The Cruellest Game

Nine

I didn’t confront Robert straight away. Instead I just told him I’d had quite enough of the Lamb and Flag and all the doubtless well-meaning mourners who were filling it. The ‘friends’ I hadn’t known any of us had.

‘I’d like to go home as soon as possible,’ I said. ‘Don’t forget Dad needs to pick up his car to drive back to Hartland.’

The funeral car was no longer at our disposal, but Gladys overheard and offered at once to take us back to Highrise.

As usual she chattered non-stop. And by leaving Robert and occasionally my father to make any necessary responses in the few gaps, I was able to shut my eyes, lean back in my seat and retreat into my own head. That was not, however, a happy place.

Back at Highrise, Gladys dropped us off without, thankfully, giving any indication that she expected to be invited in. Robert and I went through the rather stilted motions of sitting down in the kitchen and sharing a pot of tea with Dad. None of us had any conversation. It seemed like for ever before Dad stood up to leave, and I remember thinking he was probably still angling to stay the night. But I didn’t offer. I just couldn’t.

I kissed him goodbye, aware that his cheeks were damp with tears again, and we waved him somewhat shabbily on his way. Even then I still did not trust myself to confront Robert with my new suspicions. Or maybe I just didn’t have the energy.

Robert busied himself making even more tea.

I glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was only just gone 8 p.m. Too early for bed? I didn’t care. I so wanted the day to end.

‘I think I drank too much red wine,’ I told Robert. ‘I just need to lie down.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Would you like me to bring you anything up? Another cup of tea? Something to eat?’

I shook my head. At the pub I had eaten some of the food provided — a couple of sausage rolls and several sandwiches. I’d been on a kind of autopilot. And eating had given me something to do.

‘Only some water, that would be good,’ I said over my shoulder as I made my way up the stairs.

I hesitated outside the room which had been mine and Robert’s for so long. I thought for a moment about the big comfortable bed and the goose-down pillows. Earlier in the day I’d thought I might return there that night. But, full of all that fresh doubt following Gladys’s casual remarks, I couldn’t face it.

I headed for the guest room again. My fluffy dressing gown hung behind the door. I undressed, put it on, and climbed into bed. I would have loved to have fallen into a long, deep sleep but I just knew that wasn’t going to happen. However, when I heard Robert’s footsteps on the stairs, with a pause outside the master bedroom while he perhaps checked if I’d relented and was inside, then further approaching footsteps followed by the sound of the guest-room door opening, I made sure that my eyes were tightly closed.

There was a kind of clinking noise which I knew must be him placing a jug of water and a glass on the bedside table, followed by footsteps and the sound of the door closing behind him.

Only then did I open my eyes. I sat up in bed, poured myself a glass of water and drank gratefully. The water at Highrise came from our own well. It was cool and fresh and unadulterated by chemicals. Even at that moment it tasted great.

I lay back on the pillows and tried to rest, to regain my strength, and I had no idea, really, how long I lay like that, half awake, half dozing, submerged in my own misery and distress.

I must have been dozing when Robert returned. I didn’t even hear him come through the door. I opened my eyes automatically, having become suddenly aware of another presence. And there he was standing looking down at me, concerned and kind.

‘I thought you might like something now,’ he said. He gestured to the bedside table upon which stood a steaming mug and a plate of shortbread biscuits. I could smell the unmistakable aroma of freshly made hot chocolate.

‘W-what time is it?’ I asked.

‘A few minutes before ten,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d have an early night too.’

He reached to touch my shoulder. Only then did I take in that he was wearing his pyjamas.

‘And I thought maybe you were ready for some company,’ he said.

I jerked myself away from him.

‘No, I am not,’ I barked.

His face flushed.

‘I didn’t mean anything, I wasn’t suggesting anything,’ he said, stumbling over the words. ‘Just somebody to hold on to.’

‘No,’ I said again, forcefully.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I must have misread the signs. I thought today I was giving you some comfort at last. That’s all I want to do now...’

I sat up in bed, moving quickly and clumsily. I knocked against the bedside table. Hot chocolate spilled from the mug onto the pale oak surface.

‘You were comforting me,’ I said. ‘Until I caught you out in another damned lie.’

‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘You never told me you sang in a church choir, here in Devon. What the heck does that mean?’

‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ he said. ‘Because it’s not true. I’ve never sung in a church choir anywhere. Not here, not in Scotland. Why would I? I hate religion. You know that.’

‘The vicar’s wife remembered you. You can’t deny it. She told me all about it.’

‘I can deny it,’ he continued. ‘Because it’s not bloody well true. That woman’s barmy, if you ask me. She’s also an interfering old cow.’

It was his turn to sound angry now. I couldn’t take any more.

‘Oh, just go to bed, Robert,’ I ordered him wearily. ‘Anywhere you like, except here with me.’

I wriggled down into the bed again, turned over so that my back was towards him, pulled the duvet up around my neck and shut my eyes tight.

He did not persist. Without another word he left the room. Only when I heard the door shut behind him did I relax. And then the tears came again and just would not stop.

I must have fallen asleep at some stage. It was a bright morning and the sun was quite high in the sky when I woke. I checked my watch. It was gone nine. Much later than I would have expected.

I had a shower, put on the dressing gown again, picked up my funeral clothes and began to make my away across the landing to Robert’s and my room in search of a pair of jeans and a sweater.

I could hear Robert’s voice downstairs. He was on the phone. I didn’t trust him any more. And I realized that I quite badly wanted to know who he was talking to and what he was saying without him being aware of my presence. I dropped my armful of yesterday’s clothes on the landing floor and made my way as quietly as I could downstairs, avoiding the treads which I knew creaked.

Robert was in the kitchen. The door was open. I stood in the hall outside with my back pressed against the wall.

‘Look, I just don’t know when I can return,’ I heard him say. ‘It’s far too early to decide. I can’t leave my wife... Well, yes, thank you. If you could give me a couple of weeks before we talk again, that would be great. Really. I can’t make any decisions right now. I just can’t... No. Well, thank you anyway...’

He ended the call. I stepped into the room and spoke as if I knew nothing of his call, which had fairly obviously been to his employer.

‘Who was that on the phone?’

‘The Amaco personnel people,’ he said. Surely speaking the truth for once, I thought nastily, even though it was a Saturday. But then, as PC Cox had remarked on the night of Robbie’s death, this was the oil business. It didn’t shut up shop for the weekend.

‘They wanted to know when I could go back to work. I told them not for at least another two or three weeks—’

‘I think you should go back straight away,’ I said, interrupting. ‘There’s no point in moping around here. That won’t help either of us. Just go. It’ll be for the best.’

He looked surprised and hurt.

‘Not yet, surely,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to leave you on your own. Not yet.’

‘I’ll be all right,’ I said. ‘Call them back. Tell them you’ve changed your mind.’

He shook his head. ‘No,’ he began. ‘It wouldn’t be right—’

I interrupted him again. This time I screamed at him.

‘Don’t you understand, you lying bastard. I don’t want you here. I want you to go. I want you to go anywhere, anywhere at all, and just leave me alone.’

I hadn’t meant to fly out of control like that, but I couldn’t stop myself.

He recoiled from me as if I had physically attacked him.

Which I was just a hair’s breadth from doing.

Robert left for the North Sea less than forty-eight hours later, early on Monday morning, eleven days after our son had died. He hadn’t argued at all after my near violent outburst. Instead he’d meekly called the Amaco people back and made the necessary arrangements to return to work as soon as possible.

He told me he’d managed to get a flight to Aberdeen from Exeter — sometimes it had to be Bristol from where the service was more frequent — and I drove him to the airport just as I always had. We’d only ever run one car as Robert was away so much and almost never wanted to go anywhere alone when he was at home.

We had little to say to each other on the hour or so drive, and he looked sad and beaten as he climbed out of the car and made his way to the terminal building. It occurred to me that I was suddenly the strong one. The decisive one. And that I’d never realized how weak the man I’d married could be, whatever his bloody name was.

As soon as I got home I called Gladys Ponsonby Smythe. I thanked her for all her help with the funeral arrangements and told her I’d never have got through it without her. Which was more or less the truth.

