When Jack came downstairs, Molly looked at his grey complexion and dull, staring eyes and decided it was not the time to bring up the subject of leaving his job again. She’d planted the seed; it might take time for it to germinate.
‘I’m heading to bed,’ she said, reaching to plant a soft kiss on his cheek. ‘Are you going to be long?’
He went to fetch the wine bottle from the fridge. There was a glass left in it, maybe a little more; he took it and a glass to the sofa and sat before answering. ‘I’m going to watch TV and chill for a bit,’ he said, pouring the wine. He didn’t look at her as he picked up the remote, the blare of some music station accompanying Molly as she left the room.
She was glad Freya and Remi weren’t here. Both were intelligent, they’d have picked up on the strange vibes in the house in an instant. She’d have to be careful when she spoke to them on Skype, inject some positivity into her voice. Lie. She smiled grimly. She’d lie.
It was a while before, finally, she shut all her worries away and closed her eyes. Within minutes, she was asleep and despite her concerns, she slept solidly until a noise disturbed her. The doorbell? Opening her eyes, she grabbed her phone and groaned when she saw it was only six. She must have imagined it. Turning on her side, she tried to get back to sleep.
But the doorbell went again, longer this time, the sound pealing through the house. She threw back the duvet and got up, grabbing a robe from the back of the door and pulling it on. There was no sound from the spare bedroom and she felt a twinge of annoyance that it was left to her to open the door to who knew what at such an ungodly hour.
She ran barefooted down the stairs, switched off the alarm and checked the safety chain was in place before unlocking the door. The chain allowed a six-inch gap. She peered through it, blinking in surprise at the two men on the doorstep, both holding identification. Police. Her heart plummeted and she shut the door, her fingers fumbling with the safety chain in her haste to open it. Dear Lord, please, not Freya or Remi. The words going around and around in her head, until at last she pulled the door open.
She stood, one hand on the door, the other on the frame, her white silky robe with its batwing sleeves making her look like an avenging angel. ‘Not my children,’ she said, her voice husky with emotion.
The men were tall, maybe six foot, and broad so that they filled the space in front of the door. The older of the two, took a half-step forward. ‘My name is Detective Inspector Fanshawe, and this is Detective Sergeant Carstairs. May we come in?’
Their faces gave nothing away. Molly dropped her hands and stood uncertainly before standing back and waving them inside.
She indicated the door to the study. ‘Please go in. I’ll go and get my husband.’
DI Fanshawe held a hand up to stop her. ‘It might be best if we speak to you first, Mrs Chatwell.’
She looked at him, feeling the ground move unsteadily under her feet. ‘If it’s to do with Freya or Remi, shouldn’t he be here?’
‘They’re your children?’ Fanshawe asked, waiting until Molly whispered a strangled yes before continuing. ‘We’re not here about them.’
She clasped her hands to her chest in relief, then frowned. It had to be something serious to bring two policemen to her front door at such an early hour, but if it wasn’t about the children, what was it about? ‘Would you like some coffee?’ she asked. ‘I certainly need some to wake myself up.’
When the men nodded and gave their preferences, she went into the kitchen to fill the kettle, her mind spinning as she waited for it to boil. What would they want with her? Her. Not Jack.
She made coffee, added sugar to one, milk to all three and, gathering them awkwardly, headed back to the study where the two men were still standing.
‘Please, sit down,’ she said, putting the coffees on one of the two desks that were still scattered with the remnants of Freya and Remi’s studies. She waited until the men sat before handing them their coffee and sitting onto the small bucket chair in the corner. The coffee was hot, but she drank it anyway, hoping the caffeine would race to her brain to make it start functioning, maybe even give her some clarity.
She looked at the two men as she sipped. They were fairly handsome despite their ill-fitting suits and cheap shirts. The detective inspector was, she guessed, about her age, the sergeant a few years younger. Each had hard eyes and grim mouths but there was a fan of wrinkles around the older man’s eyes; when he wasn’t working it looked as though he smiled a lot. The younger man’s face was just grim.
‘Why are you here?’ she asked, cupping her hands around her mug and wishing she’d insisted Jack be called.
DI Fanshawe took a few sips before putting the mug down and taking a notebook from his pocket. ‘Before we begin,’ he said, tapping it with a well-chewed pen, ‘I think it’s best if we read you your rights. Keep it formal and correct, you understand.’
Molly’s jaw dropped. Shutting it with an audible snap, she forced an uncertain laugh. ‘There must be some mistake, what am I supposed to have done?’ In the television dramas she watched, this was where she was supposed to ask if she should get a solicitor. She wanted to laugh, but none of this was remotely funny.
