Fat Girl Slim, page 18
I slowly open the car door and clamber out, lock the door and then force myself to walk unhurriedly across the pavement and into the front garden and up the path. The policewoman has her finger pressed on the bell and seems to be leaving it there for a very long time, I can hear the faint chimes of the doorbell from within. She’ll wake Mother up if she’s not careful.
‘Hello,’ I say in what I hope is an innocent manner. ‘Can I help?’
The policewoman jumps in surprise, takes her finger off the button and turns and looks at me and then looks up at the suited man next to her. She is square; square face, square body and a very unflattering square haircut that only just covers her ears. On the large side but not supersize like I used to be, just normally fat. I’m not being judgemental about her weight – how could I be when I used to be so fat myself – but I’ve never seen anyone so square, and well, cuboid .
‘Miss Travis?’ the man says unsmilingly, looking down at me.
‘Guilty as charged.’ I don’t know what made me say it and he doesn’t smile. I feel my face start to burn. Why the hell did I say that? Maybe I should just offer him my wrists so he can snap the handcuffs on right now and save time.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Peters and this is WPC Roper.’ He nods at the square policewoman. ‘We need to talk to you. If would be better if we could come in rather than stand on the doorstep?’ He clears his throat and attempts a tight-lipped smile. Although he’s really old he’s quite attractive in a battered sort of way, a faded Count Dracula type of handsome.
’What do you want to talk to me about?’
‘It would be better if we come inside,’ he insists.
‘My Mother’s very ill,’ I say unconvincingly. ‘I don’t want her disturbed.’
‘Of course, I quite understand.’ DI Peters smiles. ‘We can do it down at the station if you prefer.’
Now I know it’s serious. My heart starts to race so loudly I’m sure they must be able to hear it beating guilty, guilty, guilty.
‘Can I see your ID?’ I’m dragging it out and playing for time, my mind in a whirl of panic. I don’t want to let them in, somehow that’ll make it all real. Perhaps if I pinch myself really hard I’ll wake up.
‘Of course.’ He pulls his warrant card out of his inside jacket pocket and holds it in front of my face. ‘Very sensible. You can’t be too careful.’
I stare at it unseeingly for some minutes as I try to think. It could say his name was Donald Duck and I wouldn’t know .
‘Okay,’ I say, nodding at the warrant card. ‘It all looks in order. If you’ll let me get through I’ll open the door.’
DI Peters steps behind me and WPC Roper steps to one side and I squeeze next to her and put my key in the lock. I unlock the front door; fumbling around as if I’m wearing boxing gloves and I wonder if I look as guilty as I feel. It must be the laptop because I can’t think what else it could be; Justin’s fancy lawyer must be hot stuff to get the police onto me this quickly. It just shows that if you have the money and speak in the right accent you can get out of anything and get the police to jump through hoops.
I finally manage to get the door open and I usher them through into the hall in front of me. The key seems to be stuck in the lock and I wiggle it around but I can’t get it out. Why don’t I confess right now and get it over with? I may as well, I couldn’t look guiltier if I tried. They stand impassively and watch as I finally manage to wrench the key out of the lock. I think I’ve bent it.
‘Go through, go through.’ I wave in the direction of the lounge door. DI Peters nods at the WPC and they go in and I follow after them like a lamb to the slaughter.
‘Please, sit down.’
They both choose to sit in the two armchairs facing the sofa which means I’ll have to sit on the sofa opposite them.
‘Cup of tea?’ I offer, desperately hoping I can escape to the kitchen for a while.
‘No thank you.’ DI Peters shakes his head, unsmiling. WPC Roper says nothing and looks at her feet.
I give in and my legs crumple as I sit down onto the sofa facing them. The sun is streaming through the lounge window and I squint at them. It’s very quiet and I have to stop myself from trying to fill the gap by gabbling. Actually, it’s too quiet; no distant thrum of the television coming from Mother’s room upstairs. I suspect she’s turned it off so she can hear what’s being said; she must have heard us come in and the doorbell was ringing for ages. She’s probably lying down with her ear to the floor right this minute.
