Twenty-Eight
Now
‘You didn’t tell me if you have a husband,’ I whisper to Claire as we’re escorted to an interview room. It’s something to distract me, to make-believe everything’s normal even though my legs feel as though they’re about to give way.
After I’d spoken to Claire they’d taken me back to my cell for an hour, maybe more, and I drifted in and out of sleep, my back aching as I lay on the thin plastic mattress, staring up at the camera in the corner. Then they said I was going to be interviewed by the detectives, that my solicitor would be there with me. Good, I’d thought, thinking that I’d soon be able to go home, once they realised I hadn’t done anything wrong.
‘I’m not married,’ Claire says quietly, shuffling some papers around once we’re seated. I know she’s only answering to be polite, that I’m just another face in custody. Perhaps a little different to most – middle-class mother with her own business, a cute little daughter, a professional husband. But, in her eyes, still a potential criminal. A murderer.
I give Claire a look, as though we’re best buddies already, that we have a connection even though we’ve only known each other for less than an hour. But she’s all I’ve got right now. I wonder if Sean has had a phone call yet, knows where I am, if he’s outside right this minute trying to arrange my release. I know he’ll be doing all he can, frantic with worry.
‘Have you ever been in love, then?’ I ask her, hearing voices outside in the corridor, layered over the occasional drunken shrieks from the cells further down. I have no idea what time it is, and there are no windows, but it must be late. Is that their tactic – wait until I’m too exhausted and disorientated to answer coherently? I don’t even know how long I’ve been here.
Claire lets out a little laugh. ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘But sometimes love isn’t enough.’
I think about this, wondering what else would make it enough. Loyalty, commitment, honesty, trust… fidelity?
‘Maybe you’re right,’ I whisper as the guarding officer opens the interview room door. Claire clears her throat and stands up. DI Jones strides in, his big hands wrapped around yet more paperwork, his shirtsleeves rolled up over thick forearms. The edge of a faded greeny-blue tattoo pokes out from beneath the scrunched-up cuff. I recognise the woman with him from when they came to the cottage together. She’s also in plain clothes – black tapered trousers, wide at the top to accommodate her middle, and a tucked-in white shirt with a grey tank top underneath. Her dark hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail, a few wisps escaping at the sides, grey roots appearing at her temples. Thick fingers, stocky limbs, eyes that latch on to me as soon as she comes in and sits down, plus a tight mouth that looks as though it would spit bullets. I wouldn’t want to mess with her. I won’t mess with her.
Oh, Sean, I cry in my head, conjuring up an image of him next to me, holding my hand, guiding me through what to say. I wish he was here and, even though he’s not, I sense he’s close, thinking of me too.
‘Detectives,’ Claire says, briefly shaking hands with them as they sit down. I don’t move. Can’t move. I hang my head, staring at my lap, hoping I’ll wake up at any minute.
‘Mrs Randell,’ DI Jones says. He’s always called me Libby before.
‘Sir,’ I say, hardly daring to look up, wondering if that’s what I should call him.
‘As you already know, this is DC McCaulay,’ he goes on. ‘Do you want to start the recording, please?’ he says to her. When the device is active, he states where we are, the time – it turns out it’s only twenty past eight in the evening – and then he gives his name and his number, getting the other detective to do the same. ‘Also present is…’ He looks at my solicitor.
‘Claire Swithland, solicitor with Raby, Swithland and Stone,’ she says.
‘Would you please state your full name and date of birth, Libby,’ he says, reverting to my first name.
‘Elizabeth Mary Randell, twenty-fourth of February 1979.’
‘Thank you. You’re under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Sasha Long and we’re going to be interviewing you in relation to that. We’re going to make sure you know all your rights and ask you some questions, do you understand?’
I nod, staring at my fingers, turning my wedding band around and around, allowing the detective’s words to flow through me as he tells me what to expect, what I’m entitled to, repeating that he will be recording the entire interview.
