I remember Sonia asking the same question, of Mrs Guthrie’s garden. Snowdrops mean hope. And they used to be there, but they stopped flowering a year or so after I moved in. ‘There used to be.’ I frown. ‘Most of the plants you’ve named were there when we moved in.’
‘Maybe your garden is cursed.’ Beside her, DI Lacey shifts in his chair.
‘Maybe it is.’ I swallow, willing her to change the subject, but the questions keep coming.
‘Some of the shrubs must have been planted years ago.’ Breaking off, she frowns. ‘Did you know the previous owner, Amy?’
I shake my head. ‘As far as I know, it belonged to an elderly woman who had died. It had been empty quite a while when I moved in.’
‘It never seemed an odd choice for a single mother and a young child, to be so far away from community life?’ Each word is like a bullet, carefully loaded, aimed at me.
I defend myself. ‘It wasn’t that far. I love the countryside – and it’s a wonderful place to bring up a child. I needed the garden for my work. Steyning is only two miles away. That’s nothing. And when Jess was young, Mrs Guthrie used to help out babysitting.’
DI Lacey glances towards her. ‘This is the neighbour who died recently?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Nodding, PC Page falls silent, apparently satisfied by my answers, at least for now.
‘It wasn’t suspicious, was it?’ He sounds thoughtful.
It’s the same question I asked PC Page when I met her in Mrs Guthrie’s garden that evening. ‘It wasn’t.’ But there’s what sounds like a hint of doubt in her voice.
For a moment I’m aware of how fragile my position is. How little it would take, in the eyes of the police, to swing the balance from being a suspect to guilty. But then we’re interrupted by a knock on the door. It opens enough for me to see the uniformed officer who completed the paperwork when I was brought in.
‘Can I have a word, sir?’
Getting up, the DI follows him out, closing the door behind them. Left with PC Page, I seize my chance. ‘How much longer do I have to stay here?’
‘Amy, you know I can’t answer that.’
After waiting in silence, when the DI comes back in, I ask him the same question. ‘It isn’t possible to say. At the moment, all our evidence points to you, and you alone being involved in Mr Roche’s disappearance.’
‘What evidence?’ I stare at him. ‘There’s no body. You have what you say is a potential murder weapon, but it could have been planted by anyone. And snippets of gossip from two women who aren’t reliable.’
He frowns slightly. ‘We have a bit more than that – the knife that matches a set in your kitchen, more blood, in your workshop, which someone had obviously tried to clean up, and more in the area of your compost heap. Then there’s the fact that the night Mr Roche disappeared, you were in Brighton.’
‘But I’ve already told you what happened.’ I shake my head, horrified at the thought of where they’re going with this. ‘I went to deliver an order, then I drove straight back home.’ I break off, as all of a sudden, it’s making sense. ‘That order wasn’t genuine – it must have been placed by whoever’s trying to set me up. They must have known there’s CCTV there. They wanted me to be seen. Can’t you see that?’
Ignoring what I’ve said, he carries on. ‘Even if what you say is true, you still knew where Mr Roche had gone. Once you’d seen him, you could have gone home and waited for him. Then when he came back, you were ready for him. You stabbed him – most likely in your kitchen – or in your workshop, after which he tried to get away from you.’
I gasp in horror. Not a single word he’s saying has any truth in it.
The DI goes on. ‘He left a lot of blood behind, though, didn’t he? It must have been splattered all over the place. The bouquet of flowers in blood was inspired. You knew you couldn’t remove every trace of his blood, so you made the huge bouquet of flowers, left it on your doorstep, before taking it inside and purportedly dropping it by accident. The perfect cover for what really happened. As for the van your neighbour saw, that could have been delivering anything.’
‘This is insane.’ However plausible they think they sound, they’re wrong. Backed into a corner, my fear knows another level. ‘I keep telling you, none of this is true.’
‘We still haven’t found his car. Do you have any idea where it is?’
When I don’t answer, PC Page looks at me. ‘There’s too much you haven’t told us, Amy. As well as that, almost everything you say is inconsistent.’ She sits back. ‘Even your friends have described your behaviour as erratic. And I’ve seen it here. Even at your most plausible, it’s impossible to know whether to believe you or not.’
I’m shocked into silence.
