I Choose You

by Gayle Curtis

  Mark came back seconds later with the bottle of whiskey and filled up his glass.

  ‘There must be more to all this, Mark. You’ve got it wrong. Even if my theory is right and I have your son and you have mine, it’ll just be some mix-up at the hospital when they were born.’

  ‘I’ve seen the contract, Elise, I can read,’ Mark said in a sing-song voice.

  ‘Okay. Why don’t you call Jane, ask her to come here and we can talk about it all?’

  ‘She won’t answer.’ Mark took a large gulp of whiskey and touched the scratch on the back of his neck, checking his fingers afterwards to see if it was bleeding.

  ‘It’s worth a try though. Get this mess straightened out.’

  Mark put his glass on the floor and refilled it one-handed. ‘Jane won’t answer the phone, because I shot her in the face.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The first time I played the game – fulfilled the actual role of Suicide Watcher, as the media has dubbed me – was on 6th August 1976.

  As you might have guessed, it was hot outside, sunny but humid, a dark blue tint to the sky, threatening a turbulent change.

  My participant and I had talked about the game. Well, on the surface, the way people in denial like to discuss things. Kathy was her name – just a word, nothing particularly interesting about it. But names are important to me; they had to be right, fit for how I was feeling at the time. And when I met her on the train and discovered she was called Kathy, I liked how it felt and sounded in my mouth when I repeated it. The next day might have been a different story.

  I met all my participants on the train. I used to watch people on buses, but experience showed me that a different class of people travelled on them in comparison to the trains. The seats are too close to each other on the buses, there’s no privacy, people want to listen in to your conversations, join in. Not that I had anything to hide, I was just forging friendships, no harm in that. The carriage formations on trains used to give you a certain amount of privacy, unlike today. Most recently, when I’ve been on the trains, people are absorbed in their phones or laptops, with glazed and vacant expressions. In the days when I used trains, people read books or newspapers, or simply gazed out of the window. Now their ears are stuffed with headphones, blocking themselves off from the world.

  Book readers are the easiest people to strike up a conversation with. Over the years I have found them to be inquisitive people, open to looking at life from a new perspective. They travel in their minds and are able to visualise someone else’s life, another person’s story. They are my favourite kind of people. They want to talk; to share what they are reading. Then they give me a name, are prone to volunteering personal information and then, after some time, they often talk of invites to their homes.

  My reasons for choosing Kathy are inconsequential to her participating in the game. Willingly, in her subconscious mind, she wanted to kill herself and I helped her do that. They say experiencing anything for the first time is the most memorable. This isn’t true in my story. Kathy was an anti-climax, a disappointment, like the long-anticipated excitement of someone new who never quite meets your expectations. The obituary she had written for herself was nothing of note . . . ‘Kathryn Moss née Harding was thirty-four . . . married to Mark . . . produced two sons . . . got divorced and enjoyed reading . . . has no plans other than to be happy . . .’

  ‘And didn’t think enough of herself to stay’, was what I wanted to add. I learnt, from that first experience, what I needed to change about parts of the game.

  That was why, when I asked her the question – shoot yourself or be shot – I was so surprised at her answer. There was nothing outstanding in Kathy’s features that made her physically special, but she was interesting to talk to. Initially she’d had some intriguing ideas, but being faced with adversity showed her for the liar she truly was. Choosing to be shot at the end told me that in all the months we had been friends, I had allowed her to become a different person outside her family. She could be someone else, a fictional character who didn’t really exist, like the people in the books she read.

  Just before the end, she cried and begged. In my naivety, I hadn’t been expecting that, because we had talked so often about dying. She’d even told me about the times she’d felt like taking her own life, and she had even attempted to do so when she was much younger. When she truly faced death, she panicked, allowed her ego to step in. It’s simply the feeling we all experience, of not wanting to miss out on anything, a bit like having to leave the party early.

  Kathy’s children found her when her ex-husband dropped them off after a day out. The obituary she willingly wrote for herself, and which I left on the table, was taken for a suicide note. I read about it all in a newspaper a few days later.