‘OK. Let’s make a start.’ He looks through some papers. ‘Tell me about your relationship with your husband, Libby,’ he says, leaning back in his chair. It’s the first time I’ve seen that he’s got a beer belly. Not a huge one, but the way he’s sitting – hands clasped across his chest, legs slightly apart, chair tipped back – shows it straining at his shirt buttons.
I look him in the eye, trying to smile. Sean said it was important to be polite and friendly whenever we dealt with the police. ‘What would you like to know?’
‘Oh, you know. Day-to-day stuff, how you both rub along, if there are any arguments or maybe you’re the perfect dream team?’ DI Jones gives a creased smile back.
‘We’re just normal, I suppose,’ I say, wanting to ask why this is even relevant. But I need to stay calm, on track, listen out for questions I don’t want to answer. I glance across at Claire and she gives me a little nod, reassuring me. ‘Like any married couple.’
‘So you have your ups and downs?’ DI Jones goes on.
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘It’s normal. We’re normal.’
‘Who would you say wears the trousers in the household? You or your husband?’ DC McCaulay chips in.
‘What?’
‘As in who’s the boss? There’s always one a bit more dominant, wouldn’t you say?’
I wrinkle up my nose, looking at each of them before turning to Claire. She gives me another nod. ‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘Both of us?’
‘We’re the ones asking the questions, if that’s OK with you,’ DC McCaulay says.
‘Both of us,’ I repeat, without the inflection. ‘We’re equals. We make decisions together and parent Alice together. We both work hard and share all responsibilities.’ Sweat breaks out on my back as my heart speeds up. But, of course, that’s what they want. I take a breath.
‘Have you ever had an affair, Libby?’ DC McCaulay continues.
‘What?’
‘An extramarital affair. Have you ever had one?’
‘No!’ I say, wondering if I should have added ‘comment’ afterwards.
‘How long have you and Sean been married?’
‘Nearly five years, and together for going on seven,’ I say.
‘And were you married before that?’
‘No, Sean is my first husband. I was in a relationship for a few years before I met him, but it didn’t… it didn’t work out.’
‘Can you tell us why?’ DC McCaulay asks, looking up from notes she’s taking.
I swallow, looking at Claire. She mumbles something but DI Jones talks over her. ‘Did you have an affair, Libby?’ He brushes his hand across his nose. ‘Is that why your previous relationship ended?’
I stare at him, my thoughts dragging back to when I was with David, when I met him, how, within a matter of weeks, we knew we wanted to be together forever. We just ‘fitted’ – our bodies and minds slotting together, literally as though we’d been made for each other. That’s what David said anyway, on our first date. Then, within three months, he’d convinced me to give up my flat, move in with him, and it wasn’t long after that when it all began – him getting upset if I went out with my friends, checking through my phone, following me to work, phoning me about fifty times a day. He was convinced I was having an affair.
‘No,’ I say flatly as old feelings course through me. The familiar denial, making me wonder if I was going mad, if perhaps I’d given the wrong signals to a guy at work and I was actually having an affair without even realising it. Sometimes I’d thought it would be
easier to say I was, just to stop David going on about it. He’d have thrown me out, at least. Because there was no way he was letting me go otherwise.
‘Does the name David Toft ring any bells?’
‘Yes, he’s the person I lived with before I met Sean. I don’t see how—’
‘David Toft says you had an affair,’ DC McCaulay chips in. ‘And that’s why you split up.’
‘No!’ I cover my face, dropping my head down. ‘You’ve spoken to him? He’s ancient history as far as I’m concerned. He doesn’t even know Sasha. He was a controlling—’ I halt myself just in time, but can’t help my cheeks colouring, my shoulders tensing, the adrenalin racing through me. ‘Look,’ I say, trying to stop my voice shaking, knowing they want me to lose my cool. ‘David was convinced I was. But I wasn’t.’
Claire leans over to me, whispers something in my ear.
‘Did you write the note that was left on your car windscreen, Libby?’ DI Jones says.
‘What?’ I say, my head spinning as I wonder how they even know about the note. Sean and I agreed not to mention it, deciding that it was irrelevant and, frankly embarrassing, he’d said. But perhaps he’d changed his mind. ‘Why would I do that?’ I sound breathy, panicked.
