Chapter 28

Tuesday, 2nd November

‘You told the police you were just passing by, walking your dog.’

Oliver Lyle looks down as he speaks at a ruled notebook, a counsel’s notebook, exactly the same as I’ve used a thousand times in the past when talking to clients. I feel displaced sitting here on the receiving end of it all. Being the one needing help. And he’s taking so long. If I’d known the duty solicitor tonight was this man I would never have agreed to wait.

‘Yes,’ I say to the top of his balding head. The dome of his skull has a bony ridge, the sides of his angular head falling to a long, thin face. Skin over bone, no flesh beneath to soften his features. I can’t see his face as he concentrates on the writing he scrawls on the page.

‘But you were seen by a number of people, sitting, watching the houseboat. You were there for some time.’ He looks up at me and smiles. ‘Why would they say that if you were just walking along the towpath?’

‘I sat for a while. It’s good to be out of the house.’

‘In the fog?’

We look at each other. His smile is fixed, his eyes, cold.

‘I need to know the truth if I’m going to be any help to you, Mrs Keeling. I’m sure you understand?’

I do understand, I just can’t respond. I watch his closed expression, find no clues. I just want him to hurry up so we can get out of here.

‘Now, tell me. Have you visited the houseboat before?’

I shake my head.

‘Why were you going there? You were going there?’

‘I was taking him a cake. He hadn’t been well lately. But he was dead when I arrived, like I told the DCI.’

‘Why not just leave it there? Why go into the boat?’

‘I wanted to speak to him.’

‘About what?’

‘It’s not important.’

‘When you’re in court you’ll be asked these things. Others will decide what’s relevant. I need to know everything, as will anyone else who represents you. You know this very well, Mrs Keeling. Everyone will know you’re aware of these things. A qualified lawyer. They’ll wonder what you’re hiding.’

‘I’m not hiding anything! And I’m not going to be in court. He was dead when I arrived!’

My voice has risen in volume and pitch. The fear is twisting, tightening in the pit of my stomach. I suck in a breath, speak more slowly, as calmly as I can manage.

‘I need to call my husband. I can do that, can’t I?’

He continues to smile and stare, his eyes blank.

‘I’m not under arrest,’ I say, trying to grasp hold of this situation. Does this man know what he’s doing?

‘Tell me why you were visiting Mr Denning. Why not speak to him when he was working at Haverscroft? What was so important?’

A knock on the door. It opens a fraction, the WPC peers in. ‘You ready? DCI’s keen to resume the interview now you’re here, Mr Lyle.’

‘Five minutes.’

Lyle sounds irritated. The woman nods and closes the door. We listen to her soles squeak a retreat along the corridor.

‘Well, Mrs Keeling?’

The truth isn’t going to help me, suggesting Haverscroft has weird stuff happening.

‘I went to thank him for his help when our son fell into the pond. I was taking him a cake. Shirley Cooper can confirm that. I’ve no motive to harm him, quite the opposite.’

I hold Lyle’s gaze, relieved mine is fixed, that I don’t pull away before he seems satisfied and continues. ‘The police are aware that you didn’t like the man. He was odd, difficult and argumentative. That’s common knowledge . . .’

‘Who says I didn’t like him?’

Lyle holds up his pen, continues ignoring what I’ve said. There’s something unsettling about him, his sneering contempt makes me feel he knows something I don’t. It was there that first day we met in his office.

‘. . . as is the fact that you have been unwell yourself, Mrs Keeling.’

Do the police really know all this, has Mark or somebody else told them? Or is Lyle making more of it than he should be?

‘The police will have spoken to passers-by, people close to you. The towpath was busy today, despite the fog. You were in the vicinity of the houseboat for in excess of an hour. Your bag was found there and your phone. Why were they in the boathouse of someone you barely knew and didn’t like? They’ll ask you all these things. You must have answers, your silence will be held against you.’

