Little Black Lies (36 page)

Skye McNair joins us seconds later, banging her shin on the table as she sits down. There is what looks like a ketchup stain on her collar and her bun is crooked.

Savidge has a notebook open in front of him. After a few seconds of fumbling around, Skye pulls one out too. They both find a moment of stillness, wait for me to start.

‘You said there was something you’d remembered, Rachel,’ Savidge prompts.

I take a second to steady myself, then look him directly in the eyes.

‘I killed my son, Detective Sergeant. I killed Peter Grimwood.’

35

Silence in the room. Somewhere there is a clock, maybe on the wall behind me, I can hear it ticking. Then the rumble from someone’s stomach. I look steadily back at Savidge, can see Skye from the corner of my eye. They think they’re hearing things. I give them time. In fact I start to count in my head. One, two … when I reach four, Savidge leans across the table towards me.

‘Could you repeat that, Rachel?’

‘Sarge—’

‘Hang on a minute, Skye. Rachel?’

‘Sarge, we need to caution her.’ Skye turns too quickly and her chair almost tips. ‘We should switch the recorder on.’

He sees the sense of this and gets up.

Skye looks at me with wide frightened eyes, then round at the senior officer, who is fumbling with the recording equipment. ‘Rachel Grimwood, you are here voluntarily to make a statement,’ she begins. ‘You are not under arrest at present, but may be in the near future. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

Savidge takes his seat at her side and looks at me as though I’ve changed right in front of him. As, I guess, I have.

‘Sarge, was that OK? What I just said?’ Skye is glancing nervously at the man next to her.

‘It was fine. Well done, love.’ He can’t take his eyes off me.

‘Rachel.’ Skye again. ‘Do you understand your rights as you’ve just been, I mean, had them read to you?’

Their utter bewilderment has a calming effect. It feels as though I am in charge, not they. ‘I do, thank you.’

Savidge speaks the formalities into the tape. We give our names, and then he asks me once again to repeat my confession.

‘I killed my son,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t Catrin Quinn. It was me. I’m sorry I’ve been wasting your time.’

They’re struggling to take it in. I wait for them to ask me when, where, to give a full account of how, exactly, I committed the most unspeakable act that either of them can think of.

‘Why?’ Skye asks instead. I don’t mind. This one is easy to answer.

‘I didn’t love him,’ I say.

They continue staring.

‘I never did love him,’ I repeat. ‘I couldn’t.’

‘You love your other two sons?’ Skye asks me.

‘More than anything.’

‘Then why not Peter?’ Her voice is pitched low, gentle, as though she is speaking to an invalid.

It’s a good question, but one I’ll struggle to answer properly. This is something I have never before articulated. I’ve spoken to no one about my relationship with my youngest son. Not to anyone, husband, parents, even my horse, have I admitted my feelings for him to be anything less than they should be. I’ve never even allowed myself to think it, but the truth is, it has always been completely impossible for me to feel anything akin to love for him.

‘Three years ago, before you came back from college in England, Skye, I killed two children. I know you know about it. Josh certainly does.’

‘I know there was an accident.’ In the dimly lit room, Skye’s hair seems to be an extra source of light. ‘A terrible accident. That’s not quite the same thing.’

‘Try telling that to my best friend.’

‘Go on, Mrs Grimwood,’ Josh tells me. ‘In your own time.’

‘After the accident, I never felt I deserved my own sons to be alive, let alone that another one should be born. I used to think it would have been fairer if one of my boys had gone over that cliff and one of Catrin’s. That would have been dreadful but fair, don’t you think?’

I wait for the answer I know I’m never going to get. As if fairness has anything to do with the random cruelty that is accidental death.

‘One of my sons should have died. Then Catrin would still have had one child. Her life wouldn’t have fallen apart, she wouldn’t have become ill, wouldn’t have lost the baby she was carrying.’

They are looking at me as though I am slightly mad. Only slightly? I have more work to do.

‘If that had happened, we’d both have two children now and the grief would have been terrible, but we’d have coped with it, together. We did everything together. That’s how it should have been.’

‘You’re saying you wish one of your sons had died?’