‘Shall I pop over?’ she offered at once. ‘I could pick up one of Mrs Simmons’s home-made cakes from the shop.’

I turned down the offer, a little too quickly probably, even though I knew only too well how delicious Mrs Simmons’s cakes were.

‘Robert and I need some time alone, just to be quiet together,’ I fibbed by way of explanation. I was fairly sure that if I confessed that I was alone in the house a herd of Dartmoor ponies wouldn’t have stopped her dropping everything and rushing to my rescue.

Gladys said she quite understood, and I was able to move on to the real reason I had called her.

‘About Robert,’ I began as casually as I could. ‘You know when you said you thought he used to sing in the choir at your other church? I wondered how long ago it was, and if that would have been when he was with his first wife?’

Was there an almost imperceptible pause? I wasn’t sure. But Gladys sounded clear enough when she did answer.

‘Oh, Marion, luv, I feel such a fool,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose it was your Robert at all, chuck. After all, it was years and years ago. I couldn’t tell you exactly how many, but Gerry and I have been in Blackstone over twelve years. The man I remembered must have looked then like Robert does now. Silly of me.’

‘So you don’t remember his wife?’ I persisted.

‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t think I remember anything, luvvie,’ said Gladys, with a small snort of laughter. ‘I got it all wrong, didn’t I, and I have no idea what I thought I was doing sticking my oar in like that, and at your poor lad’s funeral too. Typical, Gerry would say. I just hope you can forgive me, flower, that’s all...’

She was prattling now, in true Gladys fashion, and absolutely determined to treat me to her full range of Northern endearments, it seemed. I knew I wasn’t going to get any more sense from her, even assuming there was any to get. I let her voice wash over me until I could reasonably interject and end the conversation.

Afterwards I wondered if perhaps I had been wrong to attack Robert the way I had. If Gladys had made a genuine silly mistake, then I had not caught Robert out in another lie after all. But that was the terrible dilemma the two of us now shared. With even the slightest cause, would I ever again be able to stop myself becoming suspicious of him?

I also tried to call Sue Shaw. She didn’t pick up. And I didn’t somehow expect her to. Nor really did I expect her to respond to the message I left asking her to call me back for a chat, only a chat.

Then for the rest of that day, and most of several that followed, I just moped around the house, poking about among Robbie’s things, periodically bursting into floods of tears. I ate and drank little, delving into the freezer only if I really needed food and not interested at all in the form it took. Any crockery and cutlery I did use was piled in the sink. I couldn’t even be bothered to load the dishwasher. For the first time since we had moved in, Highrise looked grubby and uncared for, and I didn’t give a damn.

Paracetamol were no longer helping at all with my sleeplessness. I visited my doctor to request some sleeping pills which he duly provided, prescribing zolpidem, apparently the UK’s most popular sleeping aid, although I had never heard of it before. While I was there he insisted that I get my feet redressed. I’d neglected them totally since scalding them on the day of Robbie’s death, but my wounds had stopped leaking and seemed to be healing OK, in spite of my lack of attention.

I answered the phone as infrequently and briefly as possible and then only to ensure that neither Gladys nor my dad nor Bella nor any other of my relatively small band of acquaintances descended upon me. I ignored Robert’s calls and emails completely. I thought he deserved to suffer as I was suffering. The only time I left Highrise was when Florrie more or less forced me to take her for a walk, rubbing herself against my legs and whining pitifully.

Even with the aid of the zolpidem, I tossed and turned my way restlessly through most of each dark night, and endured each long day with lonely and harrowed anguish.

Then, six days after Robert had returned to work, on a particularly bright and beautiful Sunday morning, I decided I could take no more of it. I dug out my heavy-duty boots, put on extra thick socks to protect my feet, loaded Florrie into the back of the car, and drove up onto the moors past Okehampton Camp, the big army training centre where hundreds of cadets, including Royal Marines Commandos, are put through their paces every year. Fortunately no military manoeuvres were taking place and the track into the heart of Dartmoor, which cuts right through the camp’s firing range, was open.

After a mile or so I parked. Only then did I wonder why I had bothered with the protective socks and why I had brought Florrie with me. Habit I supposed. But in view of what I was planning, both were irrelevancies.

