In a Dark, Dark Wood(72)

‘So you’ve had no contact with James Cooper at all since you broke up?’

‘No. No contact.’

‘Texts? Emails?’

‘No. None.’

I’m suddenly not sure where this is going. Are they trying to establish that I hated James? That I couldn’t bear to have him near me? My stomach does another uneasy shift and a little voice in my head whispers, It’s not too late to ask for a lawyer…

‘Look,’ I find myself saying, stress making my voice rise half a tone, ‘it’s hardly unusual not to keep in touch with your exes.’

But Lamarr doesn’t answer. She switches track again, bewilderingly. ‘Can you run me through your movements at the house? Were there any times you left the property?’

‘Well, we went clay-pigeon shooting,’ I say uncertainly. ‘But you know about that.’

‘I mean by yourself. You went for a run, isn’t that right?’

A run? I feel completely out of my depth all of a sudden. I hate not knowing what they’re getting at.

‘Yes,’ I say. I pick up a pillow and hug it to my chest. And then, feeling that I should look co-operative, ‘Twice. Once when we arrived, on Friday, and once on Saturday.’

‘Can you give me the approximate times?’

I try to think back. ‘I think the Friday one was about four-thirty maybe? Perhaps a bit later. I remember it was fairly dark. I met Clare on the drive on the way back, about six o’clock. And the Saturday one … it was early. Before eight, I think. I can’t pin it down much better than that. Definitely not earlier than six a.m. – it was light. Melanie was up – she might remember.’

‘OK.’ Lamarr is writing down the times, not trusting to the tape. ‘And you didn’t use your phone on the runs?’

‘No.’ What the hell is this about? My fingers dig into the soft kapok of the pillow.

‘What about Saturday night, did you go out then?’

‘No.’ Then I remember something. ‘Did they tell you about the footprints?’

‘Footprints?’ She looks up from her pad, her face puzzled. ‘What footprints?’

‘There were footprints, in the snow. When I came back from my run that first morning. They were leading from the garage to the back door.’

‘Hm. I’ll look into it. Thanks.’ She makes a note. Then she changes tack again. ‘Have you remembered anything further about the period after you left the house on Saturday night? When you chased after the car?’

I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry. I remember tearing down through the wood … I get flashes of cars and broken glass and stuff … but no, nothing really concrete.’

‘I see.’ She shuts her notebook and stands up. ‘Thank you, Nora. Any further questions, Roberts?’

Her companion shakes his head, and then Lamarr gives the time and location for the tape, clicks off the recording and leaves.

I am a suspect.

I sit there trying to process it after they’ve gone.

Is it because they’ve found my phone? But what could my phone possibly have to do with James’s murder?

And then I realise something, something I should have known before.

I was always a suspect.

The only reason they weren’t interviewing me under caution before was because any interview was worthless as evidence. With my memory problems, any lawyer could have shot a hole a mile wide in my statement. They wanted intelligence – the information I could provide – and they wanted it quick, enough to risk talking to me when I was in no state to be relied on.

But now the doctors have confirmed I’m lucid, and I’m well enough to be interviewed properly. Now they are starting to build a case.

I haven’t been arrested. That’s one thing to hold on to.

I haven’t been charged. Yet.

If only I could remember those missing few minutes in the wood. What happened? What did I do?

The desperation to remember rises inside me, sticking in my throat like a sob, and I clench my fingers on the soft pillow, and bury my face in its clean whiteness and I ache to remember. Without those missing few minutes, how can I hope to convince Lamarr that what I’m saying is true?

I close my eyes, and I try to think myself back there, to the quiet clearing in the forest, to the great glowing blocks of the house, shining out through the dark, close-clustered trees. I smell again the scent of fallen pine needles, I feel the cold bite of the snow on my fingers and inside my nose. I remember the sounds of the forest, the soft patter of snow sliding from overladen branches, the hoot of an owl, the sound of an engine disappearing into the darkness.

And I see myself tumbling down that long, straight track into the trees, feel the springy softness of the needles beneath my feet.

But I cannot remember what comes next. When I try, it’s like I’m trying to snatch at a scene reflected in a pond. Images come, but when I reach for them they break into a thousand ripples and I find that I’m holding only water.

Something happened in that darkness, to me, Clare and James. Or someone. But who? What?

‘Well, Leonora, I’m very pleased with you.’ Dr Miller puts away his pen. ‘I’m a little bit concerned about the time you’re still missing, but from what you’re saying, those memories are starting to come back and I don’t see any reason to keep you here for much longer. You’ll need further check-ups but they can all be arranged by your GP.’