As Bonnie handed Lew the coffee, she noticed immediately that he wasn’t wearing his wedding ring. It had been his wife’s birthday on Sunday. Bonnie got the impression he had spent a fortune on her in presents. And yet sometime over the weekend his marriage had crumbled. Hers had been falling brick by brick for years; Lew’s seemed to have been instantly dynamited. She wouldn’t have asked him how it had happened, but she wondered.
‘Thank you,’ he replied, taking a long sip, wondering how a mere instant coffee could taste so good. She always made them just right.
‘Is there anything . . . I can do, silly question I know . . .’ Bonnie asked, immediately chiding herself. ‘Stupid of me, of course there isn’t. Ignore that.’
‘Bonnie.’ Lew put down his coffee and turned to face her. He put his hands on her arms and looked into her huge hazel eyes. ‘I just want everything to be as it usually is in here. With Stickalampinit bringing in his ridiculous creations, Long John spending an hour polishing one item of silver, Starstruck reciting anecdotes about film stars and you being you, holding it all together, making this place work. That’s what you can do for me.’
Bonnie nodded. ‘I understand,’ and as much as she wanted his hands to remain on her, to savour the thrill of his contact, she stepped away from him on the pretence of needing to check something on the shop floor, because she couldn’t bear the thought that if he relied on her to be stable and unchanging, she was going to let him down very badly.
Chapter 66
Both Stephen Brookland and Katherine Ellison had the option of being interviewed in the comfort of their own homes and though the latter had accepted the privilege, Brookland had insisted on attending the police station so that he would put the police to as little trouble as possible. Henderson expected he would. Brookland was a grandiose man who was enjoying the theatre of it all, despite whatever tripe he said about being helpful. The family liaison officer had told Henderson that he was already driving her mad asking for updates every day.
‘Thank you for coming in again, Mr Brookland,’ Henderson smiled politely.
‘Pleasure,’ returned Stephen.
I’ll bet, thought Henderson. ‘Just a few points I’d like to clarify with you.’
‘Certainly, Detective Sergeant. I’d like to be as much help as I can.’
Henderson couldn’t understand how Bonnie Brookland had managed to live with him for thirteen years. Then again, he’d had one hell of a hold over her for the past five at least. He had control freak stamped all over him.
Barrett brought in three coffees. Henderson wanted Stephen Brookland to think they were all pals. Those eager to impress often ‘forgot their script’. Niceties ensued. Was Brookland coping? Had the FLO been of assistance? Then, with the atmosphere greased, Henderson slid into the grist.
‘So, Mr Brookland.’ He leaned on the desk and templed his hands together. ‘You say that you didn’t know anything about your mother’s plan to take her own life.’
‘Absolutely not,’ confirmed Stephen. ‘I would never have let her. As I said to you, I only have my wife’s word that she did. She is very plausible, I’m sure you’ve found that. All nicey-nicey, butter-wouldn’t-melt. You should ask her last employer why she got the sack: dishonesty—’
Henderson cut off his vitriol with a respectful but controlled interjection. ‘If we could keep to answering the question that would really help for now. The clearer the details, the stronger the case.’
That herded him back in line, as Henderson knew it would. ‘Of course, Detective Sergeant. Well, no I didn’t know. And of course when I walked in and saw my poor dear mother deceased, I was understandably shocked, which is why I didn’t properly take it all in then. Naturally I believed my wife’s version of events wholeheartedly at the time, but soon after I began to wonder.’
‘Which is why you kept the drug bottle.’
‘Indeed. My wife nursed my mother very adequately but I began to suspect that it had all been an act. For eight years she hated my mother and suddenly she couldn’t do enough for her; it’s odd, don’t you think?’
‘And yet you let your mother be cared for by her?’
‘Well, yes.’ Stephen shifted position in his seat. ‘I was working full-time, Mother didn’t want any strangers around her. Bonita was the lesser of two evils.’
I bet he’s delighted to have used that line, thought Henderson.
‘Why did you save the bottle, Mr Brookland? Why not destroy it?’
‘I was going to,’ said Stephen. ‘I was distraught enough to find my mother dead and then my wife drops the bombshell on me that she died by her own hand. I couldn’t think properly. My wife left me alone with Mother to say my goodbyes. As I was doing so, the thought came to me that something was very wrong here. Firstly, my mother would not have committed suicide, she thought it was a disgrace. You can check with the church she attended, she upset quite a few people with her views on it. Secondly, my mother and I were very close. She would not have done something like that without my knowledge. Nor would she have chosen to confide in Bonita. And it was very suspicious that my mother supposedly committed suicide when I was out for the evening. She would have wanted me by her side, don’t you think, rather than a woman whom she had always despised and who had always despised her. My mother was an inconvenience to my wife. All this flashed through my mind as if my mother herself had put the thoughts there for me, so before I sent for the doctor, I decided to get a plastic bag and keep the bottle just in case.’
‘Just in case what?’ asked Henderson. Just in case you wanted to bring your wife to heel?
‘Just in case there was a post mortem, of course,’ Stephen said imperiously.
‘But your wife had admitted to you that she had handled the bottle, hadn’t she?’