I set off on foot, Florrie running circles around me, towards Yes Tor, the second highest point on the moors, its peak more than two thousand feet above sea level. The air was cold and the sky impossibly clear. I could see for miles. Beyond that. Purple hills seemed to stretch to infinity. But not even Dartmoor at its best could lift my dismal mood nor alter my intention.

A life that had seemed so idyllic now appeared not to have been real at all. Robbie was dead. And I could see no future. Thinking of my son and how he would have loved to be up there with me on such a day, I climbed to the very top of Yes Tor, and stood trembling on its famous angular granite summit.

It seemed a very long time ago that I had stood in Robbie’s bathroom contemplating a bottle of paracetamol while telling myself that it really was true that potential suicide cases should always wait until tomorrow. For me, there was no point any more in waiting till tomorrow. Every day was the same. Filled with total despair.

Florrie took off after a rabbit, winding, whirling and leaping her way through the heather and bracken at a speed that belied her age. I didn’t call her back. I did not want her under my feet. I stepped forward to the edge of the top-most granite slab on the steepest side of the tor and prepared to jump. I could feel the sun and the wind burning my face with an unexpected intensity. It was as if all my senses and every nerve ending were more acutely tuned than they had ever been before in the whole of my life. And just as I was planning to end it.

A lone crow circled overhead, its grating caw caw quite deafening to me. The sun seemed blindingly bright. I shut my eyes against its glare and tried to force my body forward over the edge of the tor. But I couldn’t get my legs to move. I wanted one more look at the world I was leaving behind. I opened my eyes again and, staring straight ahead over the purple peaks of this place I so loved, made myself begin to shuffle towards the permanent oblivion I so sought.

It was then that I heard the voice. Clear as the day itself.

‘No, Mum, no. Don’t do it.’

It was Robbie’s voice.

I threw my upper body back to safety just as gravity threatened to pull me irrevocably forward and down. I collapsed in a crumpled heap on the ground, and sobbed for England. I was a wreck. But I was still alive and I knew with absolute certainty at that moment that I intended to remain so.

I am not a fanciful woman. I do not believe in God or the devil. I do not believe in life after death or the supernatural. I knew even then that Robbie’s voice was inside my own head. And only inside my head. It could be nowhere else.

None the less, his voice had been absolutely real to me. As was the message it had given.

No. Don’t do it.

As far as I was concerned Robbie had spoken to me just as certainly as if he had been alive and standing by my side. I didn’t fully understand it, but I knew I had experienced a road to Damascus moment from which there was no turning back.

Florrie bounded back towards me, panting, excited. She began to lick my hands and my face.

I pulled myself upright, called her to follow, and began the descent.

After a bit I turned and looked back up at Yes Tor. There is, on the side where I had positioned myself intending to leap, a short sheer drop from the very top, but by and large tors are not designed for suicide. I studied the terrain with a kind of detached interest. It would, I feared, have been far more likely that I would have just broken bits of me instead of killing myself. Suddenly the absurdity of it hit me. Along, I suppose, with the enormity of what I had so nearly done.

I began to laugh hysterically. Florrie trotted at my heels, looking at me curiously. An approaching couple walking a yellow Labrador, the only other people I had seen on the moor that morning, took a sharp turn onto another path. In order to avoid a woman who must appear to be quite mad, I suspected.

By the time I reached the car I had stopped laughing and felt more like crying again. But I still believed that something monumental had happened, and that I was going to be able to cope again soon. None the less, I had to return to a home I could barely stand being in.

Around mid-afternoon I forced myself to eat something. I tried to read and to watch TV. Both proved more or less beyond me. I remained determined that I would never again contemplate suicide, but the brief flash of optimism I had experienced in the car had been just that.

By bedtime I was preparing for another predominantly sleepless night. However, ironically, considering my purpose in going there, the sharp Dartmoor air seemed to have done me good. Or maybe I was just totally exhausted. But mercifully I fell into a deep sleep almost as soon as my head touched the pillows.

