Need You Dead

71 Tuesday 26 April

Roy Grace sat with Glenn Branson in the observation room, watching the video screen in front of them. Grace had a mug of coffee and his colleague a bottle of water. Seymour Darling sat in the room with his solicitor. Opposite them were Guy Batchelor and Jon Exton.

For the benefit of the interview process, the two officers introduced themselves. Batchelor gestured in turn to the suspect, then the solicitor. ‘Could you please state your names for the recording?’

The man spoke aggressively. ‘Seymour Rodney Darling.’ Moments later the woman said, stiffly, ‘Doris Ishack of Lawson Lewis Blakers, solicitor for Mr Darling.’

Batchelor continued. ‘I’m confirming the time as being 10.17 a.m., Tuesday, April 26th.’ He looked at the suspect. ‘I’d like to remind you, Mr Darling, that you are still under caution.’ He repeated the caution to him. ‘Is that clear to you?’

Darling nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Can you tell us where you were last night?’

‘I was at my home.’

‘What is the address?’

‘I think you know that. 29 Hangleton Rise.’

‘Can you give us an account of your actions last night, at 29 Hangleton Rise?’

‘Yes. I arrived home from work around 7.30 p.m., and my wife had put the safety chain on the front door, so I couldn’t get in. It was only when I threatened to break the door down that the bitch opened it — I was ringing and banging for sodding ages.’

‘Is that the normal time you arrive home?’ DS Exton asked.

‘If you were married to her you’d understand. I needed a couple of pints before I could face her.’

His solicitor tried to interrupt but he brushed her aside. ‘She’s made my life hell for years. Accusing me all the time of one thing after another.’

‘Why had she put the safety chain on?’ Batchelor asked.

‘To piss me off.’

‘Can you tell us why you think she might have done that?’ he continued.

‘She had it in her head that I was having an affair. Some days I’d come home and she was mental — she’d just fly at me, or throw things at me. Anything. Ashtrays, furniture, a saucepan of hot soup.’

‘How did you feel about that?’ Batchelor asked.

‘She was terminally ill with cancer, I always tried to be understanding.’ He glanced at his solicitor then back at the two detectives. ‘I don’t know how anyone would feel with that hanging over her. She felt anger, you know — why me?’

Exton nodded sympathetically.

Batchelor looked down at his notes. ‘Mr Darling, when we last interviewed you, on this past Sunday, you told us that she had terminal cancer, with a prognosis of four to six months to live. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘The officers who talked to your wife whilst you were in custody asked her about this. She was astonished to hear it and told them she was perfectly healthy. What do you have to say about that?’

Roy Grace shot a glance at Glenn Branson. They saw the fury in Darling’s face, as he raised his balled fists in the air. ‘She fucking what? She said that?’

Batchelor looked down at his notes again. ‘I’ll read you out the relevant part of the statement she gave, Mr Darling, in her words: I am completely healthy. This is a line he spins to all his girlfriends. He has a whole fucking fantasy world inside his head. He’d love it if I was terminally ill, but too bad for him, I’m not.’

Darling looked, for a moment, crushed and genuinely shocked. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘I’m happy to let you and your solicitor see a copy of the statement she signed. We are also checking her medical history with her GP.’

Darling shook his head. ‘What does it matter any more? One lie after another. Anything she could do to hurt me, she’d find a way and do it. Jesus.’ He buried his face in his hands in despair.

Watching Darling, Roy Grace felt a fleeting moment of sadness for the man. Having met Trish Darling, and been shocked by her vitriol, he wondered where the truth actually lay. No one knew what really went on behind any couple’s closed doors. Was Darling a monster, or just someone who became one when pushed beyond his limits?

‘Could you tell us what happened after you arrived home last night?’ Batchelor asked.

Darling was silent for some moments, staring vacantly ahead. Then he said, ‘I had had a bit to drink, yes, a couple of pints, and maybe some whisky, too. I was hammering on the door. She let me in and started on at me, right away, that she could smell alcohol on my breath and another woman’s perfume. Her eyes were glazed, like they always were when she went off on one.’

‘One what?’ Exton encouraged.

‘One of her fucking moods. Like a veil of mist dropped over her. She was obsessed with the idea I was having an affair.’ He raised his arms, looking pathetic. ‘Do I look like a bloody womanizer? I’m not exactly Brad Pitt, am I?’

‘What happened next?’ Batchelor asked.

‘I don’t remember exactly. She began screaming at me, punching me. I tried to keep my cool. Then she shouted at me about my manhood. Said I’d never satisfied her in years — you know — it was too small — that even on our wedding night she’d faked it. I just lost it. Lost the plot. I don’t remember exactly — I punched her. She ran upstairs and locked herself in the bedroom, and was ranting at me through the door. Told me she was screwing someone she’d met who had a twelve-inch dick. That she wanted to have proper sex for the first time in her life before she died. I just couldn’t bear it. I tried to get her to open the door, but she wouldn’t. So I went out to the garden shed and got the wood axe and hacked the door open. Then I saw her inside. I–I — I—’ He broke down into uncontrollable sobs, his head falling forward onto his hands on the table, and just lay there. Crying his heart out.