The Cruellest Game (27 page)

‘Mrs Anderson, you live in a remote part of Dartmoor. Who do you think would have left the child on your property if it were not you? And why?’

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ I said. ‘How many times am I going to be asked that?’

I honestly thought I was going to break down and cry. It was only because of a stubborn determination not to be worn down by this total injustice, and by dint of sheer willpower, that I managed
to maintain a modicum of self-control. Again, I was interviewed on and off by shifts of officers. Then, just before 1 p.m., Gerry Ponsonby Smythe’s solicitor friend arrived, and turned out to
be not at all what I had expected. Marti Smith was a young-looking woman, thin almost to the point of being anorexic. She had spiky pink hair and wore a leather coat, open over a blinged white
shirt, black leggings and black biker leather boots. I wondered vaguely if she’d made the court appearance Gladys had mentioned dressed like that, and what the average judge or magistrate
would make of her hairdo.

Anyway, she turned out to be sharp as a needle and tough as her boots. She’d already done her homework and got straight to the point.

‘I have little doubt forensics have so far found no evidence at all in Mrs Anderson’s home linking her with the child, except in the kitchen where we know the boy was taken in the
company of two police officers,’ she told Jarvis. ‘And neither, I am sure, has any such evidence been found in Mrs Anderson’s car. Indeed, as far as I can see you have no case
against my client. She told you she found the child in her disused stable, and what evidence there is points only to that.’

‘The forensic examinations have not been completed,’ responded Jarvis doggedly. ‘Also, we are, of course, awaiting DNA results.’

‘Yes,’ said Marti Smith. ‘And that takes days. You may wish to continue with your inquiries, but you cannot keep Mrs Anderson here indefinitely, as you well know, without
charging her. You are aware of PACE, I presume, Mr Jarvis? My client will soon have been in custody for twenty-four hours and without the authority of a police superintendent you must then release
her. Unless, of course, you are in a position to charge Mrs Anderson, and I don’t think you are, Detective Sergeant, are you?’

Jarvis glowered at her. ‘No. But your client has been arrested on suspicion of attempted murder, the most serious of offences. I already have our super’s authority to extend
custody.’

‘I’m not happy about that, not happy at all,’ said Marti Smith. ‘You know very well how flimsy your evidence is.’

‘The child was found on Mrs Anderson’s property, Miss Smith.’

‘Yes, and a couple of years ago now the body of a young woman was found on the Queen’s estate at Sandringham. I do not recollect the Queen or any other member of the royal family
being charged with her murder.’

DS Jarvis continued to glower at my rather impressive solicitor. I found myself almost smiling. I liked Marti Smith already. How could I help myself?

‘Unless we do charge your client or apply for a further custody extension at the magistrates’ court she will be released . . .’ Jarvis seemed to think for a moment. ‘At
six o’clock tomorrow morning, exactly thirty-six hours after she was formally taken into custody, and not a minute before.’

‘And not a minute afterwards, either, I do so hope, Detective Sergeant,’ countered Marti Smith. She was no pushover, that was for sure. Even so, it seemed I was going to spend a
second night in custody after all. I tried not to think about it too much or I really would have broken down.

I suddenly remembered Dad. I hadn’t returned his Saturday call. Nor Bella’s, of course. But that didn’t matter so much. Dad would be going frantic. And I couldn’t risk
him finding out about my arrest from some other source. I asked if I could phone him.

‘No,’ said DS Jarvis. ‘We can’t allow that, I’m afraid. But, if you wish, we can phone your father on your behalf to inform him of your whereabouts.’

The thought of that appalled me and would probably be the end of Dad, I reckoned.

Marti Smith saved the day. She offered to call my father as soon as she left the station, to explain everything as best she could, and to tell him that she was sure I would soon be released and
able to speak to him myself. It wasn’t ideal. But it was certainly better than allowing DS Jarvis, or worse still the now quite disagreeable PC Cox, to call Dad. Anything would be better than
that.

Interviews continued, on and off, throughout the rest of that afternoon and evening until finally I was again locked up in the same horrible cell overnight. They roused me early, provided me
once more with an inedible breakfast, and took me back to the interview room at about 5.30 a.m. for another session with Jarvis. I wondered if the man ever went off duty.