I was still using the guest room. Somehow I remained unable to return to the room Robert and I had shared. Florrie was in her bed in the kitchen. My gran had always taken her beloved Jack Russell to bed with her, but Florrie slept in the kitchen because Robert didn’t believe in dogs being allowed in bedrooms and had convinced me I didn’t either. After all, she did moult everywhere. Robbie and I had kept to the rule, whether Robert was away or not, without thinking about it, and it hadn’t occurred to me to change the dog’s sleeping arrangements. I had other things on my mind. In any case, that night I was out for the count.

It was perhaps because I had been deeply asleep at last that I woke so suddenly and with such a start. Something was wrong. I sat up in bed, shaking my head to try to clear the fog which filled it.

I’d been woken by something, and I didn’t know what. Had it been Florrie barking? She wasn’t barking now. Had there been some other noise?

I listened hard.

At first there was only silence and I began to wonder if I’d just been having a dream. I’d been taking sleeping pills after all.

Then I heard a scraping noise, like a chair being dragged across a floor. Still no sound from Florrie. My first instinct was that Robert had returned, and I very nearly called out his name. But then I stopped myself. If someone other than Robert had entered my house in the dead of night, I could put myself in danger by attracting attention.

Yet if there was an unknown intruder downstairs, I would have expected Florrie to bark. Or would I? She was such a soft, friendly creature, all over strangers usually. Any dog-savvy burglar who had brought her a meaty treat would probably have her rubbing lovingly against his legs in no time.

I switched on my bedside light, then wondered if that were such a good idea and switched it off again.

I climbed out of bed as quietly as possible, made my way out onto the landing and stood at the top of the stairs listening. There are always noises in an old house. Robert said Highrise was like a ship.

There was silence for so long I almost began to doubt myself.

Then I heard the distinctive creak caused by a footstep on the bottom stair. Then on the second stair.

I panicked, ran back into the bedroom, forgetting all about trying to be quiet, slammed the door behind me, and dialled 999 on my mobile.

The operator asked me if there was a lock on my bedroom door, which there wasn’t. She then instructed me to stay as quiet as possible and wait for assistance. Whatever happened, I should not attempt to leave the room.

I sat on the edge of the bed with my ears pricked. I heard no further creaks on the stairs. Did that mean the intruder had retreated, perhaps even left the house while I was on the phone to the emergency services? Or had he or she climbed the rest of the stairs while I was distracted? Could someone be lurking outside my bedroom door right then?

I stood up and padded softly to the door, pressing my ear against it. Total silence. Upstairs and downstairs as far as I could make out. I thought about calling Florrie, but supposed that would not be very wise either. Fleetingly, I wondered if she was all right. You hear about burglars dispatching dogs that might cause them trouble. I decided not to dwell on that. In any case Florrie hadn’t caused a human being any trouble in the whole of her life.

The police arrived in about forty-five minutes, which wasn’t too bad when you considered how remote Highrise was. It felt like several days.

When I heard them knock, I opened the bedroom door cautiously. I could also hear Florrie barking in the kitchen, which was a relief. I made my way to that bit of the landing with a window overlooking the front of the house. The automatic security lights must have switched on as the police had arrived and I could see that a patrol car stood in the yard and two uniformed officers were at the door. I wondered if the lights had been activated earlier by the intruder. But in any case I would not have seen them from the bedroom I was using.

I went downstairs, unbolted, unlocked and opened the door, registering as I did so that it seemed unlikely the intruder had gained entry through it.

My first impression was how fresh-faced and young-looking the two officers were. I know it’s a cliché but policemen really do get younger as you get older.

‘Mrs Anderson?’ queried the taller one.

I nodded. I realized for the first time that I was shaking. And it seemed just too difficult to speak.

‘Don’t worry,’ he continued, his voice professionally reassuring. ‘We’ll check everything out for you. I’m Constable Jacobs and I just want you to stay here with Constable Bickerton, while I have a look round.’ He gestured to the shorter officer who seemed to be wearing a cap that was a size or two too big for him, then he set off in the direction of the kitchen.

I found my voice. ‘Our dog should be in there,’ I called out.

‘That’s all right, I like dogs,’ PC Jacobs called back.

‘He does too, more than people if you ask me,’ muttered PC Bickerton.

I glanced at him. Was he trying to make some kind of joke? Possibly not. It seemed PC Jacobs quickly made friends with Florrie. I didn’t hear another peep from her.

