‘Beth, I’m sorry,’ he says, slowly. ‘There’s nothing we can do, I’m afraid. It’s a different situation—’
‘Innocent until proven guilty is what’s meant to happen, isn’t it?’ I snap. ‘But these days, bloody gutter journalists want to sell papers, spread their vile lies online, just to increase readership. It’s disgusting. It might be just the local press covering this now, but that’ll change! Tom is innocent! He’s only assisting with their enquiries for God’s sake. He’s not even been arrested, let alone charged—’
‘Actually, Beth – you might want to sit down.’
I freeze. Try to swallow but can’t. ‘What? What is it?’
‘They’ve arrested Tom. He’s in custody.’
I ranted at Maxwell – how it’s utter madness that Tom is now in custody, that they think he’s killed Katie Williams. Tom. A murderer. Maxwell was adamant that what little evidence they had wouldn’t be enough to charge him, otherwise they’d have done it immediately. He was positive. But then, that’s his job. He’s telling me what I want to hear. That’s what he’s being paid several hundred pounds an hour for: to make sure Tom gets out and comes home to me and Poppy. I reminded him of that at least six times before the end of the call.
How am I meant to work all day in the café knowing this? Everyone will be looking at me. Judging. Oh, my God. Poor little Poppy. How could this be happening? A few days ago, everything was great. We were living the dream.
Being afraid to leave my home is not a feeling I’ve ever experienced before. But now, hovering at the end of the path with Poppy’s tiny hand gripped in mine, my pulse leaps and judders, like a car engine on an icy morning. I poke my head out from the gateway, giving a cautionary glance up and down the road before we step out. ‘Are you playing, Mummy?’ Poppy giggles.
All of a sudden, hot anger burns inside me. We are meant to protect her: ensure she’s safe, loved and cared for. I wish Tom were here now so I could yell at him. I’m furious with him for putting us in this situation; and keeping it bottled up is unbearable. I have to speak to Tom; there’s so much I need to ask him. But when will I get that opportunity? Will I? I breathe in so deeply, I’m aware of my nostrils flaring. Poppy laughs again, thinking it’s all part of the game. ‘Are you a dragon?’ she says.
I do feel as though fire could erupt from my nose and mouth at any second; I’m certainly irate enough.
‘Yes, I’m an angry dragon and I want my BREAKFAST!’ I force myself to joke, and I crouch down and tickle her under her ribs. She squeals in delight.
We walk on, towards nursery, my head lowered so as not to catch anyone’s eye. I have to get this part over with.
Chapter 11
TOM
Now
There’s a different person sitting with DI Manning now as I am shown into a larger interview room and seated near the back wall opposite them at a square table. I’m on edge – the new person is glaring at me, her steel-grey eyes unblinking. I look away first, and immediately I know I’ve failed her test. Dammit! I can sense her smiling without needing to look.
Why is she here? Where did DS Walters go? I’d been prepared for him, not this young, smug-looking woman who thinks she’s something special.
‘Morning, Tom. Comfortable night?’ DI Manning says without looking up from the open folder in front of him.
I snort, but don’t respond verbally. Maxwell isn’t here yet and I’m not uttering a word until he’s beside me. Manning shifts his attention to me, relaxes back in his chair and interlocks his fingers, resting his clasped hands on his paunch.
‘This is Detective Constable Cooper,’ he says, nodding to his left. ‘She’s my colleague from Homicide and Major Crime Command.’
My heart flutters violently. Two detectives from the London homicide squad now. They must think they’ve got something significant, then? I try not to stress about it because Maxwell said that during disclosure they didn’t share the nature of all the evidence they held against me, which in his experience pointed to the fact it was weak and they were just ‘playing the game’.
Say no comment.
Should I trust in Maxwell’s experience? That is the reason I asked him here, so I should, I guess. But my mind is split.
DC Cooper offers what I can only assume is meant to be a smile – her thin lips stretch into a straight line, but none of her other facial features move. Maybe she’s had Botox, which seems to be common in women these days even before a wrinkle appears, and her muscles are frozen so she can only manage that weird grimace. I force myself to keep eye contact with her now. She’s about my age. I don’t feel comfortable with that. She’s attractive, in a common kind of way – not pretty – there’s nothing particularly striking about her. Clear, pale skin, no make-up, a smattering of freckles over her nose. Poker-straight, strawberry-blonde hair that sits on her shoulders. Her face doesn’t give much away; I can’t read what she’s thinking. I shift in my seat and look to the closed door. Where is Maxwell?
‘How was your night?’ DC Cooper says.
Now I’ve been asked twice, I suppose I ought to respond. ‘I’ve had better accommodation,’ I say. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to be giving a rather low rating on TripAdvisor. I won’t be staying again.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ she says, without taking her eyes from mine. I’m determined to hold her gaze.
Now probably isn’t the time to come across as cocky; I must