The police know I was there, I used my mobile to call them. At least they’ve found it. And my bag, the cake tin, all left there in the chaos that followed my discovery. Why is this man acting as though I’m under some sort of suspicion?

‘Do the police know, Mr Lyle, of your argument with Richard Denning? Do they know you didn’t get along, and why you argued with him and Mrs Havers?’

A flicker of surprise crosses his features. Why did Mrs Havers despise this man so much? He’s a cold fish for sure, but even so, her loathing seems more than just dislike.

‘If the police are interested in people Richard Denning had trouble getting along with, I’d suggest they should speak with you, Mr Lyle.’ He watches my face intently for several seconds. I won’t let him unsettle me. ‘You purchased all the Haverscroft land and you want the house too, don’t you?’

‘None of this is a secret, Mrs Keeling, and it’s all above board. You’ve checked out the Land Registry?’

I nod, remembering all the information I’d read on Shirley’s iPad, the land being sold off, lot by lot over the last twenty years. I’d found nothing irregular, but Lyle makes my skin crawl, the sooner we are done the happier I’ll be.

‘Mrs Havers, like many old families, was asset-rich but cash poor. Her claim she was made to sell is a ludicrous one. All the land was professionally valued, full market-price paid. Richard Denning was very likely mislead, as many have been, by that woman’s scandalous and unfounded allegations.’

He holds my gaze as my brain scrambles for words. What he says makes sense. Was Mrs Havers simply distressed about selling her home? Am I letting my own dislike of Oliver Lyle get in the way a rational judgement?

‘Her financial situation became critical. Fairfield is an expensive place to live in; the fees keep coming. Mrs Havers had no option but to sell the house.’

‘Her home.’

‘She refused to sell to me simply out of spite. I was, by rights, due the house after buying the land. I’m sure you’ll agree, now you have all the facts.’

We watch each other silently for a long moment.

‘But we digress, do we not? I’m not the one the police are questioning, Mrs Keeling. I’m not the one there today for a period of time I can’t sensibly account for.’ The smile again. I hold his stare. ‘Remember, I’m here to assist you. To represent your best interests.’

‘You remember, I am here on a voluntary basis. When I saw him, he was lying on his back at the bottom of the stairs. There was nothing I could do to help him. The police know that. They know why my bag and things would be there.’

He’s right. I must have answers, sound firm and unhesitating, and at present I don’t. The police have to take a statement from me. I found a dead person, they have to check it out, that’s all. I know this. I’m gripping the sketch pad so hard I’m scrunching the edge of the page. I look down at the drawing and take a deep breath.

‘Where are my children, Mr Lyle? Does Shirley Cooper have them?’

He taps his pen on his notebook.

‘They’re with their father, naturally. I assumed you knew that. He smiles, a tight insincere movement of his lips.

‘Are they at Haverscroft?’

The pit of my stomach turns over just at the thought of my children being anywhere near that place.

‘How would I know, Mrs Keeling? It has no relevance to the matters we are discussing.’

I stare at him, my mind racing. Would Mark have taken the children to Jennifer’s, or are they at Haverscroft? Mark said he couldn’t have any more time away from chambers. The children will be with Shirley or his mother. Not at Haverscroft.

I stand although there is nowhere to move to. The room is only a few feet wide, the door close enough to reach out and touch. I can’t bear to be in this room with this repulsive man for one more second. If the twins are at the house, they aren’t safe, I’m sure of it. Mark doesn’t get it, he won’t look for danger.

I stare at Oliver Lyle as he stands. He isn’t going to help me, all he does is confuse and delay me and I don’t know why. I press the buzzer beside the door and hear the WPC’s quick footsteps along the corridor. A sharp rap, knuckles on wood, the door swings open.

‘Ready now?’ The WPC looks hopeful, it’s late, perhaps nearing the end of her shift.

I nod in reply.

‘Mr Lyle has given me helpful advice.’ I look at the solicitor. ‘I’ll take it from here now, on my own.’