I’m sitting in the interview room at Newport police station, and all I keep thinking is, do they suspect me? Am I under arrest? The officer said not, that they just thought it was better to continue our interview at the station, out of respect for Emily’s and James’s feelings. But still, they bagged up my clothes, ran a pick beneath my fingernails and took my fingerprints.
‘We’ll be doing the same with James and Emily,’ DCI Jacobs says. She has barely left my side since we departed Emily’s house, helping me as I signed in at the police reception desk, busy as it was in the murmuring, restless aftermath of New Year boozing and brawling. She’s told me she’ll be in charge of the investigation. Investigation.
‘You’ll be bagging up their clothes?’ I ask.
‘Well, no. But then their clothes weren’t covered in blood. It’s all straightforward procedure. We need to analyse yours to establish whether that’s your blood, Jess – or someone else’s – or Daisy’s.’
I feel sick every time they mention her name, every time a suggestion floats into the air, an unspoken implication that she could be hurt, or worse …
Another officer enters the interview room and places a cardboard cup of coffee on the table in front of me. I take a sip and wince: no sugar. I have a vague sense of him, a tall man in his forties, bearded, but my attention is focused on DCI Jacobs. She’s the one I have to convince. He takes a seat beside her and fiddles with the recorder as she turns to a fresh page in her notebook, jotting down the date and some other words I can’t make out from my position across the desk. And so the interview begins, going over all the same questions as before, and all the while I do my best to follow DCI Jacobs’ advice, slowing down my thoughts before I answer, trying to visualise the scene. But it’s hard, so hard, with these great slices of it missing.
‘What time did James and Emily leave for their party?’ DCI Jacobs asks, seamlessly returning back to the beginning again. Her expression is unreadable, the sharp lines of her face showing no clues as to what she really thinks of me, what she believes might have happened here.
‘Just after seven,’ I reply.
‘Do you know where the party was being held?’
I look back at her blankly. ‘No. I mean, I know it was at Marcus and Jan’s house, but I’m not sure exactly where they live on the island. Somewhere near Shanklin, I think? Fairbrother. That’s their surname.’
The inspector makes notes, even though the lights on the recorder show it is all being captured on tape. ‘And how do your sister and James know Marcus and Jan Fairbrother?’
‘He’s one of James’s oldest friends. And they’re business partners – they joined their two IT companies together a few years back, I think. You’d have to ask James for the exact details.’
‘So, you say they left for the party at 7pm? How can you be sure of the time?’ She’s clearly checking how reliable I am with the simple information, because she’s asking so many of these kinds of questions.
‘It was definitely close to 7pm – I know that’s right because Emily had been stressing about leaving on time, and Daisy was still not quite settled. I was in the kitchen, and James was putting on his coat and locking the back door. Emily was standing at the foot of the stairs, complaining that Daisy was still babbling away in her cot, and I told them to get on their way, that she’d be fine with me.’
DCI Jacobs nods for me to continue.
‘I’ve been looking after her since October, so I’m used to getting her to sleep.’
‘Three months ago. So, that was when you first moved in with your sister’s family?’
‘Yes. Emily only recently went back to work. She’s a teaching assistant at the local primary school. She’d interviewed lots of nannies and childminders but she hadn’t found anyone she was happy with, so when I offered she jumped at the idea.’
‘Are you a qualified childminder?’
My stomach lurches at the question; surely they suspect me, if they’re asking questions like this? ‘Not as such. But I did a bit of nannying on my travels, and I’m Daisy’s aunt, so I guess Emily felt she could trust me –’ The bit about nannying abroad is a lie and I flush hotly, wondering if they can tell. Suddenly the initial fib I told to Emily seems enormous, at once of great importance, but of course it’s too late to go back on it now, all these months later. What would Emily think?
‘And you say Emily hadn’t been able to find a suitable childminder – why was that?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What reasons did she give for their unsuitability?’
‘Oh. I don’t know – she’s got quite high standards – dietary requirements, weaning plans, that kind of thing – and I guess some of them felt they couldn’t work with that; and others just weren’t, well, her cup of tea, I suppose. She’s a really good mum, really conscientious. You’ve got to click with the person who’s looking after your children, haven’t you? You’ve got to be able to trust them.’