Ignoring her question, Fanshawe said words she’d only ever expected to hear in TV programmes. ‘Do you understand your rights, as I have informed you?’
She looked at him. She’d done nothing wrong, yet fear shimmied down her spine. ‘Yes,’ she said, she understood her rights, but she’d no idea why they were being read. ‘Do I need to have a solicitor present?’
DI Fanshawe tilted his head. ‘That is certainly your prerogative, Mrs Chatwell. We are merely looking for information; reading you your rights allows us to use any information you may give us. If you prefer, you can come with us to the station and we can wait for your solicitor there.’
She shook her head. ‘No, that’s okay. I’m happy to cooperate. I have done nothing wrong.’
He gave a slight smile, as if of approval, and sat forward, hands dangling between his spread knees to look at her with cold grey eyes. ‘Do you know a man named Oliver or Ollie Vine?’
Her brow furrowed as she thought of all the men in the office. She was almost sure none of them was called Oliver. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said hesitantly. ‘There are always people coming and going in work though, one of the newer ones that I haven’t met might be–’
‘This isn’t someone in your office,’ Fanshawe interrupted her.
‘Socially,’ she said with more conviction, ‘I don’t know anyone called Oliver Vine.’ Her eyes flitted from one man to the other. Neither was giving anything away. What the hell was going on?
Fanshawe turned a page of his notebook, placed it on the coffee table and gave it a little nudge in her direction. ‘Is that your phone number?’
She picked it up. Was it? She’d no idea. ‘I’ll have to go and get my mobile,’ she said, ‘it’s not a number I’ve memorised.’ When he nodded, as if to give her permission, she lifted her chin in annoyance. ‘I want to know what this is all about,’ she said, crossing her arms.
But if that attitude was effective with junior members of her staff in Dawson Marketing, it wasn’t with the two policemen who sat unmoving opposite.
‘If you’d go and get your phone, Mrs Chatwell.’
She stood, threw him a baleful glance and left the room. Upstairs, she stood for a moment at the door of the spare bedroom. Jack would know what to do, she’d call him, he’d get rid of them. But there was something in the detective inspector’s eyes that made her hesitate. Maybe she’d better wait and see what on earth was going on.
She grabbed her phone from the bed table, unplugging the charging lead. Looking down at her robe, she swore softly. The soft fabric made her look feminine and weak. Quickly, she took it off, pulled on underwear and a white shirt and jeans from her wardrobe. Better.
She didn’t bother with shoes and ran lightly down the stairs.
The two men hadn’t moved. They sat with the mugs of coffee in one hand, their legs spread in that relaxed masculine way as if they were there on a social visit.
She sat in the same chair, waving her mobile. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘my number is…’ She read it aloud, her eyes widening as she realised they matched the numbers written on the notebook. ‘It seems it is my number,’ she said unnecessarily.
Fanshawe took his notebook back with a satisfied nod. ‘So, although you don’t know Oliver Vine, you were sending him messages.’
Colour leeched from her face. The man on the canal. Oliver Vine. She gulped. ‘I didn’t know his name,’ she muttered. ‘A message. I sent him one message.’
‘Ah yes. What was it you wrote again?’ He turned pages in his notebook, stopping when he got to one, throwing her a look before reading, ‘I’m sorry I misread the signals. I don’t want to meet you. Please don’t come to my house again. I’ve told my husband how stupid I was. Now I want to forget it happened.’
DS Carstairs, who’d not yet opened his mouth, gave an unamused snort.
‘Were you and Oliver Vine lovers, Mrs Chatwell?’ Fanshawe asked calmly.
She ran a hand through her unbrushed hair. ‘No,’ she said emphatically, then dropped her hand into her lap. ‘No, we weren’t.’ She looked from one to the other of the men but if she expected a lessening of their stern regard, she was disappointed. They stared at her as if she was an object of fascination and didn’t say a word.
She’d watched enough police series in her day, she knew they were waiting for her to speak, to talk herself into something. What that was, she’d no idea. She blinked, taking stock. She had done nothing wrong. Humiliating herself wasn’t a crime.
‘I’m not sure what business it is of the police,’ she said, drawing her shoulders back and looking the detective inspector directly in the eye.
Fanshawe looked at her coldly. ‘Where were you between five and five-thirty yesterday afternoon?’
She shook her head, confused at the change in direction. ‘Why?’
‘Because in that short window, somebody murdered Oliver Vine.’