Meanwhile Constable Bickerton busied himself with investigating the locks on the front door. He would have heard me turn the big old key and pull back the bolt.

With the door standing open he ran the bolt to and fro a couple of times and turned the key in its lock.

‘Nothing has been tampered with here, I don’t think,’ he said. I nodded in agreement.

He also checked the gate at the side of the house, solid and about five feet high, which gave access to the back of Highrise and to the garden. We usually kept it locked at night, and it too seemed secure.

After a few minutes PC Jacobs returned.

‘I’ve had a look in every room in the house, Mrs Anderson,’ he said. ‘If there has been an intruder, he’s certainly not here any more. And so far I can’t see any signs of any disturbance or of forced entry. But perhaps you’d have a walk around with us to make sure.’

I followed the two officers into the kitchen. They had both removed their caps. Jacobs was very dark, almost as dark as Robert, his hair slicked down and parted at the side like a 1950s schoolboy. Bickerton’s head was covered only with closely shaven blond stubble. Perhaps that was why his cap seemed too big for him, I thought obliquely.

Florrie flew at me, wriggling her entire body around my legs. She was a picture of joy. Her tongue hung out of her mouth and she licked every bit of flesh she could find on my exposed legs and my hands. I did my best to calm her down.

‘I’ve checked the back door and the windows in every room,’ said PC Jacobs. ‘But perhaps you’ll make sure for us that everything is as it should be, as it was when you went upstairs to bed.’

I glanced around the kitchen. Nothing seemed to have been touched; everything did indeed seem to be as I’d left it. I turned the handle on the back door and pulled. It didn’t budge. Still locked. I swung round to look at the hook on the wall by the fridge. The back door key still hung from it, just as it should.

I made my way to the sitting room, the police officers right behind me and Florrie running ahead. Once again it was the same story. Just as PC Jacobs had reported there was no sign of any disturbance to anything, and no sign of any windows having been tampered with.

Our state-of-the-art smart TV stood on the chest of drawers to the right of the inglenook fireplace. It was still there, and quite obviously no attempt had been made to move it. My iPad was on the granite-topped coffee table. I saw that PC Bickerton was also looking at the iPad. I knew what he was thinking. Surely no self-respecting burglar would leave that behind?

We moved into the dining room. Again, nothing seemed to have been touched, and certainly nothing seemed to be missing.

Upstairs it was the same story.

I felt my heart sinking. I didn’t want there to have been an intruder in my house, of course, but I feared I knew only too well what both police officers were thinking. And I wasn’t wrong.

‘Is it possible you could have been mistaken, Mrs Anderson?’ asked PC Jacobs eventually. ‘Are you sure you heard someone in the house?’

‘Yes I did and no I wasn’t mistaken,’ I responded, quite forcefully.

‘But wouldn’t your dog have seen an intruder off?’

‘I shouldn’t think so for one moment,’ I said. ‘You must have learned already, PC Jacobs, what a softy she is, even with strangers.’

‘She did bark when we arrived, though.’

‘Yes, and I think she did when the intruder arrived. I think that’s what woke me. But you’d only have to make a fuss of her, or give her a treat, and she’d soon quieten down and be all over you.’

‘So,’ concluded PC Bickerton. ‘You think the dog’s barking may have woken you, but you didn’t hear her bark at all after you were properly awake, is that correct?’

I shook my head lamely.

The PC coughed slightly, as if embarrassed.

‘Look, we know you must be going through a very stressful time, Mrs Anderson. It is quite understandable that you would be on edge and that you might think—’

‘I didn’t think anything, Constable Bickerton,’ I said. ‘There was someone in my house. I heard him, or her, moving around. Quite definitely. And what do you mean about me going through a stressful time? What do you know about any of that?’

PC Bickerton coughed again. ‘It is a matter of record that your son has just died under extremely distressing circumstances. There was, after all, a police investigation...’ he began.

‘Call that an investigation?’ I snapped.

‘Look, Mrs Anderson, you are clearly overwrought—’

I interrupted him again. I realized I had to pull myself together and fast or I would probably never get any help from the police ever again, although little help they’d been so far.