  It was the life afterwards I discovered to be more intriguing. I hadn’t foreseen this curiosity. A life led poorly, as in most cases, never interested me, but what lay after death and the change it brought about in others was fascinating. Even some of the people remotely connected to the deceased were affected. It was like dropping marbles on to the floor and watching them scatter.

  It’s easy to observe people when they’re grieving – send some flowers, offer your condolences, attend the funeral as a friend. The shock of losing someone close can have positive and profound effects on a person. Kathy’s ex-husband accepted redundancy, sold their properties and emigrated with his children. He would never have done that if Kathy had still been alive. He would have continued living to exist.

  It turned out that suicide had many facets to hide behind. No one saw the common denominator. That was me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  THEN

  For the first time in fifteen years, Ray smoked a cigarette, one he’d managed to pinch from the police officer who was standing in the exercise yard with him. Ray had to wait there for a doctor, so they could assess him before his questioning could be resumed.

  When he’d stepped into the interview room, his claustrophobia had got the better of him and he’d begun to panic. Ray could tell by the look on the officers’ faces and the sergeant’s tone of voice that they thought he was faking it. One of them had asked him how he’d managed to get on an aeroplane if he couldn’t sit in an office with the door closed. Nonetheless, they allowed him to wait outside.

  Ray had thought he was going to the police station to answer some questions about Ida, but once seated in the interview room they’d wanted to talk to him about something entirely different. Details from his past he wished he could change, because he knew how it would look on paper.

  Pacing the yard now, Ray began to feel his anxiety rise as a couple of other people joined them in the small area to have a cigarette. They were bricked in on all sides and there was mesh over the top to stop anyone attempting to scale the wall.

  After the doctor at last arrived and gave Ray the all-clear, he returned to the interview room where the two detectives, a DS Colburn and a DC Everett, adhered to the doctor’s advice and kept the door open as they attempted to question him for a second time. Ray felt more violated than when the police had taken his clothes for forensic analysis the day he’d found Ida. The questions were relentless and tiring because Ray had nothing to say, knowing it wouldn’t change their opinion. He had conducted some strange experiments in his time, but he didn’t believe until the last few weeks that he’d ever put his family in danger. It was starkly obvious now.

  ‘Dr Coe, can you tell us about this document?’ DS Colburn slid the familiar papers across the desk.

  Ray put his glasses on and examined the file. ‘Am I under arrest?’

  ‘No, Dr Coe, but we strongly urge you to answer the questions. Do you want me to call the duty solicitor?’

  ‘If you arrest me, I’ll arrange my own legal representation, thank you.’

  ‘Can you tell us the details of the alleged surrogacy that took place in 1979?’

  Ray shifted in his seat, uncomfortable and defensive at be
ing asked questions that had nothing to do with his granddaughter’s murder.

  ‘That is a legal contract between myself, my wife and couple X, as stated there.’ Ray pointed to the sentence he was referring to. ‘It was different in those days – they were friends of ours. There’s no law against having a child for someone else.’

  ‘It depends if it’s surrogacy or trafficking.’ DS Colburn linked his fingers together and rested them on the desk. ‘Dr Coe, who are the couple marked as “X”?’

  ‘I could never disclose that. It would be breaching doctor-patient confidentiality.’

  ‘This has nothing to do with your profession, Dr Coe.’ DS Colburn glanced up at the clock on the opposite wall.

  ‘And this has nothing to do with my granddaughter’s murder, but I’m still answering your questions.’ Ray was becoming agitated. ‘Don’t ask me about their identity again.’

  The two officers looked at one another, happy to leave that line of questioning for later.

  ‘Dr Coe,’ said DS Colburn, ‘can you explain to us how and where insemination took place? Your wife was the surrogate, so who was the donor?’

  ‘I became the donor when it emerged that the male X was infertile.’

  ‘So what you’re telling us, Dr Coe, is that you and your wife conceived a child and sold it to another couple?’ DS Colburn lifted another document from the pile and placed it in front of Ray.

