The Woman Next Door(82)
‘Still waiting for my cup of tea, since you ask,’ I said crisply and was gratified to see a slight colouring in the policewoman’s cheeks.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, let me just …’
A cup of tea arrived a few minutes later, in a mug, rather than from a machine, to my surprise.
They sat opposite me. She had a tired face and carried weight around the midriff. Her blue suit jacket was shiny and cheap and there was a small stain on the lapel, which I was certain was baby sick. I knew in that moment that a woman like her would never understand a woman like me.
Him, the man, was quite good-looking, if you like that sort of thing, with his dark eyes and rather effeminate eyelashes.
He met my gaze directly and I found myself glancing away. I expect he gets all sorts out of people with that penetrating stare.
They did that thing with the tape recorder then and I got to hear their names: Detective Constable Maggie Donovan and Detective Constable Ian Rivers. They asked me if I would like them to arrange a lawyer, and I gave a loud bark of laughter that I think surprised all three of us.
‘I think it is a little late for that,’ I said, taking a sip of the tea, which was foul and milky. I grimaced and swallowed it anyway, needing the meagre sustenance it provided.
‘Okay Hester,’ said Donovan, ‘so you say you would like to report a crime?’
‘I would,’ I said patiently. ‘This is my confession. It shouldn’t take too long.’
They did it again, exchanging glances. He, Rivers, looked like he might laugh.
It enraged me, I can tell you.
I leaned forward and looked very deliberately into both their faces. I could almost feel the energy in the room becoming more focused. It was quite thrilling in a way.
‘I will make this very easy for you,’ I said carefully. ‘I should be charged with abducting that child. But I am also guilty of the murder of my husband, Terence David Morgan, in 1999. He was very sick and I drowned him in the bath. It wasn’t one of those situations where he’d begged me to do it. I don’t imagine he wanted to die at all. There,’ my cheeks feel flushed and I am exhilarated by my own speech, ‘is that clear enough for you?’
***
It had been a sticky, unpleasant week. The sort that frays tempers. Dust motes danced in the slash of sunlight coming through the bedroom curtains and the smell of sickness pervaded the house, however much I opened the windows or sprayed Airwick around the place. Terry’d had this blessed stomach thing for a few days.
Well, that was just the final straw.
The dementia had started slowly. A lost wallet here, a forgotten appointment there. Then he started to forget my name and then his own name. The doctors said he was very unlucky to get it at only 68. He was unlucky? What about me?
Terry had only ever let me down. He wasn’t a father. He wasn’t a businessman. I needed the patience of a saint, that final year. Caring for him and having to be his memory and his chaperone and his everything.
So when I’d had to clean up his mess for the third time in two days, I decided enough was enough. He took the sleeping tablets without complaint and was docile as a lamb as I encouraged him into the bath. He even smiled like a little boy being given a treat when I placed the full glass of whisky on the side of the bath. He always liked a drink and hadn’t been allowed one for such a long time that he drank it as though it were squash. It wasn’t long before his eyelids began to slip and his face slacken into sleep.
Then all it took was the gentlest push. He struggled a tiny bit and the bubbles rising to the surface were a little distressing. But it didn’t take long and that added to the feeling that it was all meant to be, if you see what I mean.
I was hoping I might have been able to share this, the deepest of my secrets, with Melissa after that night we spent together. But now I know that she wouldn’t understand.
In a way, all of this is Terry’s fault. If we’d had a child, I may have been a grandmother by now. (Yes, a grandma Jamie!) I would have been far too busy to get mixed up in Melissa’s nonsense. Why couldn’t he have just done that one thing for me?
So I’ve been formally charged, and now I sit here in this dingy, oddly quiet, cell, I can almost sense Terry finally leaving me.
I suppose I could have told them about the other thing. But I think this is quite enough to be going on with. Terry has been the albatross hung around my neck for so long.
Jamie can stay as our little secret. And I need someone to look after Bertie, don’t I?
I’m sure Melissa will grow to love him in time.
Five months later
MELISSA
She must have muddled her times because the estate agent is still here. Melissa experiences a blast of panic and has an urge to hide behind a car or simply turn the other way. She didn’t want any part in this process.
But it’s too late. They have all seen her. She tries to smile. Bertie tugs at the lead and gets twisted around her leg and she irritably untangles him until she is free again.
The estate agent looks like a schoolboy in his work experience clothes. His cheeks, so newly free of acne, have a scrubbed, almost boiled look. His shoes are shiny and pointed. A young couple are coming out behind him. Indian, she thinks. The woman is small with a prominent pregnancy bump and quick brown eyes. She looks like she would be fun. He is tall and bespectacled, serious and suited.