DCI Jacobs nods slowly. ‘Have you ever had children of your own, Jess?’
I shake my head, finding it hard to meet her eyes. I don’t like the feel of these questions at all.
‘And what about Emily’s stepdaughter, Chloe? She’s, what, fifteen? I understand she was out for the night. How do you get along with her?’
‘Chloe? She’s a great kid, I love her. We get on really well.’
DCI Jacobs refers to her notes. ‘I believe Chloe’s mother died when she was very young – and Emily and James got together a year or so later?’
‘Yes. I think Chloe was maybe two or three?’
‘Does Chloe get on well with your sister – her stepmum?’
Is this a trick question? ‘Yes,’ I reply, but she registers the pause in my voice and instantly I feel as though I’ve betrayed Emily. I’m so bloody exhausted and I know I’m getting it all wrong; even when I’m telling the truth, my voice says I’m lying. How am I supposed to behave? How are you meant to arrange your hands on the desk – to focus your gaze – to pitch your tone of voice – when all the while you know they’re on the lookout for tiny signs of nervousness and deceit? The despair washes over me and for a moment I can’t even remember what she was asking me.
‘Emily and Chloe?’ DCI Jacobs’ eyes widen slightly, urging me to elaborate.
‘They’re just a normal family – they get on one minute, fall out the next. I was the same at that age. Chloe’s a teenager, it’s what you’d expect!’
‘But Chloe gets on well with you?’
‘Yes, of course, but I’m not her mum, am I? It’s easy for me. I try to spend a bit of time with her at weekends, to give Emily some space with Daisy. Em gets really tired; it’s hard going back to work after having a baby.’
‘How is she when she gets tired? Does she ever lose her temper?’
‘No!’
An expression of disbelief is fixed on DCI Jacobs’ face. ‘Never?’
I want to scream, the way she’s turning me in circles. ‘Well, of course she does sometimes,’ I reply, irritation showing in my voice. ‘She’s not a robot! But not with Daisy, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Daisy’s such an easy baby, Emily would never have cause to lose her temper with her. She’s a baby, for God’s sake! Ems might occasionally lose her temper with James or Chloe – me even – but never with Daisy.’
The questions keep coming. ‘And what does Chloe think of Daisy? Is it possible she might feel a bit sidelined?’
I laugh, and I can tell from their expressions that it’s not appreciated. ‘No! If you think Chloe has anything to do with this …’ I can hardly believe what they’re implying. ‘Chloe loves her sister! And anyway, she was staying with a friend last night. She wasn’t even there. She was at Beth’s house.’
The other officer jots down a few notes.
‘So,’ DCI Jacobs continues, ‘let’s get back to last night. After Emily and James left, did you check on Daisy at all?’
I think hard, walking myself through the unremarkable moments of my evening, careful to get it straight in my head before I answer. ‘Yes, I did. I remember now, Daisy carried on chattering away in her cot for a while after they’d gone – I had the intercom on in the living room – but after about half an hour it turned into crying and I could tell she wouldn’t stop unless I went up to her. As soon as I went in I could smell she needed changing, and I ended up having to give her a quick bath, she was in such a mess. I changed her sheets and put her in a fresh sleep suit, and then I sat with her on my lap for five or ten minutes before she eventually dropped off. Then I put her in her cot and went back downstairs.’
‘Could someone have been in the house during that time, while you were upstairs?’
‘No-o,’ I reply cautiously, pausing a moment while I consider it. ‘No, I really think I’d know. I definitely didn’t hear anything, or notice anything different when I got back downstairs. And if someone had got in, then they would have had to hang around for, what, another four hours or so before snatching Daisy?’
But now I’m thinking, could there have been someone in the house with me all that time? Watching, listening, waiting for their moment?
‘So when you got downstairs, what did you do?’
‘Nothing – I told you, the TV was on, but I wasn’t really watching it. I flicked through a few magazines; I probably snoozed a bit. I ate a few chocolates.’ Both officers are staring at me, waiting for more. I don’t know what they want me to say; what should I say? ‘Quality Streets, I think.’
‘Did you drink at all?’
