by CM Thompson
“I noticed from our records that your wife had a similar incident a few months ago, back in January. What happened then?”
A gentle prod.
Daniel looks shocked for a moment before he shrugs. Grimm can’t decide if he genuinely doesn’t know or if he is trying to be evasive. He hadn’t been expecting them to know about that incident, that’s for sure.
“You rang for an ambulance at four in the morning, after your wife ‘fell’ down the stairs after a heavy drinking session?”
“That wasn’t my fault.” It wasn’t looking good for him before, now it’s looking very bad. He had said that like a clichéd fool, implying that this fall was his fault. They all thought that it was anyway, everyone. Peter, the paramedics, the other police officers, all of them kept staring at him with eyes devoid of emotion; those stares are scalpels, slicing deep inside him, exposing his guilt. He can’t afford to let that guilt show again.
“No one is blaming you, I just want to hear your side of the story.”
Daniel is still non-committal. He won’t make eye contact with the officers. He has gone back to rocking himself slightly, unknowingly hugging himself again, the comforting motions.
The now unsympathetic Grimm continues to prod. “Tell me, what really did happen the night your wife was hospitalised?”
“Do we really have to talk about this?” Why did they have to bring up this one? Well, it’s not like they can bring up the other incidents, those that didn’t require hospitalisation. No one else knows about those.
“I am only trying to understand, Mr Mills.”
No one understands.
“I don’t really know what happened. I was asleep. She woke me up at 4 am, crying my name.” He still wakes up sometimes, in the early hours, convinced something is wrong. “Daannnny … Dannnny.” He hates being called that. A couple of times, afterwards, in the early hours of the morning, she would stand, whispering “Dannny, Danny” outside his door, just for the hell of it. She thought it was funny.
“I told her to go back to sleep, but she kept yelling. I got up and found her at the bottom of the stairs,” Daniel finally finishes, sullenly. When Sherri found out about the accident, she had screamed at him for nearly an hour for not looking after her baby properly. She wouldn’t speak to him directly for nearly a fortnight, and instead of calling him Daniel, his name was now the Toad. Oh shit, Sherri! Daniel doesn’t want to be in the same building as Sherri when she finds out about this. She is going to come up with a worse name for him now, worse than the Toad or Turnip Head.
“She wasn’t badly hurt, just a bit … She kept saying that she just wanted a plaster. I called an ambulance.”
“What was your wife’s state of mind prior to the incident?”
Grimm gives Daniel a few moments to answer: instant answers are usually a good sign that the person is lying; if they are telling the truth, it will take them a few moments to remember the truth. Daniel is trying to choose his words carefully.
“She was … moody … It depended on how much she had to drink and how much sleep she had.”
“How did she act when she was taken to hospital?”
“She was very drunk and upset. It took the nurses a while to calm her down.” They were just reaching the physical restraints point when Anne-Marie finally gave in and let them place their needles in her arm
“Do you think she fell?” There is a look in Daniel’s eyes. A startled look. A deer in the headlights look.
“She said she fell and I believe her.”
“What happened after the incident, when your wife was released from hospital?”
“When she first got out, she was better, she stopped drinking and started applying for jobs.”
“Your wife was unemployed?”
A flicker of pain crosses Daniel’s face. He nods.
“How long had she been unemployed for?”
“My wife quit her job nearly a year and a half ago. We were going to have a baby …” Daniel pauses, but then continues, knowing they would ask anyway. “She lost the baby. We thought it was best to give her time, there was no pressure for her to return to work.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
Daniel grunts, he had felt nothing when his mother died, when he was fifteen. Nothing but relief when his father died, when he was sixteen. But his baby, his baby’s death evokes an unfamiliar pain, something he can never talk about. The end of the dream.
Anne-Marie had tried when she came home after the fall. She had really tried. She managed to stay sober for fourteen days straight, which was a new record that year. She said she was applying for jobs and he just wanted to believe her. They played pretend for all that week, let’s pretend that everything was OK, pretend they love each other, pretend she could cope with being sober. But she couldn’t cope any more. It got worse when her pain medication finished. She didn’t know what to do or how to act or what to do with her hands. Sober meant feeling things again, which meant if she wasn’t crying, she was frustrated, sad or bored. She would be constantly around him, something that he couldn’t cope with, now he was used to being alone. Always expecting Daniel to provide some kind of entertainment, but not wanting to do anything he suggested. So bored and irritable and, my god, was she irritable. One minute they would be awkwardly talking, the next she would be snapping at him to shut up, then snapping at him for being too quiet. It didn’t help that she couldn’t sleep either, nor would she let him sleep. She wasn’t in the mood to do anything fun, no, 3 am was “talk” time. He tried to be as supportive as he could but he needed sleep. It was always the same old conversation over and over again, as if they were rehearsing for a play. He was sure she didn’t listen to a word he said anyway.
