The Kindest Thing

Chapter Four

The interview takes place in a small, bland room with oatmeal-coloured walls, heavy-duty ribbed grey carpet and recessed halogen lighting – it could be in a hospital or a school, the same anonymity. The light is garish and makes us all look washed out.

The detective, DS Bray, explains the protocol for the session. He makes eye contact a lot and has an easy, confident manner. A little like Neil, in fact, though nowhere near as beautiful. This is how Neil would be when he gave his students’ reports at parents’ evening – friendly and open and a pleasure to talk to. The police say they will record my interview on video. The camera is already running. He reads the caution, the one from all the telly programmes, and asks if I understand it.

He begins commiserating with me on Neil’s death, he understands what a difficult time it must be, sorry to intrude, but they would really like to hear my account of that day. Perhaps if I start from the evening before? How was Neil then?

I hesitate. ‘No comment.’ My voice sounds hollow. He’s not put off by this: he must have been expecting it, though his colleague, a scratchy-looking man with dry skin, rolls back his shoulders, betraying irritation.

‘Your husband Neil was suffering from motor neurone disease?’

‘No comment.’

‘How long since his diagnosis?’

A year and nine months. ‘No comment.’

‘How long had you been married?’

Had, as though the marriage ended with Neil’s death. We still are, I want to tell him. If Neil had lived we would have reached twenty-four years this September. Twenty-four years and he’s still my husband. I long to tell the man that, to prove the longevity of our relationship. ‘No comment.’

Ms Gleason said it would be hard but there is worse to come. ‘Was it a happy marriage?’

My throat swells. ‘No comment.’

‘You cared for him as his health declined.’

‘No comment.’

‘Was he on any medication?’

‘No comment.’

‘How was he that morning?’

‘No comment.’

‘Could he work?’

Neil, his lovely long legs, they could no longer bear his weight. He’d been so tall and strong, able to carry me. I’d revelled in his strength. My voice falters: ‘No comment.’

‘You have a son – Adam?’

‘No comment.’

He makes me negate everything about my life. I hate him for it. And I feel craven. Unable to own the circumstances of who I am, what I am. His tone is measured and warm, but the process is brutal. Each question is a blow disguised as a caress.

‘And a daughter, Sophie?’

Oh, Sophie, Sophie. My lovely girl. I should have cuddled her this morning – even if she didn’t want to talk surely a hug would have helped. A pause, my mouth waters and my eyes sting. I can feel the pressure as the tip of my nose reddens. I swallow hard.

‘This isn’t really helping us, Deborah.’ He is a sensible parent, a concerned form tutor. With ghastly inappropriateness I remember a joke Jane told me. About the inflatable boy who sticks a drawing pin in his foot and is called to see the headmaster. ‘You’ve let us all down,’ the head tells him, ‘you’ve let me down, you’ve let the school down and most of all you’ve let yourself down.’

I blurt out a noise, a laugh or a sob. It doesn’t matter, does it?

‘If we can just hear your account of what happened to Neil it might help answer some of the inconsistencies we’ve come across. We’re as eager as you are to see this sorted out.’

My solicitor chips in – can she smell me weakening? ‘My client does not want to comment.’

‘You said previously that you discovered your husband at three o’clock and couldn’t rouse him. Is that correct?’

‘No comment.’

How does he know this? Then I remember the comic-book-hero policeman, with the wide jaw and narrow forehead, who called while the ambulance was there, making notes at our kitchen table. What else did I say?

‘No comment.’

‘Did you give your husband any medication of any sort that day?’

‘No comment.’

‘Was he in pain?’

I don’t like to think of Neil in pain. And it didn’t often happen. The muscles became progressively weaker, turning from sinew to sponge as they lost the capacity to communicate with the brain. The pain wasn’t physical.

‘No comment,’ I say tightly.

He takes a sip of water from the cup at his side. He’s left-handed; he wears a plain gold band on his ring finger.

‘I don’t know whether your solicitor has explained to you how a jury might interpret your choice to remain silent.’

The word ‘jury’ sends my blood pressure sky high, a tightening of my skin, my pulse stammering. I want to run – I want to hurl my chair aside and fling open the door and pelt down the street, through the park, across the main road, on and on, away. Find somewhere safe, somewhere for Neil and me, where nobody can bother us.

Ms Gleason jumps in. ‘My client is exercising her right to remain silent under advisement.’

‘Did you love your husband, Deborah?’

He waits. My jaw is locked. My tongue stiff, pressed against my palate. My teeth imprinting scallops in the edges of my tongue. I force my teeth apart. ‘No comment.’ But I cannot hold myself together. I break down and Ms Gleason makes them agree to a break until I am less distressed. I’m crying for Neil because I miss him so. I’m noisy and messy and my nose is running and I don’t give a damn.

‘They seem interested in his medication,’ Ms Gleason tells me, once we are alone. ‘There may be something from the post-mortem that they’ve yet to disclose. Was Neil on regular medication?’

I want to say no comment. How much to tell her? Can I trust her?

‘He’d been on anti-depressants.’

‘He was depressed because of the illness?’

Stupid question. ‘Yes.’ I’d tried to keep my voice even.

‘Anything else?’

‘He’d become breathless, and had quite a lot of muscle pain. The GP had put him on liquid painkillers for that. Morphine.’

‘He was self-medicating?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where did you keep the medicines?’

‘His bedside.’

‘So they were accessible to him. Is it possible Neil self-administered an overdose?’

‘It’s possible,’ I say, my knees pressed tight together, toes curled, gripping the floor.

‘You didn’t give him anything that morning?’

‘No. Just some wine at lunchtime.’