  ‘Yes, that’s pretty much how it happened.’

  ‘Dr Coe, in front of you is a document dated the twenty-fourth of April 1988, signed by you, your brother Mac Coe, and his wife Estelle Coe.’

  Ray lifted it up and looked at the piece of paper carefully. He knew exactly what it was, had recognised it immediately, but he was buying himself some extra time, thinking about what he should say.

  ‘What can you tell us about that document, Dr Coe?’ DS Colburn was much more confident in his line of questioning now that Ray had basically admitted the allegations they suspected him of.

  Ray folded his arms. ‘No comment.’

  ‘Isn’t it true, Dr Coe, that when your wife allegedly committed suicide, you arranged to sell your daughter, Elise Coe, to your brother and his wife for the sum of twenty thousand pounds?’

  ‘No comment.’ Ray sat back further in his chair and stared at the open door.

  ‘Dr Coe, isn’t it true that your brother and his wife had discovered the previous year that they couldn’t have any children and you agreed to help them out?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Isn’t it also true, Dr Coe, that after faking your wife’s death you gave Elise to your brother and his wife, in return for twenty thousand pounds, and left the country?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’ Ray banged his hand on the table, startling the officers.

  ‘This contract states that your brother and his wife were to become Elise’s legal parents. Sounds pretty final to me.’

  ‘My wife was very sick at the time. I was doing Elise a favour, I had to protect her from Ingrid. It was inevitable she was going to commit suicide and I was protecting my daughter.’

  ‘In what way, Dr Coe? By telling an eleven-year-old her mother was dead?’

  ‘I was scared Elise would come home and find her one day – or worse, Ingrid would kill her. I needed her safe and I knew Mac and Estelle could give her a better life while I was away. I intended to have her back as soon as I came home. Once I got my wife back to her native country of Norway, I knew she would recover. I was right, and I returned home.’

  ‘The facts are, Dr Coe, you set this up as a social experiment, easily manipulating desperate, childless people into buying your children from you because you wanted to see how they would grow up without your wife’s influence. It was so easy that you decided to continue this operation and set up an illegal service. Isn’t that true, Dr Coe?’

  It was a few moments before Ray answered. He was trapped in a corner with no way of escape. It wasn’t as crude as they were making it out to be, but he knew how it all looked on paper.

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s true. What are you going to do? No one got hurt. My wife and I made a childless couple very happy, and Elise was settled with Mac and Estelle for the time she lived with them. Anyone I helped thereafter was extremely grateful for everything.’

  ‘Your brother and his wife no longer have any contact with you and haven’t done for some years.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Can you tell us where your wife is, Dr Coe?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘You recently visited your wife in Norway and she has since disappeared. Isn’t that true, Dr Coe?’

  ‘No comment. I’d like to leave now. It’s my right to leave.’ Ray stood up.

  ‘You can try to leave, but then I’ll caution you and take you to the custody sergeant and get you booked in.’ DS Colburn held Ray’s gaze until he sat down again. ‘We believe,’ DS Colburn went on, ‘that you went to Norway to see your wife with the purpose of stopping her reporting anything incriminating about you.’

  ‘That’s ludicrous! Are you suggesting I killed my wife? Don’t be so ridiculous, man. What reason would I have?’

  ‘Does the name John Tilney mean anything to you?’

  ‘No. Why would it?’ Ray looked at the photograph of the man that DS Colburn pushed across the table in front of him. ‘Never seen him before.’

  ‘John Tilney’s seven-year-old son, Benjamin?’ The detective pushed another photo across the table.

  ‘No comment.’ Ray folded his arms and refused to look at the many photos that were placed in front of him, answering ‘no comment’ to all the names.

  ‘We believe, Dr Coe, that you groomed these people and then shot them.’

  ‘Do you know who I am? Please be serious.’

  ‘I know exactly who you are, Dr Coe – a cold-blooded serial killer. Is that why you had your granddaughter murdered, because she discovered who you really are?’

  Ray shook his head in disgust.