‘Just let me have a proper look around, will you?’ I asked. ‘I think I’m in shock. I may have missed something.’

‘Of course,’ said PC Bickerton patiently.

I went through the bedrooms, opening all the wardrobe doors and the drawers, still without noticing anything amiss, and then downstairs to the little room next to the kitchen which we used as a study. The computer Robert and I shared stood untouched on the desk. I opened the top left-hand drawer of the desk first, rummaged around in it a bit, checked quickly through the others, then back to the top one again.

‘My iPod is missing,’ I said triumphantly.

‘Are you sure?’ asked PC Bickerton.

‘Quite sure,’ I said. ‘I always keep it in the top drawer of this desk. It’s gone.’

‘iPods are so small, couldn’t you have misplaced it?’

‘Definitely not. It’s been taken.’

‘But why would a burglar take an iPod from a drawer and leave behind an iPad clearly visible on a table?’ asked PC Jacobs, his voice a little sharper than PC Bickerton’s.

I felt the colour rise in my cheeks. I had no answer and I didn’t try to give one. Instead I turned my attention to the sitting room. I stood in the doorway just looking around me, trying to calm myself down in order to make sure I didn’t miss anything.

Then I did remember something. I thought it through before I spoke. Yes. I was sure of it. Robbie’s camcorder had stood on the sideboard, just where he’d left it, ever since his death. I’d not had the heart to move it, somehow. It too was missing.

I told the two officers that.

They did not look impressed.

‘Are you sure your son mightn’t have put it somewhere else?’ asked PC Jacobs.

‘Constable, it’s been there on the sideboard ever since Robbie died.’

‘Well, could you have moved it, put it somewhere you don’t recall?’

I closed my eyes and opened them again. They really did think I’d lost the plot.

‘I haven’t been able to touch it,’ I said. ‘Have you any idea what it is like to lose your only child?’

PC Jacobs stared straight ahead, not attempting to respond. PC Bickerton, shuffling uneasily from foot to foot, shook his head slightly.

I stopped, realizing I was only making things worse, confirming the impression they already had of me as a middle-aged mother overcome with grief who had no idea what she was doing, nor what was happening to her.

‘Look, I would remember if I’d moved it,’ I said, making my voice as calm as I could.

‘Of course you would, Mrs Anderson,’ said PC Jacobs soothingly. Or was there a note of carefully veiled sarcasm there somewhere? I wondered.

He rather pointedly took a note of the items I had said were missing, laboriously naming them aloud as he wrote them down.

‘Caaam-corder, iPooood.’

I watched in silence.

‘I think we’ve done all we can for the moment,’ said PC Jacobs, when he’d finished his note-taking. ‘It’s curious that there is no sign of any break-in. And your front door was still bolted on the inside when we arrived, wasn’t it?’

I agreed that it was.

‘Not the back door, though,’ I said.

‘But it was securely locked,’ said PC Jacobs.

‘And so was the garden gate,’ interjected Bickerton.

‘Well, you could climb over that,’ I said.

Bickerton half smiled. ‘Yes, but not without some difficulty and a deal of noise, I shouldn’t think,’ he said.

‘Does anyone else have keys to your property, Mrs Anderson?’ asked PC Jacobs.

I shook my head. ‘Only my husband, and he’s on an oil rig in the North Sea.’

PC Jacobs looked even more sceptical. PC Bickerton seemed to be trying hard to be understanding and behave appropriately, but was not succeeding very well. I was pretty sure both officers genuinely sympathized with my predicament. They also without doubt considered me, that night at any rate, to be neurotic and unreliable. I felt quite numb with humiliation and frustration.

‘Well, perhaps you should change your locks just to be on the safe side,’ said PC Bickerton.

I nodded. All I wanted now was for the two officers to go and leave me alone.

‘To put your mind at rest and to make absolutely sure, we’ll take a look round the yard and your outbuildings on our way out,’ PC Bickerton continued. ‘And if you have any further cause for concern, do feel free to call again.’

It was my turn to look at him as if I thought he was quite mad.

At that moment I felt I would rather take my chances with a mad axe-man at large in my bedroom than ever again call the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary.