The Mother-in-Law(37)

“It’s standard procedure.”

“Why is that standard procedure?” Ollie’s voice sounds different, more clipped than usual, brusquer. “We’re not under arrest, are we? We’re here to get the autopsy results for my mother’s death.”

The woman is unflustered. She smiles again. “It’s just the way we do it.”

Ollie glances at me and I shrug like it’s no big deal. I know this type of woman. She’s the type that doesn’t deviate from standard practice. The type that makes a great debt collector, because they stay on message even in the face of terrible extenuating circumstances. (“I’m sorry your wife just died and your house has been repossessed, sir . . . you owe eight hundred and fifty-eight dollars, we take checks or EFT.”) So I recognize immediately that any resistance to the separate room situation is likely to be futile.

“We can go separately,” I say. “It’s fine, isn’t it, Ollie?”

“What’s fine?”

I turn. Detective Constable Jones and Ahmed are ambling toward us down the narrow corridor. It’s Jones doing the speaking, as usual. She’s carrying a bright green KeepCup, and she takes a sip.

“I was just explaining that they are being set up in separate rooms,” the lady says.

“Yes, sorry, I should have mentioned that,” Jones says, though she doesn’t sound sorry. “It’s standard practice. Is there a problem?”

She shoots a glance at Ahmed. Ahmed is wearing a suit today, with tie and all. It looks good on him. Something subtle about the body language between him and Jones makes me think that Jones has noticed this too.

“No,” I say, even though now Jones is looking at Ollie, whose face is saying the opposite. I wonder what’s up with him. Usually Ollie is the calm, unflappable one. Usually he is the one calming me down.

“All right then,” Jones says. “Ollie, you’re with me. Lucy, you’re with Ahmed.”

My first instinct is to be relieved that I have Ahmed. Out of him and Jones, he is clearly the good cop, so to speak. But I worry about Ollie going off with Jones given the strange mood he is in. He’s likely to get himself in trouble for something he didn’t do.

Ahmed leads me to a room where a person is fiddling with a video camera. Ahmed takes off his suit jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair. “Sorry about the monkey suit,” Ahmed says. “Been in court this morning.”

I smile even though the idea of Ahmed giving evidence in court makes me nervous. Despite the fact that I am apparently just here for a friendly chat, it occurs to me that it’s only a friendly chat until I’m found guilty of something. Then that video footage will be wheeled out in court. Then it will be used as evidence.

“So . . . the autopsy report?” I start, but Ahmed interrupts, explaining that we are going to be recorded. Then we go through my particulars, my name, my address, my relationship to Diana. Ahmed’s stance is casual, one elbow on the desk, his body angled to the side, one ankle on the opposite knee. As I answer each question, he nods encouragingly. His eyes, I notice, are the color of maple syrup.

“Can you tell me where you were between one and five P.M. last Thursday afternoon?” he says.

I glance at the camera. “Um . . . well, I was at home with my two - and - a - half - year - old daughter until around three-forty P.M. Then the other two kids came home.”

“Can anyone verify that . . . other than your daughter?”

I think about this. “Ollie came home from work early, around two or two-thirty P.M., then he went out again to get our son, Archie. So he can verify part of the time.”

“Why did he come home early?”

“He wasn’t feeling well,” I say, though it suddenly occurs to me that he didn’t seem particularly unwell. In fact, I recalled thinking he’d been in a good mood that day.

“You said he picked up your son?” Ahmed says. “And one of your daughters was home with you. Where was your other daughter?”

“Harriet had gymnastics after school. She was dropped home by another mother, Kerry Mathis, around four P.M. I came out and waved from the doorstep.”

“And Ms. Mathis will verify this?”

“I’m sure she will,” I say, though I cringe at the idea of the police contacting a school mum to verify my whereabouts.

“Good.” Ahmed puts down his pen and sits back in his chair. He exhales slowly. “I understand that there was an incident between you and your mother-in-law a few years back. Do you want to tell me about that?”

“Incident?” I ask. I’m just buying some time, as clearly he knows about it. I’m not going to deny it.

“An assault.”

“Oh,” I say. “That wasn’t an assault, exactly.”

“You slammed your mother-in-law into the wall, as I understand?

Ahmed watches me. “And she was unconscious for quite some time?”

“I wasn’t charged with anything,” I say. But of course, Ahmed already knows this. He’s feeling me out, trying to gauge my reactions.

“What do you think happened to your mother-in-law, Lucy?”

“Well . . . obviously . . . I don’t know. I thought that’s what we were here to find out.”

“It is.” He’s looking at me too intently. “But I’m interested in your opinion.”