‘No, of course not. Just that it would have been fair. If you have to choose between terrible grief and terrible guilt, I think grief is easier, in the end. Don’t you?’

Skye starts to speak, but it’s suddenly very important to me that I get something in first. ‘Not that I could ever decide which I’d have given up. I love them both so much, my big, serious clever boy and my little cuddly one. I love my two sons more than anything.’

‘But not your youngest one?’ She has asked me that already, just doesn’t seem able to absorb the truth of what I’m telling her. I gave birth to a child. I didn’t love him.

‘I couldn’t. I was never cruel to him. I didn’t mistreat him. I fed him and kept him clean. But I couldn’t play with him, or sing to him, or cuddle him the way I did with the other two. And the bond wasn’t there. The postnatal chemicals didn’t flood my brain the way they’re supposed to, telling me that I’d give my life for this tiny soul. All the normal mother–baby stuff simply didn’t work with him.’

And the guilt that was already eating me up had a fresh banquet to feed on.

From outside comes the sound of shouting, running footsteps. A can is kicked along the street. It’s time for the bonfire to be lit, for the barbecues to start serving food, but not everyone, it seems, is at the school field.

‘Were you diagnosed as having postnatal depression? That can be pretty serious.’ Skye seems to have taken over the interview.

‘I had every type of depression ever listed, and quite a few new ones as well.’ In a strange way, saying all this aloud for the first time is something of a relief. I certainly never said any of it to Sapphire Pirrus during the enforced counselling sessions. ‘I barely remember the first year of his life, if I’m honest. Then suddenly, I had this screaming, demanding toddler to deal with. It was as though he’d appeared from nowhere. As though a little changeling had come to live with us.’

‘Changeling?’ Josh has woken up. ‘What’s a changeling?’

Skye turns to him for a second. ‘Fairy child. British folklore, Sarge. The fairies stole away human infants and left fairy children in their place. Only they were mean and bad-tempered and ugly. Is that how you thought about Peter, Mrs Grimwood?’

I have a sudden image of the child, gazing at me through the bars of his cot, plump from sleep. ‘No, of course he wasn’t any of those things. He was a pretty little boy. Just not my pretty little boy.’

Josh clears his throat. ‘So what happened on Thursday afternoon? The afternoon of the third of November.’

I give myself time. This will be harder.

‘I was in my room.’ I’m seeing it as I speak. Waking to find the late-afternoon sunshine had fled, to be replaced with an eerie, ominous darkness. I can hear the sound of the ocean through the open window, catch the bitter salt smell that wafts in from time to time.

‘The boys came home.’ I hear the car that drops them off, Cathy shouting goodbye, their footsteps on the stairs. I hear the baby yelling for their attention, but they always come to me first.

‘They came into my room.’ I was in the bathroom by this time, trying to shake off the dopiness. ‘I told them I had a headache.’ I didn’t, I just couldn’t face those noisy few hours before bedtime. There are times when I feel as though my children are throwing tiny stones at me, because one demand comes after another.
Mum, can I have a packet of crisps? Mum, can I have a biscuit? Mum, Peter’s got a dirty nappy. Mum, my finger hurts.
It’s relentless, dealing with three boys, even when they’re not quarrelling, which is a good 50 per cent of the time. Sander knows I struggle with tea and bedtime. He usually comes home early.

Something hits the outside wall. Savidge jumps up and goes to the window. ‘Kids,’ he mutters when he comes back. ‘Go on, Mrs Grimwood, the boys were home from school, you had a headache.’

‘Chris and Michael went into Peter’s room.’ I hear his squeals of delight when he sees them, the low grunt Chris makes when he picks his brother up. ‘I think Chris changed him.’

More shouts from outside. Both pairs of eyes opposite flick to the window and back. Skye nods at me to go on.

‘Then they all went outside. I could hear them, running about, shouting to each other.

‘They were so good with him, my two. So fond, so caring of their little brother. Then the sounds of giggling and shouting fell quiet. I couldn’t hear them any more. I remembered my mother’s warnings about the loose garden gate. I remembered the eclipse, that Chris and Michael would probably head down to the beach to watch it.

‘I got up. I heard a car outside and went to the window. I saw Catrin’s car, then Catrin herself getting out and bending down in the road.’