‘Miss Travis,’ DI Peters begins. ‘We’re making enquiries regarding a crime that may have been committed. Please understand that at this stage you are not under arrest and do not have to answer any questions if you choose not to. However, we hope that you will be willing to help us with our enquiries. Do you understand?’
I nod, mute. That’s it then, they must know about Justin’s laptop. Will I go to prison? It would be a first offence and what would they charge me with? Fraudulent use of a credit card? Opening an email account in someone else’s name? Maybe I could plead mitigating circumstances; play the fat card. Except I’m not fat anymore so I can’t. I thought I was being so clever and I’m just an idiot.
‘Okay, Miss Travis. I understand that you work as a cleaner for Moppers Homeclean, is that correct?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And how long have you worked there?’
‘Let me see,’ I gaze into the distant as if mentally calculating how long, ‘Just over five months.’
He nods and in the ensuing silence I hear the scratch of WPC Roper’s pen as she scribbles in her notebook. Is she writing down everything I say? I fight the urge to repeat my answers slowly so she can get everything down properly. Part of me acknowledges the fact that I may be slightly hysterical or about to have a nervous breakdown. Or a heart attack. I could definitely have a heart attack.
‘And do you clean at the house of a Mr Justin Willoughby and a Miss Bella Somerton?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ My voice sounds very squeaky and small and I have no idea whether I’m going to deny all knowledge or confess everything. I pray for an interruption; for the phone to ring or someone to knock at the door or Mother to shout for me. Anything to stop the questions. Maybe I’ll just get a suspended sentence for a first offence. It’s always in the papers that the prisons are full to bursting. Or maybe they’ll want to make an example of me. Yes, I think they will. I’ll probably be old by the time they let me out.
‘Is it correct that a Mrs Rita Williams took you to Mr Willoughby and Miss Somerton’s house on January 28th of this year for a training session, on your first day with Moppers?’
‘She did, Doris Winterbourne came too.’ I can’t see what that’s got to do with anything.
‘Is it also correct that you’ve been cleaning Mr Willoughby’s house while Mrs Williams was absent from work though sickness?’
‘Yes.’
‘Every week?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about last week? Did you go there last week?’
‘No. Not last week. Rita came back to work so she did it last week.’ A sudden thought occurs to me; maybe I could blame Rita. I dismiss the thought immediately; any self-respecting IT geek will spot the dates I put the porn stuff on Justin’s laptop in a jiffy and they won’t tally up with Rita being there. Although I could use it as a delaying tactic while I think of something else.
‘So, you’re quite sure that you didn’t go to Mr Willoughby and Miss Somerton’s house last Monday?’
‘No.’
‘But you’ve been there today?’
‘Well yes, because Rita’s off sick again.’
‘Just to be clear, Miss Travis, you’re saying that you definitely didn’t go to Mr Willoughby and Miss Somerton’s house last Monday?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ I say emphatically. That’s a lie. I did go there, but only for five minutes. I didn’t touch Justin’s laptop last week and I can’t see that it matters that I went there but I’ve lied now so I can’t change it or else everything else I say will look like a lie.
‘You weren’t perhaps,’ DI Peters stares at me intently, ‘visiting a friend nearby and popped in for moment?’
‘No,’ I lie again. I’m starting to get a very bad feeling about this. Very bad. Did someone see me? I think I should have told the truth now. I thought I was so good at this lying thing but someone must have seen me for him to be making such a thing about it and now I can’t untangle myself from it.
‘Okay.’ DI Peters looks pointedly at WPC Roper and nods imperceptibly. She closes her notebook with an air of finality and stands up. DI Peters also stands up and I realise again how tall he is.
‘I’m afraid Miss Travis, that I’m going to have to ask you to accompany me to the station to continue our questioning.’
