. It was beyond lying, but a jury would believe him above her. He would be so much calmer and less emotional in a court. And boiling all the surplus meat of the story away, she did screw the lid off the bottle for Alma and she did lift it up for her to drink and she would have to admit to that because it was the truth. So they’d be bound to believe her capable of murder.
She went straight upstairs, stripped off and had a shower but no amount of soap would wash away the stain of shame; it was underneath her skin, indelible, a constant reminder that people could think she had killed a vulnerable old lady because she was a burden.
Later she realised she needed milk but the thought of going out to the shop terrified her. What if she was in the Daily Trumpet?
‘Oh God, oh God.’ Her heartbeat started to race and her shallow rapid breaths were making her light-headed. She sat down on the sofa and tried to force her breathing back to a regular rhythm. There was nothing for it, she had to go out to the shop now or she might never be able to leave the house again.
She picked up her bag and stepped out into the sunshine feeling as if it were a huge spotlight above her head, picking her out so everyone could see the criminal. Her eyes darted to everyone in the supermarket, checking to see if they were looking at her. She approached the newspaper cube with caution, wondering if she would see her photo on the front page, but the lead stories were all about yet another politician caught with his trousers down. She bought milk and a Daily Trumpet and paid for them using the self-service till. This is what agoraphobics must feel like, she thought, glimpsing a world of anxiety and super-awareness. The little house on Rainbow Lane had never felt like more of a sanctuary
than it did when she got back to it. Her hands were shaking as she ripped through the pages of the Trumpet, but nothing was immediately obvious. She pored over the smaller articles, but couldn’t find any mention. She would have to buy a Trumpet every day to check: forewarned was forearmed. In a panic, she took out her phone and rang the number of David Charles from the business card he had given her. He answered via the Bluetooth in his car.
‘David, I’m so sorry to bother you, it’s Bonnie Sherman. Look . . . will I be in the newspaper?’
‘Possibly,’ he answered. ‘The newspapers don’t always have the full info so it could either not be in at all because they don’t know about it or need the space for other stories, or it might just be a couple of lines to say that a woman from Barnsley has been arrested for assisting a suicide and released on police bail. They could mention your name. It won’t be in today though, it’s too early.’
Bonnie felt sick. ‘What about the national papers?’
‘Hardly likely unless you’re a celebrity or it’s a very slow news day,’ replied David. ‘The police are now conducting an enquiry. Any reportage is likely to prejudice the outcome of a trial so if anything, you’ll be given bare minimum coverage.’ He didn’t want to raise her hopes and tell her that the Daily Trumpet would probably leave it alone. The new editor was keen to stop ruffling feathers, though he’d need to sack every reporter he had in order to do that. ‘Try to stay positive, Bonnie, and carry on with as normal a life as you can, because that will help you maintain some control. I’ll be in touch when I have any information, and if there is anything else you need to ask, you know where I am.’
Bonnie’s stomach dropped as much as if she’d been on the downward leg of a roller-coaster. All she could do was try to survive each day. Until this mess was over, one way or another.
The Queen of Wishful Thinking Page 28