Things got very tense, neither of them were able to relax any more. If he tried to watch TV, she would be there endlessly asking questions; if he tried to involve her, she would want alone time. If he cooked, she wasn’t hungry. If he ordered in food, then she was sick of take-aways. If something was left lying around, it wasn’t anything to do with her. If he tidied something away, she was using that, THANK you. Everything he did or said was wrong. Then he made the mistake of having a beer. He just wanted to turn off a little, it had been a hard day at work and he was very tired. He had tried to do it in secret but she had caught him. You would have thought he was hiding the crown jewels from her, the way she started. Then she wanted one. Just one. What was wrong with one drink? He had tried to stop her, but she wore him down to agreeing to just one.
Then one more, you fucking killjoy.
But at least they both finally slept that night. Daniel knew it was over then, that she had stopped trying. But they kept playing let’s pretend.
Then she took the game to the next level.
She had taken an interest in showering regularly again, and then she started talking, unprompted, about how much weight she had lost, how much better she was feeling, how badly she needed a haircut and new clothes, especially if she was going to start interviewing again. Daniel, wanting to encourage her and feeling still guilty about the beer, offered a credit card and to accompany her on a shopping trip. She had taken the card but refused the company, saying she was going with her mother. Daniel, like the fool he was, believed her. When he got home that night, she gave him his card back and just said that she couldn’t face going outside just yet. She had been struggling to get a brush through her hair, that was her reason for not leaving the house. Daniel had expected this and generously gave her a hundred pounds in cash as an early Valentine’s present. He told her to get her hair done professionally and maybe treat her mother to lunch with the change. He had left his wife that morning with a mane of knotty hair, shoulder length, and had gone home to a wife with a neat little bob cut, sitting drinking tea with her mother. “You look nice.” That’s all he had said. Unprovoked, Sherri had looked at him like he was a piece of shit and snarled, “No thanks to you.” Anne-Marie had looked down, a rare flash of guilt crossing her face. He had been too s
hocked to say anything at the time. It wasn’t until later, when he noticed the hair in the bathroom sink, that he realised what had happened. She didn’t give him his money back, or say so much as a thank you. Daniel later found out, when he got his credit card statement, that she had gone out shopping, just not for clothes. She had spent over £200 on his card and had hidden the evidence all over the house. By then, it just didn’t seem worth fighting over.
It started again, the swaying motions, the drunken laugh, the dark circles started to reappear again under her eyes. But still they played let’s pretend. Let’s pretend it’s not serious. Let’s pretend Anne-Marie can handle it, that it’s under control. Let’s pretend that it’s not a relief, let’s pretend that Daniel doesn’t prefer drunk Anne-Marie, just because she was usually happier to see him.
“Was your wife encouraged to seek help about her drinking?”
“She didn’t want help.”
Anne-Marie had received some counselling after losing the baby. Daniel hadn’t. She never spoke about what happened in the sessions but afterwards she said she was never seeing “another god damn sicko psycho quacko”. She repeatedly insisted she was fine. Daniel lied and said he was fine too. They both drank heavily in that first dark month. Neither of them wanted to talk about it. The baby they used to love talking about became a taboo subject. “Just give her time,” people urged before quietly abandoning them. Give her time? No one ever gave him time, he had to get over it for her sake.
A resentful feeling grew in his stomach. It had rooted when the baby was lost, slowly growing a little more each day, then when he picked Anne-Marie up from the hospital, after that first “fall”, it seeded. He felt like he was being played; she had sauntered out of the hospital, grinning like a Cheshire cat, pausing only to stuff a leaflet in the closest bin. She was happy because she had managed to fool those “stupid doctors and shrinks” into letting her go. Daniel wasn’t happy, he thought it was all a game to her, that she played the lie game with everyone, seeing what she could get away with. Milking their pity and guilt for all she could get. He could never prove it, never quite managed to catch her out, never dared to air a suspicion. But he started wondering about what games she played with him; he had a new forbidden suspicion about the “baby” then. He didn’t dare risk the wrath of Sherri by mentioning it though, just tried to forget it, convince himself that he was wrong. She wouldn’t have gone that far, she wouldn’t have.
Anne-Marie didn’t fool those stupid shrinks as well as she thought. They had also met with Daniel afterwards, voiced their concerns, and he voiced his concerns, but they couldn’t quite agree on how badly she was fooling them. One thought she was in denial, but it wasn’t too serious yet. The other thought she did need treatment, but treatment would not be effective until she admitted there was a problem. They all agreed then that the fall had been an accident, not a cry for help. They talked about sectioning her but since she wasn’t seen as a serious danger to herself or other people, she could not be sectioned. That was Daniel’s fault, for helping hide her lies, for not telling them the truth about how bad it was. Daniel knew Sherri would destroy him if he dared to agree to sectioning her precious baby. He also had been warned that whilst Anne-Marie was this resistant to treatment, there was no helping her. Maybe he could convince her otherwise, they had suggested.
He had tried and tried but Anne-Marie never uttered those words that Daniel longed to hear: “I need help.” Maybe things would have been different if he had tried harder, if she wasn’t so stubborn, if he hadn’t lost their number.
Daniel is looking more relieved now, he thinks that the interview is nearly over, not knowing that Grimm and Colvin have only just started. They both know how easy it is to tell the lies on the first time round. Let the suspect get the full story out, don’t rush the liar, let them think they are fooling you, get everything down and then start again. See how well they remember their lies on the second and third round. Keep going over and over, until you can catch them out.