‘What? But why? There’s no need, I can answer your questions here.’
‘I’m afraid I must insist.’
‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘I can’t. I can’t leave Mother on her own.’
‘Well then you leave me no option.’ He clears his throat. ‘Alison Travis, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the attempted murder of Rita Williams. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
I gawp at him. Oh no. This isn’t about Justin’s laptop at all.
‘It’ll be better for you if you come willingly. I don’t want to have to handcuff you. Is there anyone who can come in and look after your mother for you?’
‘But...’ I can’t get my words out. Handcuffs? Oh God, could it be any worse?
‘A neighbour perhaps?’
I get up from the sofa and turn towards the door. ‘I’ll have to go up and tell Mother what’s happening. She’ll worry and she won’t understand, she’s not well, you know...’
DI Peters steps in front of me blocking my way. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Miss Travis. Don’t worry.’ He looks at me not unkindly. ‘WPC Roper will tell your mother that you’re helping us with our enquiries. That’s all she needs to know at the moment.’
He nods at WPC Roper and she disappears through the doorway and I hear the thump of her heavy footsteps going up the stairs. I stand frozen to the spot in shock; at any moment I expect to hear Mother shouting for me. What will WPC Roper think when she sees the dining room chair wedged under the door handle to Mother’s room?
‘But she’ll want her dinner,’ I say stupidly. ‘I have to cook her dinner. I must be back for five o’clock.’ I look at my watch; it’s quarter to three. I left Mother sandwiches for lunch when I took her breakfast up this morning but she’ll be wanting her dinner at her usual time.
‘Is there a neighbour who can pop in and see to her? Or a relative?’
It hits me; I won’t be back in time to cook Mother’s dinner and I might not be back anytime soon. Cooking Mother’s dinner and looking after her suddenly seems like the thing that I want to do most in the world.
‘I don’t have any relatives, it’s just me and Mother.’
‘If there’s no one at all we can call Social Services.’
If there’s one thing I’m sure of it’s that I don’t want Social Services in here. If I don’t go to prison for attempted murder then Mother would tell Social Services everything and I’d definitely be locked up for embezzling money from her account and who knows what else; I’d definitely be going to prison then, Mother would make absolutely sure of it. Maybe I could ask Dolph to come and look after her; he thinks Mother’s a nutcase but the fact that he’s a gossip machine would override his fear of her and he’d break his neck to get in here and find out what’s going on. He’s not ideal but he’s the lesser of two evils. Hopefully he’d think anything Mother said to him was complete rubbish as I’ve put it about that she has dementia. Yes. Dolph would be more than happy to get in here and find out I’ve been arrested so he could broadcast it. I’m just about to suggest this when we hear the heavy, rapid clomp of WPC Roper’s footsteps reverberating through the house as she comes back downstairs and into the lounge. She stands in front of DI Peters for a moment to catch her breath. Her skin is ashen and I wonder if she’s ill; is she really so unfit that running up the stairs has exhausted her? Really, she needs to get some weight off.
‘Sir?’ she says, breathlessly. ‘I think you’d better come upstairs.’
Chapter 21
W PC Roper has made me a cup of tea. It’s all wrong, much too strong with milk and lots of sugar and it’s in the wrong cup; one of Mother’s flowery china cups with a saucer. I want to tell her that I always have a mug and that I don’t take milk or sugar and that in fact I’d really rather have coffee but the words won’t come out, my mouth seems to have stopped working.
She’s standing over me and staring down at me in her square way and because it’s expected of me I take a sip from the cup. The cloying sweetness hits my tongue and for a second I think I’m going to be sick but I somehow manage to force myself to swallow it down. The action of swallowing is painful and it feels as if I have a hard lump of rock wedged in my throat. I place the cup back on the saucer on the coffee table with a shaking hand and lean back against the sofa. In that instant I decide that I will probably never drink tea again.
