‘Why not?’ said Brook. ‘We might get a better likeness of Rusty.’
Brook placed the evidence bags and photographs on the table and turned on the recorder to announce the time, date, his own name and those of Noble, PC Patel and the duty solicitor, Roger Sands. Yvette Thomson sat perfectly still and stared into space. She seemed to be in a state of shock. ‘State your name for the record, please.’ No reply. ‘Yvette.’
The solicitor touched her arm and Yvette looked up. She roused herself to think. ‘Yvette Gail Thomson.’
‘Have the charges been properly explained to you?’ said Brook.
A pained expression infected her features. ‘I did not kill my son,’ she answered.
‘But you accept that he is dead,’ said Brook.
‘Don’t answer that,’ said Sands.
Brook shot him a malevolent glance and picked up a picture of the hanged boy taken from the Deity broadcast and pushed it towards her. ‘Is that your son?’
‘You don’t have to say anything, Miss Thomson,’ said Sands. ‘They have no evidence.’
‘Is that your son, Yvette?’ persisted Brook. ‘Look at it.’
She darted a glance at the photograph then closed her eyes, forcing tears on to her cheeks. After several minutes of silence she finally answered. ‘Yes. That’s Russell.’
‘Not Rusty.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Every time you referred to your missing son before this morning, you called him Rusty.’
‘Well, I could hardly call him Russell, could I? Out of respect.’
‘So Rusty is not your son.’
‘Miss Thomson, I advise you. .’ began Sands.
‘No.’
‘He’s your lover.’
‘Miss Thomson. .’
She hesitated but then said proudly. ‘Yes.’
‘Miss-’
‘Keep quiet,’ spat Yvette at Sands. ‘I’ll shout about our love from the rooftops if I want.’
Brook smiled at Sands. ‘How long has Rusty been your lover?’
‘Four years.’
‘And Russell died three years ago, is that right?’
‘When we — I — lived in Wales, yes.’
‘Near Denbigh?’
‘Briefly.’
‘So you met Rusty the year before your son died.’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
Yvette smiled with remembrance. ‘On the beach at Rhyl. Me and Russell were having a day out in the holidays. Rusty, this beautiful young man, just walked up to me with a strange smile on his face and sat in the sand next to me. I’ll never forget what he said to me. He said, “I’ve found my soulmate.” And he had.’
‘Where was Russell when this was happening?’
‘He was having a ride on a donkey.’
‘This would be in 2007.’
‘If you say so.’
‘When Russell died the year after, how old was he?’ The tears started again. ‘Fifteen.’
‘And how old is Rusty?’
Yvette shook her head. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘You don’t know?’ said Brook, surprised.
‘Older.’
‘Well, how old was he when you met him?’
‘Four years younger than he is now,’ she sneered.
‘You’re telling me you don’t know how old your lover of four years is?’
‘Twenty? Twenty-five? Maybe older.’
Brook took a sip of water. ‘I find it incredible that you don’t know.’
Yvette shrugged. ‘It never came up. We were in love. It wasn’t important.’
‘Never came up,’ Brook repeated. Then: ‘You’re an orphan, Yvette. It must’ve been tough so I’ll try not to judge.’
‘What does that mean?’ she growled at him.
‘It means that everything that happens is all about you, isn’t it? What you want. What you need.’
Yvette looked down at the floor, searching for a rebuttal.
‘I. .’ She shook her head.
‘What about Rusty’s real name? Did that come up?’
Yvette took offence at Brook’s tone and replied icily, ‘He said it was Ian.’
‘Surname?’
She shook her head, shamefaced. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you ever see any ID — passport, birth certificate, driving licence?’
‘Nothing.’
‘How about credit cards?’
‘Rusty has no use for money. He says it imprisons those who have it.’
‘Does he? So you have no idea if his name is really Ian.’
‘No.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘Rusty said he didn’t exist before he met me. He really loves me, you see.’
‘Why did you kill Russell?’ asked Brook.
‘I didn’t kill him,’ replied Yvette firmly. ‘He killed himself.’
‘But he was your son and you didn’t report him missing. Why?’
‘He wasn’t missing. He was dead.’
‘Then why didn’t you contact the police to identify his body?’
‘Because. .’
‘. . they would’ve asked why you didn’t report him missing,’ said Brook before Yvette could answer. ‘Your son has not had a decent burial. He has no grave to mark his passing. How do you feel about that?’
‘Terrible,’ she replied. ‘What mother wouldn’t?’
‘Then why allow that to happen?’
‘I didn’t see the point of it,’ she snarled at Brook.
‘No use crying over spilled milk?’ suggested Brook. No reply. ‘Why did Rusty kill him?’
‘Russell committed suicide. He did it of his own accord. Ian — Rusty — told me.’ She began to cry. ‘Russell was depressed. He was being bullied. Rusty just. .’ She closed her eyes, forcing more tears down her cheeks.
‘What? Encouraged him?’
She nodded. ‘I didn’t know, I swear. Rusty told me later. He said it was for the best, that Russell would always be unhappy. He said he realised as soon as he met him that Russell was a soul in torment. Rusty — Ian — was just waiting for the right time to. .’
‘. . help your son end his life,’ said Brook.
She hung her head. ‘Rusty’s very persuasive. He could charm the birds out of the trees. He was Russell’s friend, he supported him. He said it was for the best, best for Russell too. He was too sensitive to live; he’d always be in pain. That’s how he put it. He said I shouldn’t say anything. If the police got involved or found out who Russell was, then they’d make him a scapegoat and put him away, and. .’
‘. . you’d be alone again.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why couldn’t they identify his body? There wasn’t even a dental record.’
‘I took him to the dentist when he was small. The first time, he screamed the place down, wouldn’t let the