Now was time for the second round, time for the “I am sorry Mr Mills, but I didn’t quite understand …” “So you say she did this, can you describe …” “What was Anne-Marie doing when you …” “What makes you sure of the time when she …” “Is there anything you would like to add or clarify about this …?”
The more questions they ask, the more they repeat, the more Daniel Mills has to remember what he said previously, and the more lies he has to juggle in his mind. They are just waiting to catch him out on those little inconsistent details. Then when Mr Mills thinks it’s finally over this time, they will take a little break whilst they interview friends, family and neighbours for more details, view the autopsy notes and also review their video footage of the interview, checking for anything that hints that something has not been said. Then they will start another interview with Mr Mills, starting everything all over again, and then again and again, focusing in on those areas. “I am sorry, we just wanted to check …” “Please explain.” Until they finally wore the bastard down.
Chapter Eight
“Please state your full name.”
“Peter Fowler.”
Peter Too-Fucking-Tired-For-This-Shit Fowler.
Peter doesn’t care any more. How bad does that sound? His sister is dead and he is too tired to care. He has spent months being angry at Anne-Marie, wishing he was an only child, wishing his mother wasn’t so blind to her stunts, wishing Anne-Marie was dead – and now she is.
She had called him, drunk out of her mind, at 3 am this morning, she muttered some things he didn’t understand then refused to talk to him. He finally lost his temper, told her to go to fucking sleep. She told him to fuck off and hung up on him. Peter envies anyone who can go back to sleep after a conversation like that. No, he couldn’t go back to sleep. He then spent the next four hours tossing and inwardly ranting. He tried calling Anne-Marie back, just to be childish, teach her how it feels for a change, but she didn’t answer. The lucky bitch had probably passed out, it was alright for her, she could sleep till noon and no one would care. But he had to get up at seven, to work an eight till four shift. He tried to calm down, close his eyes, drift away but it felt like he had only blinked when his alarm began bleeping. Right now Peter feels like he could just rest his head against the table, despite the uncomfy chair, and just sleep, no matter what the two officers across from him might think.
“At what time did you receive a phone call from Daniel Mills?” The male officer asks, a tad irritably. From the expression on their faces, this is the second or third time they have asked this.
Peter is too tired to lie. The adrenaline has worn away and he can’t think. I don’t know what happened or what fucking time it was, what does it matter? he wants to yell but instead he answers, “It was some time around …” Another yawn, he just can’t help it, before finishing, “… one?” Peter had just been finishing his lunch break at the time when he saw he had an incoming call from Daniel and he decided to ignore it. He knew Daniel would only be calling to complain and he just didn’t want to hear it. With another yawn, Peter fishes his phone out of his pocket. “I can show you the time on here. He left a voicemail too … but I, um … I deleted it.”
He didn’t even listen to it, he just pressed delete, without a second thought. Voicemails like this were becoming all too frequent and he stopped listening to them weeks ago. What do you want me to do? he had wanted to shout at Daniel, I can’t cope with her either. He especially didn’t want to be fucking near her after last night.
“Do you remember what the voicemail said?”
“I didn’t listen to it.” Peter is too tired to explain, he just hopes they will shut up soon and let him go home.
The female officer is carefully looking over the call logs on the phone, making notes. She points out to Grimm what time Peter responded to that phone call and also that Daniel has made over eighteen phone calls to this phone recently. She also notes the frequency of calls from someone named “Bitch”
, the last call being received at 3 am that day.
“And you called him back just after four?” A feeling of dread made him call, what had the bitch done now? He had hoped whatever it was had passed, but no.
“Yeah, just when I finished work.”
“What state was he in when you called?”
“He was agitated, he said he was lost. We spent most of the call figuring out where he was.” Peter had little patience for bumbling Daniel, but agreed to pick him up. He immediately regretted the offer because it turned into another headache as they tried to figure out where Daniel was. All Daniel would say was that he was in a park, in a dazed voice that just made Peter want to slap him. It took ten minutes for Daniel to figure out that it was Kings Park. Peter had been so close to hanging up and leaving him to deal with his own shit, the only reason he even agreed to collect him was because he was going to get the pair of them together and make it very, very clear to both of them that they were not to call him again, no matter what the reason. Something had to be done before … before …
“I picked him up from Kings Park about twenty to thirty minutes later.”
Daniel had looked as tired and as angry as Peter felt. Peter took one look at the bright red scratches on Daniel’s beefy face and realised that this wasn’t the same old shit again, something had really happened this time. He tried to listen as Daniel babbled on and on, an endless loop of anger. “She has gone too far this time.” He kept repeating: “I want her gone.”
“We are going to sit down and talk through this together,” Peter had said through gritted teeth, whilst trying to navigate the traffic. He was so tired he could barely remember how to drive.
“I am tired of talking! I want her gone!”
Peter had nearly thrown Daniel out of his car at that point, despising the man-child. Why was he even getting involved? After last night’s, or rather this morning’s, phone call, he had spent the day telling himself that he was wiping his hands of the pair of them, for good this time. No more stunts. No more phone calls. No more whining from either of them. He was done.
