Silent Truths (6 page)

Sandra smiled sadly. ‘I don’t think there’ll be any more,’ she assured her.

‘No,’ Beth said, and allowed her eyes to follow the curving stem of a beautiful flowering orchid. She was thinking of the one in her bathroom at home. She desperately wanted to go home now, sink herself in a warm, comforting bath and wait for Colin to join her.

Georgie came back. Her face was pale, her eyes anxious as she looked at Beth. ‘That was Bruce,’ she said. ‘Colin’s in front of the magistrate at two fifteen.’

Beth was powerless to speak. Georgie’s words were like crumbling rocks at the start of an avalanche.

‘He’ll plead not guilty?’ Sandra said.

Georgie nodded. She was still looking at Beth.

‘I wonder what that journalist Laurie Forbes will read into me not being there,’ Beth said flatly.

‘I’ll get Bruce to make sure everyone understands that the times of the hearing and your police interview coincided,’ Georgie assured her.

‘And Colin? You’d think he’d want me there to show I was standing by him.’

‘It’s not an option,’ Georgie responded. ‘You
have to see this inspector, and I can’t imagine it’ll be over in time for you to get to the court.’

‘No,’ Beth said, standing up. ‘I’m going to take a shower.’

As she reached the door Georgie said, ‘Bruce has had a call from Laurie Forbes. She wants to know if –’

‘No!’ Beth said sharply. ‘I’m not talking to anyone from the press. She’ll just twist everything I say. They’ve got so many tricks …’

‘But if it’ll help Colin …’

‘No. Tell Bruce to tell her no. The same goes for all of them. I just want them to stay away from me.’

Chapter 3

EVEN THOUGH BRUCE
had called to warn them that the press would be waiting when they arrived at Notting Hill Police Station, Beth’s heart still sank in dismay when she and Georgie rounded the corner and saw the clamouring mass of humanity no more than fifty yards away. She watched them as Georgie edged the car forwards, tension mounting as she waited for them to notice who was in it. That they were there simply to get a glimpse of
her
seemed so strange. Though she hated it, she realized there was a part of her that was vaguely intrigued by it. They were making her famous, treating her like a celebrity – and were it for any other reason, she thought it might be exciting. She wondered what it would be like to stand in the limelight alone, free of Colin’s shadow. It wasn’t a position she’d ever sought, but it crossed her mind to consider it now, as she attempted to detach herself from the reality of what was happening in order to get through the next few minutes. She could pretend she was a film star arriving for a
premiere, a great humanitarian come to be honoured, a miracle-worker whom everyone wanted to know and touch.

Even before Georgie brought the car to a halt they were surrounded. It was like being trapped inside a capsule with faces, hands, cameras and bodies magnetized to every window and door. The car was rocking and jerking. They were zoo animals; items on display, helpless prey.

‘This is a nightmare,’ Georgie muttered. ‘How the hell are we going to get through?’

Beth looked at the frustrated, cajoling, reddened faces. What damage were they doing to the car, as if they cared? Flashbulbs were popping faster than corn, elbows were digging in like oars. The voices were muted, but it wasn’t hard to read the bobbing, twisting mouths. Beth’s celebrity persona had vanished in seconds, leaving her to cope with the stark reality of who she actually was and why she was there. Fear slithered through her. It was horrifying to be the focus of so much demand, and so unqualified to handle it. How had it been for Colin when he’d left for the court? Had they put a coat over his head, the way they often did with high-profile killers? Had he been handcuffed?
Her dignified, elegant husband, handcuffed!
What sort of things had they shouted at him? Was any amongst them prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt? How quickly and readily they had all turned. Like his government colleagues. She’d heard from none of them, and Bruce said Colin hadn’t either.

Georgie was on the phone, speaking to someone inside. Minutes later they were plucked from the middle of the circus, ushered to the station doors,
then being led through drab, winding corridors to the interview rooms in the depths of this Victorian institution. It was the first time in her life that Beth had been beyond the front desk of a police station. The feeling it gave her was almost dizzying. Or was it that her senses were still reeling from the ordeal outside? And now, as the noise receded, and their footsteps filled her ears, her heart began pounding so hard she was afraid she’d never get through this without breaking down.