‘You told us all this when we spoke to you before.’ Skye frowns and starts flicking back through her notes.

‘When she stood up again, she was carrying the child,’ I ignore Skye’s interruption. ‘He must have got out on to the road somehow. I told you all this. What I didn’t tell you is that I then saw her lean over the gate, put him down and get back into her car and drive away.’

A sigh seems to escape both police officers at once. They look at each other, and back at me.

‘So what she told us was true?’

‘Of course it was.’ I feel an odd, twisted pleasure in defending my former friend. ‘Catrin doesn’t know how to lie.’

A pause. They look at each other and again sigh in unison. I have a sense that Catrin’s exoneration pleases both of them.

‘Carry on, Mrs Grimwood,’ says Savidge.

The terse instruction takes me by surprise but, of course, in the story I’ve been telling, my youngest son is still alive. I have to get to the end.

‘I could see him near the gate. I waited for his brothers to come and collect him but they must have gone further down the garden towards the beach. I couldn’t hear them. Then he made for the hedge again and started to climb through. He’d found some weak point and was getting out. Obviously I had to go down there.’

‘So you did?’

‘It took me a few minutes. I wasn’t quite dressed. But when I got down, sure enough he was on the road again.’

‘And was Mrs Quinn anywhere to be seen?’

‘No. There was no sign of her car. I thought I could hear an engine, someone else coming up the hill, but I didn’t hang around. I picked the baby up and carried him back into the garden.’

‘Go on.’

‘As soon as we got back through the gate he went mental.’

‘Mental as in…’

‘Completely berserk. A proper tantrum. Screaming, kicking, crying. Hitting me with his fists. I’m not sure how much experience either of you have of tantruming two-year-olds but they can be very strong.’

‘We’ll take your word for it,’ says Josh. Skye has fallen quiet and I’d be willing to bet she’d rather not listen to what’s coming next. God knows I’d rather not say it.

‘He wanted to be out on the road, or to be with his brothers. What he didn’t want was me spoiling his fun.’

I stop. There is water on the table although I have no recollection of either officer providing it. I pick up the glass. Warm, like the room. Pale in colour, like a fine Scotch whisky. It tastes bitter, as though it was poured days ago. The officers are waiting for me. I look at him, then her and see the condemnation that I know will be in every pair of eyes that looks into mine from now on.

‘Go on,’ says Josh.

‘I put him down, he went straight for the gap in the hedge again. I physically blocked it, he started kicking and punching me. Two-year-olds can be monsters, they really can.’

‘And what did you do, to this monster in front of you?’

Skye looks reproachfully at her colleague. She doesn’t want him condemning me, not until they’ve heard my full confession.

‘I don’t remember much of what happened next.’ I try. ‘I’m sorry, it’s actually very difficult to talk about.’

We all jump as a stone hits the window. Josh picks up the phone, has a brief muttered conversation with the desk sergeant about sorting out the bloody hooligans outside, then looks at me again.

‘What did you do to him?’ he asks.

I look at the man I’ve known since childhood and I can see sympathy seeping from him. With every second that passes, his judgement is hardening. Of the two of them, Skye is holding up better. She leans towards me and pats my hand. ‘I’m afraid we do have to know exactly what happened, Rachel. Take your time. You’re doing really well.’

She sits back again and rubs her fingers where they touched mine.

‘I took hold of him by the shoulders and gave him a shake to stop him crying. He was hysterical. He needed a shock.’ I can’t look at either of them as I say this, so I stare at the tabletop.

‘The shaking seemed to make him worse. I don’t really remember much. I must have shaken him again. I honestly don’t know. I just remember looking down and seeing him limp in my arms.’

Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see Skye drop her head into her hands. She recovers quickly. When I look up again, her face is pale but composed.

‘I let him fall to the ground. He wasn’t breathing.’

‘Did you try mouth-to-mouth? Did you give him CPR?’

I stare back into cold blue eyes. ‘There wasn’t a lot of point, Josh. His neck was broken.’

‘How could you be so sure?’ Skye is practically whispering at me. I’m tempted to tell her to speak up for the benefit of the tape, but common sense prevails and I don’t.