seventeen

“I fancy having a brain scan.”

“Huh?”

“In the interests of research.” For reasons unknown, Jim Copplestone had taken up residence in my office during the lunch hour. It was hammering down with cold, sleety rain outside and I’d decided to stay put and eat a sandwich indoors. It was supposed to be a peaceful oasis in my day and was proving to be anything but.

“Imagine how you’d feel if you found out that you had the same markers as a psychopath.”

I looked up. “I can tell you for nothing you haven’t.”

For a moment he looked disappointed. “But imagine if one did.” He pushed back in his chair, stretched out his legs, hitched his hands behind his head, in pontificating mode, and regaled me with a story of an eminent American psychiatrist who’d persuaded his entire extended family to have brain scans only to discover that one stood out from the crowd: his.

“Aside from being knocked sideways, he was pretty horrified to find out that his wife was the least surprised by his findings. She’d always known him to be a psychopath.”

“Don’t you mean sociopath?” I said.

Jim blew out his thin cheeks. “Ah well, now you’re into different territory.”

“True.” Even if there were common denominators. “Look, Jim, it’s really fascinating stuff, but do you mind?” I waved my sandwich, which was currently poised halfway between my plate and mouth. “I was hoping to have a quiet five minutes.”

“Fair enough.” He pitched forward, both hands slapping his skinny thighs. “Before I leave you to it, a quick word about Imogen Miller.”

Defeated, I returned the sandwich uneaten to the plate. “What about her?”

“Did you get the impression that she was in imminent danger of self-harming?”

“It was tricky to get an impression at all. I’d hardly squeezed more than a few words out of her. Problem?”

Jim’s eyebrows rose to meet his receding hairline. “She managed to get hold of a razor—we’re looking into it,” he said in reply to my astonished expression. We didn’t run a draconian regime, but it was recognised that some youngsters with eating disorders could and did maim themselves. Accordingly, active measures were taken to guard against it. We were usually pretty good at policing. “Made a bit of a mess of her thigh,” he said.

“Stitches?”

“Five.”

Ouch. “When did this happen?”

“Last night.”

“Honestly, Jim, there were no indicators.” Were there and I’d failed to spot them?

“She didn’t seem particularly distressed?”

“Didn’t seem particularly anything other than bolshie. I’d put it down to run-of-the-mill teenage aggression.”

“When are you supposed to be seeing her next?”

“Tomorrow.”

“The hospital kept her in for observation. Apparently, an inch closer and she’d have hit a major artery.”

I winced. “I’ll reschedule. Would you prefer to appoint someone else?” Please say yes, I thought.

Jim looked pensive. “No, I think it best we keep things as they are. Simply thought you should be made aware.”

I thanked him, watched him leave, and dropped my sandwich in the bin.

I was surprised to see a police car outside The Battledown that evening. Ringing the bell, I waited as Sarah came to the door, pink-faced and harassed. It wasn’t lost on me. Cops don’t look good for business.

“Sorry, have I called at a bad time?” I said.

Sarah glanced over her shoulder. I caught the sound of male and female voices drifting from the lounge, Monica’s among them. “You’d best come in.”

I stepped over the threshold with a deep sense of foreboding and looked to Sarah, who explained that two plainclothes police officers had arrived five minutes before and asked to speak to Monica in private. So did this explain my mother’s rush to contact me? I’d imagined she might be in some kind of trouble, but nothing that involved the law.

“Did they say what it was about?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

I made to go into the room.

“Should you be doing that?” she said with an anxious glance. “They seemed keen to be left alone.”

I flashed a sheepish smile and walked straight in. Three sets of eyes locked onto mine. A male police officer stood up. He was all neck, no shoulders and he had a hard, defensive look on his face. The expression on Monica’s was one of stunned disbelief mixed with gratitude at my arrival, but my full attention impaled on the female. I’d recognise those shark-like teeth and pillowy pink lips from a hundred paces.

“What are you doing here?” I said, bewildered.

“I could ask the same question.”

My equally mystified mother looked from me to Detective Superintendent Niven and back to me. “You know each other?”

Regrettably, we did. I could almost see Niven pull me out of her mental pigeonhole and run my log number through its paces: stalking, murder, guilt and, joy unconfined, innocence.

“You’re talking to my mother,” I told her.

Did I imagine the chill, vengeful look on Niven’s face? She’d so wanted to convict me of Chris’s murder but instead, in the light of incontrovertible evidence, was forced to backtrack.

“What’s this all about?” The question was to Niven, but it was the male officer, all spring and coiled energy, who answered.

“We’re here to ask Mrs. Slade a few questions. Now, if you wouldn’t mind allowing us to do our job.”

“You’ve driven all the way from Devon?” I said, still not getting it.

Niven’s smile was short and without warmth. “From Birmingham. I transferred to West Midlands Police.”

“So, Miss Slade, if you’d like to step this way,” the male police officer said, steering me firmly towards the door. His body and the punchy blocky way he moved belonged to a boxer.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” I said.

“Detective Sergeant Holst.”

“Like the composer,” I said without thought, his answering expression suggesting that a: he didn’t have a clue about the connection and b: I was a smart-arse.

Back in the hall, I slumped down on the stairs. What had Monica got into? Had she lied to me? Was she on the run? And then it dawned on me. The judge’s suicide. Naturally there would be questions. Pressure eased off, I accepted a small glass of wine from Sarah, who introduced me to her husband, Simon, a long, lean man with a sparky smile, and their small daughter, Isabella.

“Why don’t you come through to our lounge while you wait?” he said.

I smiled thanks and stood up to move somewhere more comfortable. A loud shout of protest from Monica stopped me in my tracks.

“That’s simply not true! I did not take off, as you put it. I gave an account. I spoke to you.”

Chill crawled over me and I was mentally transported to a stuffy interview room that smelt of cold coffee and sweat, me feeling like a pressure cooker, as if my head would explode, and Niven bearing down and accusing me of murder.

All three of us stood mute, glasses poised mid-air. I didn’t know these people and it felt embarrassing to be thrust among them in the circumstances. If I was lost, what the hell were they thinking?

After the outburst, things died down a little. At some stage my glass must have been refilled although I didn’t notice when because I’d pushed it aside. Finally footsteps sounded and the door swished open, revealing Niven and Holst. Monica, grey and pale-lipped, remained seated.

“We’ll need to speak to Mrs. Slade in a more formal setting,” Holst said. “We’ll also need a DNA sample.”

“Can you tell me what this is all about?” I said.

Holst looked to Niven, who nodded. “Judge Michael Hawkes,” he said, unblinking. “Your mother’s former employer.”

“He committed suicide.”

“Who told you that?” Niven said.

“My mother.” I glanced at Monica, who looked stricken.

“We believe his death is suspicious.”

I felt as if I’d entered a country pub in the hope that it would be sweet and friendly, only to encounter a rank and dirty old boozer full of hostiles. “Is she under arrest?”

“No, but as you may be aware, your mother found the judge.”

“That doesn’t make her guilty.”

Niven turned her cutthroat smile on me. “Nobody said anything about guilt. We simply want Mrs. Slade to assist us with our enquiries. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Of course not,” I said, backing off. “Does she need a solicitor?”

Niven flicked a tailored smile. “Not at the moment.”