I think about the bottle of prosecco that James opened in the kitchen before they left, surreptitiously pouring me a glass while Emily was starting the car. He handed it to me with a little smile, an our-little-secret kind of smile, and he returned the bottle to the fridge before racing out after her. ‘No,’ I reply. I know they will judge me more harshly if I tell the truth; that they’ll suspect me. More than anything, I couldn’t bear for Emily to know, for her to think that my having a drink was the cause of all this. I wasn’t even drunk, I mean, not drunk drunk – just a bit looser around the edges. It was New Year’s Eve, for God’s sake! Who doesn’t have a few drinks at New Year? ‘No, just tea,’ I say. ‘I remember making a cup of tea around eightish. Maybe 8.15.’ I know I finished the bottle, because I remember going out through the back door to carefully push the empty far down into the recycling bin, to conceal it beneath the milk cartons and mustard jars and cheese cracker boxes. Did I lock the back door again? Yes, I’m certain, because I remember testing the handle before I went back to the living room, and then I know I dozed off for sure.
‘And after that? Do you remember anything at all?’
‘Nothing,’ I tell DCI Jacobs, because, after that, I really don’t remember a single thing.
I like to think of myself as the kind of person who finds it difficult to lie, but, if I search myself, I know that’s a lie in itself. We all lie, don’t we? Little fibs, everyday untruths, the tweaking of facts to help us sail through life more smoothly. We lie to our dentists about daily flossing, to doctors about our units of alcohol, to friends about why we arrived late; and, let’s face it, daily to ourselves about how we’re really feeling, what we’re really thinking. Are they lies? Not if they harm no one, surely? It must be true that if their intention is only to make others feel better, to reassure, to remove the prospect of disappointment – surely that has to be a good thing? Not lies, perhaps, but mere fine-tuning. Take the lie about my nannying experience, for example: it was at Mum’s funeral, when both Emily and I were giddy with the joy of our effortless reunion, that Emily had impulsively blurted out her idea that I could care for baby Daisy. My stomach had flipped over – yes, I knew, I would love that – but, as quickly as Emily had suggested it, a flicker of doubt or regret passed across her face like a dark cloud.
‘I was a nanny in Canada for six months,’ I said, so convincingly that I almost believed it myself. ‘They were a lovely family, with a four-year-old and a young baby – the mum said I was a natural! I would’ve stayed if it hadn’t been for my air ticket home.’
Emily’s face had relaxed into a delighted smile, and I didn’t feel bad about the lie; I knew I’d said the right thing. ‘Leave it with me,’ she said, and her eyes searched the room for James, finding him standing over at the fireplace talking to some of Mum’s elderly neighbours. The trio of white-blonde women were animated, clearly entranced by this handsome man who chatted and laughed with ease, including every one of them in his attention. There was something boyish about him, and in the short few hours since I had met him I could see what the women found so enchanting about him. Already I liked James; he was one of the good ones.
‘Will James be all right with it?’ I asked, wondering how he would feel about me – essentially a stranger – moving into his home. I was startled by how anxious I suddenly felt at the idea of this spontaneous plan not becoming a reality.
Emily cupped her hand beside her mouth, and the conspiratorial gesture was so familiar that I wondered for a moment if I was dreaming. Could I really be here with Emily? Emily with her flawless fair skin and her glinting chestnut eyes, so like my own – Emily with her glossy dark hair and long manicured nails, still every bit the bigger sister, the grown-up. God, how I had missed her – how I had missed the things that made us so different; the things that made us the same.
She had smiled deviously. ‘I’m the boss when it comes to all things childcare – he’ll be fine with it.’
Of course, it did all work out, and within a fortnight I had packed my meagre belongings, sailed across the sparkling Solent waters to the Isle of Wight and moved into Emily’s lovely family home. I must have got better at lying, I think now, because Emily didn’t flush out the fib the way she usually would; either that, or my sister’s inner lie-detector had weakened over the years. Or perhaps she had sussed me out straight away, spotted the lie, but wanted me anyway. Perhaps she needed me in her world again, wanted me entwined in her life as I had been before, when we were young, young enough to forgive each other our differences. Young enough to forgive each other our mistakes.