Stay calm, Lib, Sean told me after the police had left Marion’s after yet another visit for what DI Jones described as an informal chat. They’d been to see Jan and Phil too, plus a couple of others in the village. Word got around. Tongues wagged.
‘I’ll ask you again. Did you write the note that you found on your car windscreen stating that your husband was having an affair?’
Claire leans in again, whispers something.
‘No comment,’ I say reluctantly, wanting to scream.
‘Can you tell me who Angus Prior is?’ DC McCaulay asks.
My eyes flip between the two detectives, each of them staring at me.
‘I…’ My mouth is almost too dry to get the words out. ‘I suppose David told you about him too, right? Well, contrary to what you’ll have no doubt heard, Angus was a friend. A good friend, but that’s all. He got me out of a… a bad place.’ I don’t know why they’re mixing up past and present.
‘Did David Toft ever have an affair, to your knowledge?’
My heart hurts – a twinge of pain as it clenches and unclenches. ‘Almost certainly,’ I say. ‘Practise what you preach, don’t they say? And he was always preaching to me about being unfaithful. But I still don’t see what…’ I shake my head. I mustn’t be argumentative. Just play their game. ‘Yes, I believe he did.’ The red flags were there but I chose to ignore them. I’ll never forgive myself for that.
‘So it’s fair to say that you were very hurt by the experience, that you’d naturally be wary, even suspicious, of partners in the future?’
‘I guess,’ I say. ‘But I trust Sean.’
‘You trust him, or you trusted him?’
I shake my head, upturning my palms. ‘I trust him.’ Then I clench my fists, trying to hide the sweat.
‘Is this your handwriting, Libby?’ DC McCaulay asks, producing a clear plastic sleeve with half a sheet of slightly crumpled A4 paper in it. She slides it in front of me and, as I lean over, I see it’s a shopping list.
‘Yes, it is,’ I say, only needing to take a glance. Sean always joked about how careful I was with my writing, how it was so different to his scrawl.
‘And this?’ she continues, producing another piece of paper in a similar sleeve. It’s a letter I began writing to my aunt, but never got around to finishing or posting. She loves getting news updates and a couple of photos of Alice in the post. They must have found it in the study.
‘Yes, I wrote that too.’
‘And did you write this?’ the detective asks, passing across yet another piece of paper.
I stare at it, not knowing what to think. ‘I… I…’ I reach out for the plastic sleeve, picking it up, my eyes scanning over the words.
I’m warning you again about your husband. He’s having an affair.
The second note.
‘Did you write it?’ DI Jones says, echoing his colleague.
My cheeks burn. ‘This is not the note I found on my car. I… I don’t understand.’
‘Please answer the question, Libby. Did you write this? Is it your handwriting?’
I swallow. ‘No… no comment,’ I say quietly, my head hanging low as I recall hiding it among the other papers on my desk, intending to burn it later. I’d decided not to mention it to Sean – knowing it would do more harm than good – but when I came to destroy it, it had disappeared. Just like the first note. I can’t stand to think that Sean took it, but there’s no other explanation. And if he’s given this note to the police, then why not the first?
Everything will be OK… Just do as I say…
‘You seemed pretty certain about the other two handwriting samples. But uncertain about this one.’ DI Jones lines up all the samples to face me.
‘No comment,’ I reply.
‘The thing is, Libby, our experts say that the same person wrote all of these samples. Without exception. How do you explain that? I suspect you’re not telling me the truth here and that’s very serious. Do you know why?’
I give a tiny shake of my head, my shoulders drawn together.
‘I’ll tell you,’ he says, leaning across the table. ‘Because it makes me wonder what else you’re lying about.’ He speaks to me like I’m a child, each word deliberate and drawn out.
I look at them all again. ‘But the writing looks different to mine,’ I whisper, pointing to the plain block capitals on the note. ‘The “I” is leaning the opposite way here, look,’ I say quietly, touching my shopping list. ‘And the “g” isn’t the same. Plus my writing is much smaller. I don’t think they look the same at all. I’m sorry, I can’t explain it.’