On the dot of 6 a.m. I was told that I was to be released on police bail and escorted to the custody suite.

‘To be processed,’ they told me again.

To my surprise and relief Marti Smith, wearing what seemed to be her uniform of leggings, blinged shirt and leather coat, was there waiting for me.

‘I didn’t expect to see you here at this hour,’ I said.

‘In court in Exeter today. Just meant an earlier start, that’s all,’ she said. ‘Should make sure I’m not late on parade, anyway.’

The custody sergeant informed me that the clothes I had been wearing when I was arrested would be detained as possible evidence, and handed me a bag containing clothes I had never seen before
– underwear, tracksuit trousers, a T-shirt, a thick sweater and a pair of trainers. They were all rather too big for me but I didn’t care. I wondered where the clothes had come from but
I didn’t care much about that either. I had to wear something in order to be able to leave Heavitree Road Police Station, and that was all I did care about.

The sergeant, the same sallow-faced man who had checked me in thirty-six hours previously, also told me that my handbag and its contents had been detained for forensic examination. So, even, had
my watch.

‘But my money, and my credit cards, they’re all in my bag. I have to have them, surely . . .’

The sergeant shook his head morosely. ‘I’m afraid you will have to apply for new cards, madam. I am unable to release any of the contents of your bag at the moment.’

I had to sign a receipt for all the items detained and also for other items which had apparently been removed from Highrise, including, of course, my iPad. And my passport, it seemed.

I felt weak and disorientated and was so grateful to Marti Smith for being there to help me through it all.

‘Right, before formally granting police bail I will need an address for you, Mrs Anderson,’ said the sergeant.

I was perplexed. ‘Why, my home, of course,’ I said. ‘Highrise, Blackstone . . .’

Marti Smith stepped in. ‘No, Marion, I’m afraid Highrise is still a crime scene. Look, I know it’s not ideal, but Gladys has offered to put you up until the SOCOs have
finished.’

I just stared at her. Stupidly perhaps, it hadn’t occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to go straight home.

‘You may book into a hotel, if you wish, madam,’ said the custody sergeant. ‘We would accept that.’

I turned to look directly at him. ‘Without any cash or credit cards?’ I queried sarcastically.

He shrugged, more or less ignoring my inflection.

‘It’ll have to be Gladys’s, bless her,’ I said. Actually, the thought of being forced into the company of the vicar’s wife and having to listen to her endless
garrulous outpourings appalled me, though I knew I was being ungrateful. But anything, anything at all, was better than spending another minute in police custody.

‘I’ll drive you to Blackstone,’ Marti said, when we’d completed all the paperwork.

‘But don’t you have to be in court?’

‘It’s not seven o’clock yet,’ she replied. ‘I’ve hours to spare and it won’t take long to get to Gladys’s at this hour.’

Weary, but relieved to be free again, I allowed myself to be led from the station. As much for something to say as anything else I asked Marti if she knew whose clothes I might be wearing. Were
they some kind of standard police issue?

She shook her head. ‘Gladys told me she’d left clothes for you yesterday,’ said Marti. ‘Never underestimate that woman. She knows the form when someone’s arrested
almost as well as I do, and she has a totally practical approach.’

I managed a small smile as we stepped out onto the pavement. But that was when more trouble started.

Half the world seemed to be outside. The news of my arrest had obviously broken with a vengeance. A crowd of locals, apparently furious that I was being released, shouted and screamed abuse at
me. Was everyone in this part of Devon an excessively early riser, I wondered? Press photographers half blinded me with a cacophony of flash bulbs; reporters, from newspapers and radio and
television stations, called out questions I could not even comprehend in the state I was in, let alone answer.

I suppose it was stupid; I had watched this kind of scene many times on TV news bulletins before, but I had not even thought about anything like it happening to me.

‘Just look straight ahead and walk tall,’ said Marti Smith. I tried to take her advice. It wasn’t easy. At one point I was hit in the side of the face by a rotting orange.
Apart from the humiliation, it really hurt. The fruit imploded as it smashed into my cheekbone. Unpleasant brownish juice ran down over my chin. I stumbled as I tried to wipe it away with the back
of one hand. A uniformed police officer launched himself into the crowd in search of the offender. But the damage had been done.