‘Yes, as I said, she had. She was too candid in my opinion. I found that very questionable.’
Barrett made an unconscious noise of agreement, which pleased Stephen. Henderson didn’t react but he made a mental note to mention later to Barrett to try not to let her personal opinions bleed into interviews.
‘So, when there was no post mortem and your mother was buried, why didn’t you destroy it then?’
Stephen crossed his legs and folded his arms slowly, a gesture that gave him a few seconds to think of an answer, Henderson deduced.
‘Forensic scientists are coming up with more and more advances each day. I kept the bottle because I thought that maybe in the future it might produce evidence to say that my mother had been murdered.’
‘Like a voice recording?’ Henderson kept his face serious.
‘Like some sort of chemical that humans give out when being forced into doing something against their will, I mean,’ said Stephen, not recognising that Henderson was being facetious.
‘I see,’ said Henderson, nodding in agreement.
‘What I will say is that my mother would have been horrified that anyone thought she had committed suicide. She might have been a very old lady and incredibly ill but she was very sharp up here.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘She should have been a politician, she could run rings around anyone verbally, was meticulous in detail, a master bridge player, she made sure she covered every eventuality when she organised anything.’
‘She sounds a wonderful woman,’ said Barrett, with sympathy.
‘She was. I loved her very much,’ said Stephen. He bowed his head and apologised for having to take a second to compose himself before continuing. ‘My mother walked towards death with her head held high, which is why it is ludicrous to think that she bought a veterinary drug from Mexico to end her own life.’
‘You presumably are the sole beneficiary of your mother’s will?’
‘Yes, although she left a small legacy to her bridge club for them to buy new chairs.’
‘She had a life insurance policy?’
‘Yes, I think I told you that before.’
‘You did. Would the insurance have been voided by suicide?’
&n
bsp; There was a pause before Stephen answered. A swallow.
‘I don’t know. I didn’t check.’
‘It would have been fraudulent to claim, surely, if you knew that your mother had committed suicide?’ said Barrett.
‘I wasn’t sure that she had though.’
‘So you suspected your wife of murder but you didn’t go to the police?’ Henderson raised a mental high five to himself.
Brookland rubbed his head as if it were Aladdin’s lamp and a genie would come and take him away from this question trap.
‘I had no evidence to prove either suicide or murder. In the end I decided that I should support and protect my wife. My mother would not have wanted to be stained with the stigma of suicide so that seemed the only course of action at the time. I had to honour my mother’s memory and as for my wife . . . I vowed for better for worse in front of a registrar.’ His voice was rising, he was rattled.
‘But now, of course, she’s left you.’
‘Yes.’ His jaw muscles were spasming. ‘And if you are insinuating this is some sort of vengeance, then you are very wrong. I would not have betrayed her if she had not told me when she walked out of the door, as a vicious parting shot, that she had killed my mother: “forced the contents of the bottle down her neck because I was fed up of nursing the old bat but you’ll never be able to prove it” were more or less her exact words. My goodness, Sergeant. I was so glad that I’d kept the bottle then. I wanted to smash it into her laughing, disgusting fa—’ He recovered quickly. ‘I apologise. I’m very upset. And I have to admit, I feel as if I’m on trial myself.’
‘No apology needed, Mr Brookland. But if this does come to trial, a barrister will be asking these sorts of questions. It’s a complicated and emotional case and the devil is in the detail.’
‘Oh yes, the devil,’ humphed Stephen Brookland, as if he knew it so well because he’d been married to it.
‘Yet you didn’t come straight to the police after she said this to you?’ Henderson delivered the line smoothly.
‘Pardon?’
‘You left it over three weeks.’ Henderson noticed Brookland’s neck was blotchy at the collar.
‘There was a reason for that. I . . .’
‘You wanted your wife to go back to you,’ said Henderson, nodding as if he understood and agreed. ‘Presumably we wouldn’t have met if she had.’ He turned pointedly to Barrett and asked, ‘Do we have the copy of Mrs Brookland’s letter yet?’
‘Erm . . . not sure if it’s arrived yet but her solicitor was going to email it over, I believe,’ came the reply.
Brookland sat up straight in his chair, tension coming off him in waves though he did his best to hide it. ‘What you have to remember is that I was in shock when she told me. I thought they were just words meant to wound, we did have quite a heated row after all. I am not the sort of person to act rashly, I needed to process it all. It was very painful going over the events of my mother’s death, but essential and I’m afraid to say that I became convinced my wife had blurted out the real truth at last. I thought by sending her that letter I might force her to confess to the authorities before I reported her, therefore making your job easier. As you know, she did not turn herself in to you, so what does that tell you about her, hmm? My hand was forced at that point. But at least after five years, the truth is known.’
Very well improvised, thought Henderson. ‘Thank you for clearing that up. I think that’s all for now,’ he smiled, checking with Barrett who nodded in agreement. ‘Thank you for coming in. It’s much appreciated.’
‘You need to speak to Mrs Katherine Ellison if you haven’t already,’ said Stephen. ‘I’m sure she will convince you that there is skulduggery afoot.’