  ‘A short while before the day of the incident, Ida had been in your office looking for photos. She discovered some private documents, and when James Caddy called you for an appointment, you saw it as an opportunity to pay him to kill her. The trouble was, he didn’t quite manage it, so you came back to the house and tried to suffocate her.’

  ‘No!’ Ray banged his hand on the desk. ‘Sonny was the first person to find her, I wasn’t even there.’

  ‘We found blood spatter on your sweater that matches Ida’s. Can you explain why that might be, Dr Coe?’

  ‘I’ve told you this already. I lifted Ida into my arms when I found her, and she coughed.’

  ‘Can you tell us why we found bloody smudges, consistent with finger marks, on Ida’s right cheek?’ The other detective pushed a photograph of Ida’s face across the table. ‘Ida’s blood was found on your fingertips.’

  Ray shook his head, desperately trying to think. ‘I placed my hand over her mouth to see if I could feel her breath on the palm of my hand. I promise you, there was nothing sinister about it. Anything that James Caddy has done is nothing to do with me.’

  ‘We’ve got James Caddy in custody now and he says you offered him money to kill Ida.’

  ‘He’s lying. James Caddy is a paranoid schizophrenic; he’ll say anything if he thinks he might be in trouble. Can’t you see that?’ Ray was becoming very emotional. ‘I’ve answered all your questions regarding my granddaughter. I’m not speaking to you about it anymore. Not until I have legal representation.’

  ‘Dr Coe, I’m arresting you for the murders of Ida Munroe, John Tilney, Benjamin Tilney, Kathryn Moss and Cheryl Fitzpatrick. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’

  ‘This is utter madness. I will admit to the so-called trafficking, but these murders have nothing to do with me. Nothing.’

  ‘We’
ll be continuing our investigations and you may be charged with further offences. Like I said at the beginning, we’re from the cold case team, reopening suicide cases that occurred between 1976 and 1988.’ DS Colburn signed off the interview and switched off the recording. ‘Just because a crime was committed historically, Dr Coe, doesn’t mean you can get away with it.’

  ‘But this is ludicrous. My daughter needs me.’ Ray stood up, so he was face to face with the officers.

  ‘Your daughter needed you, Dr Coe, after you told her she would never see her mother again. We are trying to ascertain if any more of the suicides during that period were actually murder.’ DS Colburn stared directly into Ray’s dark grey eyes.

  ‘How do you know those people didn’t want to die?’

  The DS looked perplexed. ‘Explain what you mean.’

  ‘Whether they did it themselves or not, they agreed to be killed. A little helping hand doesn’t make it murder,’ Ray said in a loud whisper.

  ‘Are you confessing to the crimes, Dr Coe?’

  ‘No, I’m simply asking you to look at it logically.’ Ray sighed. ‘I can tell you where my wife is.’

  DS Colburn breathed in deeply, exasperated with Ray. ‘If that is the case, Dr Coe, why didn’t you tell me when we started the interview?’

  ‘Because, my dear man, it’s your job to work it all out.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  THEN

  It was the first time Elise and Nathaniel had been to the apartment since their nightmare had begun, and it was as though someone had poured hydrochloric acid on to their lives. Discovering Ingrid was still alive on top of everything else had been a tipping point for Elise. She was angry with her parents, and while she was trying to process everything, Nathaniel had persuaded her it would be better if they returned to their own home. She knew it was partly because he was struggling to stay in the house where their daughter was murdered, and she understood his reasons for wanting to return. She didn’t know where she wanted to be right now; sitting on the moon wouldn’t have made any difference to the way she was feeling. Strangely, Elise couldn’t help turning her anger towards Buddy, blaming his existence for the monumental changes that had shaken their lives. The little baby who was now screwing up his face and hands, getting ready to wake up as Nathaniel carefully placed the car seat on the tiled kitchen floor, reminding her of the wriggling chrysalises she used to find in the garden at her father’s house. She stared at him briefly, astonished at how perfect he was, considering the abhorrent way she had thrust him into the world.