‘Hello Debbie, Constance. Thank you for coming in so promptly.’ Inspector Dawson entered the interview room at Hackney police station, late, at 6.15pm the following day, PC Thomas in tow. Constance noticed his crumpled, short-sleeved shirt, tucked into his trousers on one side only, and his tousled hair completed the picture of a man who had wrestled with sleep.
In contrast, Debbie appeared well-groomed. Her hair was drawn back into a taut ponytail with an olive-green cat hair clip, her flowery blouse softened her features and her nails were painted today, in a subtle shade of ivory. Constance thought her dressed for a Saturday magazine ‘what to wear’ photoshoot feature, rather than an interview with the local constabulary.
‘Do you have any leads yet?’ Debbie said.
Constance marvelled at Debbie’s poise in the circumstances, especially after her theatricality at their last encounter. Instead, today, she seemed composed and solid.
Inspector Dawson took a seat at the table, placing a large, brown envelope upon it, face down. PC Thomas slid in next to him.
‘Certainly,’ he said, ‘and I can deal with things quite quickly, I believe. There’s been a development. Two actually…or it might even be three.’
Debbie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Tell us, please,’ she said, resting her elbows on the table.
‘First of all, we’ve found the murder weapon.’
Constance held her breath.
‘And what is it?’ Debbie asked.
‘I can show you a photo if you like.’
Both Debbie and Constance leaned forward, as Dawson’s fingers probed the depths of the envelope and pulled out a pile of photographs. He selected one and thrust it in Debbie’s direction.
‘But that’s…Rosie’s,’ Debbie said.
‘Yes.’
‘What is it Inspector, please? I can’t see,’ Constance asked.
Dawson nudged the photograph in Constance’s direction. ‘It’s a trophy, made of some kind of resin, a bit damaged around one of the edges. It was found in a dustbin a few doors from the house. You’re confirming that this award belongs to Rosie Harper?’
‘Of course I am. It has her name on it.’
‘And where was it kept, do you know?’
‘I last remember it on the mantelpiece, right in the centre. Rosie had loads of trophies, but this one was always her favourite.’
‘Was anyone seen dumping it?’ Constance asked.
‘I can’t tell you that,’ Dawson said.
‘But you have a suspect?’ Debbie stared hard at Dawson, her mouth hanging open.
Constance removed her jacket and draped it on the back of her chair. Then she unscrewed the cap of her bottle and sipped at her water. Debbie was asking all the right questions, Constance thought.
Dawson nodded. ‘That’s my second piece of good news.’
PC Thomas, silent and impassive, handed him a bag, from which he extracted a sealed transparent package. Inside it there was a large, black, padded leather glove.
‘Is this yours?’ he asked Debbie.
‘Can I pick it up?’
‘Be my guest,’ he said.
Debbie lifted the package, squeezed it and held it close to her face, then turned it over. After a few seconds she said, ‘It could be.’ She passed it to Constance.
‘Is there any way of confirming that it’s yours?’ Dawson said.
‘If I had the left hand and it matched. But it’s a very ordinary glove. I have at least two pairs like this.’
‘It’s a make commonly bought for use on a motorbike…or moped, I understand,’ Dawson said.
‘A bestseller. That’s why I bought it.’
‘It was found at the scene, close to your wife’s body.’
‘You think the suspect left it behind?’
‘Oh come on, Debbie, drop the act. It’s fairly obvious that it’s your glove and it puts you squarely in the frame.’
‘Did you find the other one, of the pair?’
‘No. But we’ve tested this one, for DNA. We’ll have the results soon.’
‘How soon?’
‘A few days.’
‘Can’t you do it any quicker?’ Constance chipped in.
‘That’s how long it takes.’ Dawson stared pointedly at Constance and she looked away.
‘Is that it, then?’ Debbie sat back, and snatched a look at Constance too.
‘I haven’t got to development number three.’ Dawson held out his hand and PC Thomas deposited an iPad in it. Dawson fiddled with it for a few seconds, then laid it down on the table.
‘Your wife made a call to the emergency services back in 2017,’ he said.
Debbie shook her head.
‘You don’t remember? She said you’d assaulted her.’
‘What?’
‘The call is very real, I can assure you. We have a recording. Would you like to hear it?’
‘This is crazy. This is why you called me in?’
‘I’ll take that as a yes then.’ Dawson pressed play on the iPad and a woman’s voice blared out.
‘What service do you require caller?’
A quiet and shaky woman’s voice responded ‘Police’.
‘Where are you?’
‘At home,’ followed by a loud sob and the sound of a door being slammed and a lock being turned. Then more sobbing. Debbie closed her eyes tightly and then she stuffed her hand into her mouth.
‘Are you in danger?’
‘No, not any more, maybe…’
‘Did someone hurt you?’
‘Ah. Where to start? My husband…he…I got upset. I need the police to come. I need them to stop him.’
‘Is your husband there with you now?’
‘I think he’s gone. Oh God, I hope he’s gone.’
‘Tell us your address, then we can come and help you.’
‘I…I…no I don’t want…please…I’m fine now. I don’t need help. I don’t know…I shouldn’t have called. Just silly really.’
‘You said he hurt you?’
‘Well…he….’
Then a boy’s voice in the background. ‘Mum, are you in the bathroom?’
There was more rustling and the line went dead.
Debbie wiped the back of her hand across her eyes.
‘Look. I never “assaulted” Rosie. I would never hurt her,’ Debbie said.
‘So you accept that was Rosie’s voice?’
‘Even if that was her, on the call, you said it was two years ago. How can it have anything to do with who killed her? This can’t be all you have?’
‘It’s more than enough.’ Dawson folded his arms.
‘What else are you doing to find the killer?’ Debbie asked again, her mouth slackening around the edges, her fingers fluttering lightly against each other.
‘An eye witness saw you arrive at the house at around the time your wife was killed. You’ve confirmed the murder weapon was readily available in the living room and will, I’m sure, be covered in your fingerprints, you have a history of violence towards your wife and your glove was lying in the middle of a lake of blood on the floor. It couldn’t be clearer if your name was OJ Simpson!’
‘You think it was me. Oh God. This is some kind of sick joke.’
‘I don’t see anyone laughing.’
‘No, you’re wrong. Is this…is this all because I ran away? I saw it made a lot of trouble for you.’ The tremors in Debbie’s fingers spread across her hands and up her forearms. Dawson passed the iPad back to PC Thomas. ‘Why would I want to kill Rosie?’ she said.
‘We’ll have plenty of time to work that one out between now and the trial.’
Debbie sprang up and her chair crashed to the floor.
‘No!’ she cried out. ‘You’re wrong. You’re so wrong. And if you lock me up, you’ll stop looking for the real killer.’
Constance stepped towards her and reached out to take her arm, but Debbie thrust her away and backed against the wall. Dawson ignored Debbie’s outburst and took his time packing up the photograph and the glove. Then he rose deliberately to his feet, jabbed at the same spot on his spine which he had tweaked, when he had bent down to peek through Debbie’s letter box three days earlier, and began to intone the all too familiar words.
‘Debbie Mallard, I am arresting you for the murder of Miss Rosie Harper. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court.’
‘Debbie. It’s OK. We’ll sort this out,’ Constance waved at Dawson to allow her to speak. ‘And I’ll let your kids know where you are,’ she said.
Debbie stared through Constance.
‘I told you it wouldn’t take long,’ Dawson chirped. ‘Come with me then. We’ll find you somewhere comfortable to spend the rest of the afternoon. There might even be some footie on.’