Who the hell talks like that, thought Henderson as he assured Mr Brookland that they would indeed be speaking to his mother’s best – and, it seemed, only – friend.
Chapter 67
On the Friday of that week, Mart Deco staggered into the shop like a drunken bumble bee with a large square electrical appliance, which he almost dropped by the counter. He was purple-faced when he straightened up again. Mart might have been a massive bloke but he had ‘a glass back’. He was waiting for an operation on a disc.
‘Martin, what on earth . . .’ Bonnie rushed towards him. ‘You’ll be doing yourself a mischief. Here, sit down.’ She pulled a fiddleback chair from under a nearby table and pushed Mart down on it whilst he took his asthma inhaler out of his pocket and drew the spray into his lungs.
‘It’s a washing machine,’ said Martin, in between puffs.
‘Shut up talking for a minute,’ Bonnie commanded.
Martin nodded and then when he got his breath back he continued. ‘As I was saying, it’s a washing machine. It sits on your work surface. It’s a couple of years old but it works smashing. It’s the wife’s sister’s. She’s just won a proper one in a competition. Dead lucky she is. She won a week in the Isle of Wight in April. Anyway, she said that it was a waste to dump it because it’s a cracking little thing and I said I know just the home for it. She’s cleaned it up and the instruction book is inside.’
‘Oh Mart, that’s so lovely of you. How much do you want . . .?’
‘I don’t want owt for it,’ Martin tutted. ‘It’ll save me a trip to the dump. And it would have been a shame, because as I said, it works.’
Lew appeared from the back room where he’d been taking a private call from the estate agent telling him that Woodlea would be up on their website within the hour.
‘Mart’s brought me a washing machine,’ said Bonnie, attempting to pick it up and move it out of the way. It was a dead weight though and it didn’t budge.
‘Whoa, you’ll do yourself an injury,’ yelled Mart and Lew together.
‘Stand back please and leave it to the experts,’ said Lew, lifting it far more easily than either of the others. ‘I’ll put it in the back room for now.’
‘Or I can put it straight in my car?’ suggested Bonnie.
‘You won’t be able to lift it out at the other end though, Bonnie. I’ll drop it off for you after work,’ said Lew.
‘I don’t want to put you to any troub—’
Lew cut off her protest. ‘I insist.’
‘Eh, did you hear that Grimshaw is packing up?’ said Mart, suddenly excited. ‘He’s bought a bar abroad. He’s sold the shop to a bloke who does kitchens.’
‘That’s an end of an era,’ said Bonnie with more than a hint of sadness. Her world was changing beyond recognition. Even Grimshaw’s shop, as dingy as it had become, was familiar and it was those constants that gave her reference points of stability. They were buoys in cold, uncertain waters whose current was dragging her every day towards the edge of something that made Niagara Falls look like a trickle.
As soon as Bonnie got home, she scurried around the house straightening things, hanging up the cardigan she had left draped over the arm of her sofa, gathering up all the pieces of craft items she had left out on the coffee table, giving the work surface in the kitchen a wipe down, spraying some Febreze into the air to mask the faint damp smell. The little house was clean and tidy but it was a few country miles away from what Lew was used to and Bonnie felt slightly shamed that he’d see her in the midst of all her hotch-potch. He arrived at the door five minutes after she had with the washing machine in his arms and she guided him through to the kitchen. It took up half the available work surface but there was nowhere else for it to go. And it would be a big improvement on washing things in the sink and drip drying them on the short line outside.
‘Thank you,’ said Bonnie, rubbing her hands together nervously. ‘Can I get you a coffee or something?’
‘A coffee would be lovely,’ said Lew. Anything to delay going back to the Holiday Inn for a very long evening alone.
Whilst Bonnie went to fill the kettle, Lew sat on the sofa and looked around. What a mix of furniture, he thought with a smile. And yet strangely, all the pieces sat harmoniously with each other.
The table and chairs were the perfect size for the recess at the side of the kitchen door, the sofa was snug under the window, the coffee table just right for the space available. Bonnie had hung some curtains at the window, Lew recognised them from a house clearance haul he’d acquired. They were dark blue velvet, and she had secured them to their tie-back hooks with red rope twists. The small hearth had a burst of fake flowers where logs would crackle in winter. The mantelpiece above had photos on it in frames: an old colour photo of a couple at their wedding; a big stocky man in a suit, a little girl, about seven he reckoned, in a new school uniform holding his hand. There was an adult Bonnie cuddling a large red bear of a dog. Next, a mother in bed holding a newborn baby, a father cradling the same baby. That last image seared on his retina and even when he looked away, he could still see it.
He shifted his attention to Bonnie’s profile in the tiny kitchen, spooning coffee into two mugs as the kettle boiled beside her and just looking at her warmed his heart. She was so . . . understated. What you saw was what you got with her. She displayed more of a reaction over the old secondhand mini washing machine than Charlotte did over the Tiffany earrings. She brought the drinks through and set them on the coffee table.
‘Would you like a biscuit?’ she asked. ‘I think I’ve got some KitKats in the cupboard.’
The Queen of Wishful Thinking Page 30