At the top of a small flight of stairs Georgie was taken off in another direction. Beth was unsettled by the fact that they were questioning Georgie too, or any of her friends, when they couldn’t possibly know anything. Or could they? Maybe one or even more of them had met Sophie Long, but had never wanted to tell her. Maybe everyone knew more than she did and over the next few hellish hours, days, weeks she was going to find out just how much more.

‘Through here,’ a uniformed policewoman told her, smiling as she stood aside for Beth to enter a dingy room with cheap grey lino tiles on the floor, and matching paint on the walls. ‘Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea?’

‘Nothing, thank you,’ Beth answered, looking at the window where light was struggling to shine through the painted-over panes.

‘Mrs Ashby.’

She turned to find a kindly-looking man with a horseshoe of frizzy red hair wrapped round the base of his skull, standing right behind her. She almost jumped, for she hadn’t been aware of him even drawing close.

‘Detective Inspector Jones,’ he reminded her, even as she recognized him. He held out a hand to shake. ‘Thank you for coming to the station. I know this must be a difficult time, so we appreciate you taking the trouble.’

Beth took his hand.

‘It shouldn’t take long,’ he assured her, gesturing for her to continue on into the room.

She glanced round at the sound of voices further along the corridor, then turned towards a chipped Formica table and an odd assortment of fibreglass chairs. To her dismay, Jones was joined by a stout, smartly dressed woman who looked to be in her early fifties, and a casually attired man with a bright grey US marine-style crew cut, dark flinty eyes and a heavy-set jaw.

‘This is Detective Sergeant Freeling,’ Jones said, introducing the woman.

Freeling smiled politely, though with little warmth.

Beth looked at the man with the crew cut, expecting Jones to introduce him too.

‘Please, sit down.’ Jones smiled pleasantly.

Beth perched on the edge of a chair and clutched her bag on her knees. Jones and Freeling set themselves up at the other side of the table, while the man with the jaw retreated to a corner and positioned his chair so that he had a clear view of Beth’s face. Beth glanced at him nervously. Who was he? Why had no one introduced him?

Freeling was setting up a tape, speaking the time, date and all their names into the built-in mike. Beth looked at Jones. Though she was afraid, she was reasonably calm, she felt, and hopefully ready to
convince them that she believed utterly in her husband’s innocence. The thought of Colin sent a bolt of dread shooting through her heart. He must be at the court now, preparing to make his plea.
Not guilty
, he would say, and her breath almost caught on the image of his pale, handsome face as he spoke. What would he be feeling? How afraid he must be.

Jones looked up from the dossier in front of him. ‘I apologize for the necessity of having to put you through this,’ he began, sounding as though he meant it. ‘Please be assured it’s not our intention to cause you any more distress than you must already be suffering.’

Beth looked at him with wide, burning eyes. She made no attempt to speak for her emotions were embarrassingly close to the surface and his unexpected kindness had caused a tightness in her throat.

‘I know you’re aware that we searched your house yesterday,’ he continued.

She nodded. Tension had stiffened her neck.

‘Would you mind speaking your answers?’ he asked, indicating the tape deck.

‘Yes,’ she responded, tilting her face towards the machine.

‘We’ve removed several items,’ he told her. ‘Some of them are your diaries.’

She flushed, and felt the heat sinking to the base of her pores. A beat later she was panicking about how her private thoughts might be construed. Lawyers were even more skilled at twisting facts than reporters.

Jones’s eyes were imbued with understanding as he said, ‘Married life is rarely easy.’

The colour in her cheeks deepened as sweat began prickling her armpits. What had they found in those diaries? What were they misreading already?

‘Do you have any idea how long your husband had been seeing Sophie Long?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘But you did know he was seeing her?’

‘No. I’d never heard of her until yesterday.’ Her lips felt dry and cracked; her voice was hoarse.

‘The women you’ve written about in your diaries – wasn’t one of them Sophie?’

‘I suppose it’s possible,’ she answered. ‘I rarely knew their names.’

‘So he could have been seeing her for some time?’

‘I really don’t know.’

He nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. ‘Your husband moved out of the house a week or so ago?’ he said.

The question made her feel horrible inside ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We had a row. I changed the locks. It wasn’t the first time.’ But he’d know that, having read her diaries.