Once settled in Marti Smith’s convertible Mini Cooper I couldn’t hold the tears back.

‘How long do you think it will be before I can return to Highrise?’ I asked through my sniffles.

‘Hopefully not more than a day or two,’ Marti replied.

Even after all that had happened I wanted to be in my own home. But I would just have to be patient, it seemed. At least I wouldn’t be spending another night in that cell.

Gladys welcomed us warmly at the vicarage and fed us tea and toast in the Formica kitchen. Marti stayed almost an hour before slipping out to her car to fetch a tailored black pinstriped jacket
and black court shoes, which she put on in Gladys’s downstairs toilet. When she returned to the kitchen her hair, though still pink, had been flattened and slicked neatly back behind her
ears. The tailored jacket exposed little more than the white collar of her blinged shirt, and reached almost to her knees. The leggings protruding beneath it, now that Marti’s feet were clad
in the court shoes instead of biker boots, looked surprisingly conventional. So that’s how she does it, I thought, as she left for her appearance at the crown court. She promised to call in
later in the day before returning to Bristol. I wondered if she was this attentive to all her clients. I suspected probably not, and that the treatment I was receiving was almost certainly down to
Marti Smith’s friendship with the Ponsonby Smythes. Something else I had to be grateful to Gladys for.

After Marti had departed I asked Gladys if I could phone Dad, and she left me alone in the kitchen while I did so. He was indeed frantic with worry, though at least it seemed that Marti Smith
had broken the news of my arrest to him before he saw it on TV or read about it in a newspaper. He had, however, watched my traumatic release from police custody live on television earlier that
morning.

‘Terrible, terrible it was, them people throwing things at you,’ he said. ‘I’ve been calling Highrise and your mobile ever since. Couldn’t get hold of Robert
either.’

I explained that my mobile had been detained, I was not yet allowed to return home, and Robert was still somewhere in the North Sea. Predictably, he at once invited me to Hartland, but I told
him I hoped to be back home very soon. He wanted to join me there as soon as I was reinstalled, ‘to look after you, maid’ as he put it. I managed, with some difficulty, to talk my way
out of that too.

The whole conversation was extremely fraught, which was no more than I’d expected. Ultimately I informed him that my arrest was just a terrible misunderstanding, and with a confidence I
did not really feel assured him that soon things would be resolved.

After the call to Dad I spoke to Gladys about having no credit cards and no cash. I really wasn’t functioning properly. I needed her help to apply for replacement cards. She found me phone
numbers for Barclays and American Express. My new Connect card and Barclaycard had to be sent to my home address, but I could pick up the AmEx card from the company’s Exeter office the
following day.

Gladys then offered to drive me into Okehampton so that I could draw some cash at my local Barclays. Fortunately this was still the kind of branch where the clerks often knew the customers, and
I was lucky, albeit a tad embarrassed under the circumstances, to find on duty a woman who had been there so long we were on casual first-name terms, so I didn’t have a problem with
identification. Curly haired Mavis smiled as I approached the counter, but I saw the colour rise in her cheeks and I’m sure there was more than just a flicker of recognition in her eyes. I
wondered if she knew of my arrest. Judging from the commotion outside the police station, it was quite likely that she did.

She made no comment, though, just asked for my postcode, presumably as a cursory security check as I assumed it was on the screen before her. I drew out £500 and was surprised at how much
better it made me feel to have money in my pocket.

Gladys and I then made a quick stop at Peacocks, Okehampton’s budget lady’s clothing store, where I bought some clothes that fitted me: jeans, sweater and a pair of trainers, and
some night things. As we walked around the store I thought I noticed a couple of other shoppers stare at me, then look away and whisper to each other. But it could have been my imagination.

During the drive to and from Okehampton, Gladys, true to form, chattered non-stop. I have absolutely no idea what about. But I found I didn’t mind as much as I’d thought I might. It
meant I barely had to speak. And she asked me no questions, which was an enormous relief.