‘I think I’ll take my handwriting expert’s word for it, if that’s all the same to you, Libby,’ DI Jones says, pausing. ‘Were you trying to disguise your handwriting, Libby? Make it look as though it was written by someone else?’
I shake my head. ‘No comment.’ Then I close my eyes, but all I see is David’s face up close to mine, accusing me over and over and over of sleeping with other men… secretly messaging other men… going out for drinks with other men… even looking at other men on television or in the street.
‘Is this the note you found on your car, Libby?’
‘No.’
‘So where is the note that you found on your car and what did it say?’
‘What does it have to do with Sasha? I thought that was why I’m here, not because of some stupid note.’ I half stand up, my fingers gripping the table, but I quickly sit down again when DC McCaulay makes a move. I cover my face, choking back a sob.
‘Answer the question, please,’ he says.
‘It… it said “Sean is having an affair”. Or something like that.’ Even though the words on the note were emblazoned on my mind from the moment I saw it, it’s almost as though it never existed, as though I’d dreamt it all up. ‘And I don’t know where it is.’
‘Let’s try this another way,’ DI Jones went on. ‘Would it be fair to say that whoever wrote the note you say you originally found on your car, also wrote this one?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘No comment.’ I hear Claire sighing and fidgeting beside me.
‘So where did you find this, what appears to be a second note, Libby?’
‘Nowhere,’ I say. ‘I’ve never… It wasn’t…’ I fall silent as I remember the pen shaking in my hand as I tried to disguise my writing. ‘No comment.’
‘Let’s move on for a moment,’ DI Jones says, gathering up the plastic sleeves. ‘You went out for a meal with your husband on Friday the nineteenth of October at the Old Fox pub in Chalwell, is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
You already know this a thousand times over, I want to yell.
‘Was there any particular reason for the meal out?’
; You know this too!
‘It was to clear the air.’
‘Meaning what?’ DC McCaulay asks.
I sigh. ‘I’d got upset about finding the note on my car.’
‘And did it clear the air?’
‘Yes,’ I say, forcing a tiny smile so I don’t betray the truth – that going out made things a hundred times worse. A million times worse.
‘Can you recall what you had to eat that night?’
‘Yes, we had a seafood sharing platter to start with – prawns, a couple of oysters each, some deep-fried squid, scallops and some crab claws. Then I had a mushroom and truffle risotto while Sean ordered the lamb shanks.’
‘Did you have any wine?’
‘Yes, a little,’ I say, feeling the colour rise in my cheeks again.
‘Did you have dessert?’ DC McCaulay asks, fiddling with her pen.
‘We were too full for dessert,’ I say. ‘The main courses were generous.’
‘What time would you say you left the Old Fox pub?’
I stare at the ceiling. I’ve already told him this several times before, too. ‘It’s hard to say exactly to the minute. We chatted to some friends in the bar first, then ate our meal slowly, lingering between courses. Then we sat and talked for ages afterwards. I’d say it was just before eleven. Maybe a bit after,’ I add, hearing Sean’s voice in my head.
‘You seem very certain about what you ate, yet rather unclear about the time you left.’
‘That’s as precise as I can be.’
‘How did you pay the bill?’
‘Is this relevant?’ I ask, wishing I hadn’t. ‘Is it helping to finding Sasha? If it is, I don’t mind but I don’t see—’
‘How did you pay the bill?’ the detective repeats.
‘Cash,’ I say. ‘It was quicker.’
‘You were in a hurry?’ McCaulay asks. ‘Why?’
‘Actually, no, I remember now. The card machine wasn’t working when I went to the bar to pay. That’s why I used cash. I wasn’t in a hurry.’
‘You went to the bar to pay the bill? Don’t you usually pay at the table there? Last time I took the missus to the Old Fox, that’s how it worked.’
Date Night: An Absolutely Gripping Psychological Thriller With a Jaw-Dropping Twist Page 18