‘What was the row about?’

He must know that too. ‘A party he wanted me to go to,’ she answered. ‘I’d already cooked dinner, so I wanted to stay at home. He went anyway, and I got someone in to change the locks.’ She wondered what they were all thinking – that she was hysterical, or that more women should have the guts?

‘Have you spoken to your husband since that night?’

‘No. Yes. He called me the next day to say he was sorry.’

‘But you didn’t allow him back in the house?’

‘He didn’t ask to come. He knew I needed more time to calm down.’

‘So where was he staying?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘He didn’t tell you?’

‘No.’

Jones seemed genuinely surprised. ‘And you didn’t ask?’ he said. ‘You didn’t need to know, for emergencies, say?’

‘He has a mobile phone. I could have called him on that.’

Now Jones was really curious. ‘Was it usual for him not to tell you where he was during these periods of estrangement?’

‘Sometimes he did. Sometimes he didn’t. There were certain friends he’d go to; I presumed he was with one of them.’

‘What friends?’

Her eyes showed confusion and unease. ‘Friends he’s had for years,’ she answered.

‘Can you give us their names?’

Reluctantly she began listing them. But what harm could it do? The police probably already knew about them anyway. After all, they’d never been secret and were all entered in Colin’s palm-pilot. She knew because she’d set up the address book herself, before giving it to him for Christmas last year.

When Freeling had finished writing the list, Jones said, ‘Other than friends’ wives there are no women here. Does that mean you didn’t think he was with another woman?’

‘Yes, it crossed my mind,’ she admitted, feeling
herself colour again. ‘But like I said, I don’t know their names.’

He nodded, as though thanking her for the reminder. ‘On average, how long would you say your break-ups normally last?’

‘A week or so. They aren’t that frequent,’ she added defensively.

‘But more frequent than most.’

Shame caused her mouth to tremble. ‘It was a feature of our marriage,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t read anything into it.’

His smile was benign. ‘Did you know that he had an arrangement to see Sophie Long at midday yesterday?’

‘No. I’d never heard of her until yesterday.’

‘Do you have access to your husband’s diary?’

‘He doesn’t usually hide it, if that’s what you mean.’

‘But he hadn’t been in the house for almost a week, so presumably the last time you saw it was prior to him leaving?’

She nodded. ‘I imagine so. I don’t really remember when I last saw it.’

He glanced down at the notes in front of him.

Beth watched him closely, then started as Freeling suddenly said, ‘Where were you at midday yesterday, Mrs Ashby?’

Beth blinked with surprise. ‘At home,’ she answered.

‘You don’t work?’ Her tone was almost scathing, telling Beth precisely what she thought of women who didn’t.

‘Not exactly. I used to, but I left,’ Beth responded, ‘to write a book.’

Freeling didn’t disguise her disdain. ‘Did you leave the house at all yesterday morning?’ she said curtly.

‘No.’

‘Did anyone visit you?’

‘No. Except the cleaner, Mrs Tolstoy. She was there.’

‘What about phone calls?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t remember. I don’t think anyone called.’

‘Did you ring anyone?’

Beth shook her head. ‘Not that I recall. Won’t the BT records –’

‘There were no calls,’ Freeling butted in, ‘so how do we know you’re telling the truth?’

Beth’s eyes widened with alarm. She turned to Jones. ‘I was at home,’ she insisted. ‘Mrs Tolstoy was there, cleaning. I was working on my computer. I’m always at home in the day …’

‘Can you give us Mrs Tolstoy’s number?’

Beth gave it, shaking with indignation and fear.

‘So she will confirm that you were there between eleven a.m. and twelve thirty p.m.,’ Freeling demanded.

‘Yes, of course,’ Beth cried.

‘You didn’t go out at all?’

‘No! Yes. Hang on, yes, I did go out. I went to get paper for my printer. The stationer’s isn’t far. I bought paper, and a packet of pencils. I’ve got a receipt,’ she said, scrabbling in her bag. ‘It’s here somewhere. I know I kept it. I can claim those kinds of things against tax, so I always keep … Here it is! I don’t know if the time is on it, but I’m sure the boy who served me will remember.’