I notice that the lounge door is closed and DI Peters isn’t here. WPC Roper moves away from me and stands in front of the door with her feet apart and her hands behind her back. She’s trying to look impassive but not succeeding; she cannot disguise a look of disgust and horror on her plain, cuboid features. It’s a look that I’ve seen many times on people’s faces and it doesn’t bother me because I’m used to it. But I am puzzled by it because it’s been a while since anyone’s looked at me like that. Why is she looking at me like that because I’m not supersize now, I’m normal, and I don’t get those looks any more.
How did I get to be sitting here drinking tea made by someone else in my own home? I remember WPC Roper stomping upstairs and DI Peters standing in the doorway, stopping me from going to see Mother but after that there’s a blankness, a void that I cannot recall. Did I faint? I can’t remember.
I stare at the coffee table, tracing every detail of the rose pattern on the teacup and trying to remember what’s happened. Something major has happened, I can sense it, and I’m sure if I sit here quietly for a while it’ll all come back to me.
I remember answering questions and feeling frightened for some reason. I think I did faint, I remember now. There was a buzzing in my ears that got louder and louder and it got so loud that it turned into a banging noise as if someone were playing the drums in my head. And the louder the drums got the darker the room became.
Yes, that’s it, I definitely fainted.
I have a memory of the coolness of someone’s hand pressed to my forehead, gentle fingers holding my wrist, feeling for my pulse. She’ll be fine, it’s the shock, words spoken in a calm measured voice and then the voice of DI Peters thanking someone, a doctor. Doctor Beamish. It explains the vile sweet tea, the blankness of what’s happened. I know that soon I will remember and that I don’t want to.
I feel dazed and shaky and when I tear my gaze from the teacup and look down at my hands in my lap, they lay there like strange appendages, sausages with fingernails. They don’t look or feel like my hands, it’s almost as if they’re not attached to my body. I interlock my fingers and stretch them this way and that and then bring my hands to my face and press my fingers over my eyes and breathe deeply. I’m starting to feel better, I feel less bewildered, more together as if my mind and body have drifted apart but are now melding back together.
I look up as the sound of movement upstairs draws my attention, the low murmur of voices is followed by brisk footsteps on the stairs. WPC Roper is watching me from under her eyelashes, she sees me looking up at the ceiling as if it will provide me with answers. There are strangers in the house; Mother won’t like it, we never have visitors. Who are they, these people – are there more police officers upstairs? For some reason I think there are, so something must have happened. I wonder if they’ve been into Mother’s room and spoken to her, what did they think when they had to remove the dining chair from underneath the door handle?
I remember that soon I’ll be taken to the police station. Something to do with Rita.
Attempted murder! I remember now, the questioning about visiting Bella’s house, the lie that I told repeatedly that I thought so unimportant. How can they think I wanted to murder Rita? They’ve got it all wrong; it’s all a terrible mistake. I’m sure they’ll put the questioning off for another day because of what’s happened.
What has happened? I know something has happened but I can’t remember what. Not the Rita thing, I remember that. There’s something else, something important that I should remember.
I close my eyes and think; it’s something to do with Mother. Has she been telling lies about me? Well, not lies, the truth; that I’ve kept her prisoner, a well looked after prisoner but a prisoner none the less.
No. It’s not that. But it is something to do with Mother. And it must be something shocking for me to faint; I don’t think I’ve ever fainted before. After the darkness closed in I remember falling but I don’t think I hit the floor, I don’t hurt anywhere and I can’t feel any tender spots so somebody must have caught me. Thank God I’m not supersize anymore otherwise I could have killed whoever it was who caught me if I’d fallen on them.
Mother.
I remember. DI Peters told me that Mother is dead. I can’t remember his exact words but he imparted the news to me in a sombre, sad voice; the sort of voice reserved for telling people bad news.
I think about it and decide that yes, that means they’ll definitely put the questioning off for another day, a day when Mother hasn’t died. The police aren’t completely heartless, they won’t want to interrogate someone who’s just lost a close relative.