There is a knock at the door and she goes to see who it is. A respite. Exhausted, I slump in my chair. She turns back into the room and says she will be away for a few minutes. Do I need anything?

A deus ex machina, ta. I shake my head.

She is back in ten minutes. She takes a moment to settle her file and gather her thoughts. ‘The police conducted a second post-mortem.’

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to react. Is this a good thing? She sees I’m confused, places her palms on her knees. She has large hands but slender wrists. In fact, she is scrawny, but for those mitts.

‘They wanted to confirm the findings of the first. In a case like this we can opt to have an independent post-mortem carried out – if we don’t trust their findings.’

What have they found? I don’t trust myself to ask. She carries on talking but I’m imagining Neil, his chest cracked open, his organs weighed and measured. Not twice but three times. Of course, he’s not there any more: his body is a shell.

‘Okay, we have partial disclosure of the postmortem reports. It’s as I thought. Potentially fatal levels of morphine as well as alcohol in the blood. Now, we can get our own medical expert to interpret the results – it may be, for example, that motor neurone disease affects the body’s ability to process the drugs. The levels may have built up over time – that’s a fairly clumsy example but you see what I’m getting at?’

I nod.

‘Right.’ She puts her hands on her waist, straightens up. ‘They want a second interview. It’s half past six now. They have to allow you eight hours’ rest plus a meal break so they can’t go on very long. And I advise you to maintain your right to remain silent.’

I let my eyes close, hoping to summon some energy from somewhere. She touches my hand. ‘I could do with another cuppa. You, same again?’

‘Thanks.’

Sophie would be doing her homework in front of Hollyoaks.

‘Will they let me go home tonight?’

‘I don’t know. It’s hard to tell.’

‘If I explain,’ I begin, my voice shaky, ‘give a proper statement…’

‘I wouldn’t recommend that. Any small variation in what you say could be catastrophic. We still don’t have full disclosure. You’d be putting yourself in a very vulnerable position.’

‘And I’m not already?’

She regards me for a moment. ‘This could be much worse. The caution’s there for a reason. Anything you say, that means anything, can be used against you. To give a statement now would be nothing short of reckless.’

I surrender to her argument.

‘Can you call my daughter, tell her I’m delayed, legal stuff to do with-’ I can’t finish.

‘I’ll be discreet.’

I know now. Something’s tilted. Like the sheen on two-tone fabric shifting, the other colour to the fore. They are going to keep me here.

We are in the same interview room. I have been no-commenting for maybe an hour. All of me is weary from the soles of my feet to my scalp. The detective has maintained his cheery disposition but his colleague, scratchy DC Mercer, has been asking the questions this time. He has a more brittle edge to him. A note of incredulity taints his queries.

‘And you have no idea how your husband could have administered such a high dose of morphine?’

‘No comment.’

‘You made no attempt to revive your husband. Why was that?’

‘No comment.’

But it is DS Bray who weighs in with the next evidentiary disclosure. See how I’m picking up the jargon. A bombshell to you and me. ‘The postmortem shows signs of petechial haemorrhaging – that is damage to the blood vessels in the eyes – and fluid in the lungs. This is consistent with suffocation.’

The air in the room hangs still. The camera whirrs in the silence. I feel the pulse jump in my throat. The Furies have found me, the daughters of the night. They know I have blood on my hands and they are coming. With snakes hissing through their hair and blood dripping from their eyes, the three of them will hound me to insanity.

The detective tilts his head to one side, his eyes soft, open, inviting my confidence. If I talk, he’s saying, if I just talk to him, then all will be well.

‘I did not harm my husband. I love him.’

Ms Gleason scrambles to shut me up. ‘Deborah! I’d like a word with my client in private, please.’

The detective agrees.

We leave the room and are taken into the adjoining one. She closes the door behind me. There’s an astringent taste in my mouth, chemical, the smell of pear-drops. When did I last eat? I can’t remember. Ketones, they call it, when the body is depleted and draws on fat reserves. I had it in my urine when I was giving birth to Adam. We’d bought glucose tablets to keep my reserves up but I couldn’t keep anything down.

Ms Gleason takes a full breath and sighs it out. She stretches her arms up, clasps her hands behind her neck and stretches. Then drops them. ‘We still haven’t full disclosure,’ she says, ‘but the drugs in his bloodstream and the petechial haemorrhaging are strong forensic evidence that this was not a natural death. Is there anything you want to revise from the account you gave me earlier today?’

‘No.’

‘Okay.’ She nods. ‘Then it’s imperative that you do not offer any comment in there. Now more than ever.’

‘Yes. Sorry.’

‘You feel all right to carry on?’

They want to interview me a third time. Magic number three – we all know that: sisters, princes, witches, curses, wishes, betrayals.

When we resume there’s a change in the atmosphere, a sparkle of new-found energy from the detectives. Perhaps they’ve snatched a meal, taken a turn in the fresh air. Had an ice-cream or freshly ground coffee.

Detective Sergeant Bray leans forward. ‘Deborah, we want you to tell us what happened in your own words.’

‘No comment.’

‘Did you give Neil morphine, with or without his knowledge?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did you do anything to deprive him of oxygen – for example, holding a pillow to his face?’

‘No comment.’

He pulls a face, rueful, and sits back, his fingers flat against the edge of the table. ‘Deborah Shelley, I am charging you that on the fifteenth of June 2009 you did murder your husband Neil Draper. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand the charge?’

The words won’t come.

He repeats the question.

There are wings beating in my chest and the chill of stone in my bowels.

‘Yes,’ I whisper.

‘Is there anything you wish to say?’

‘No.’

It was still light, the world gold-drenched with sunset when we arrived at the prison. I was stunned, a ball of static in my head that made it impossible to think clearly.

At the main gate, we were taken from the van one by one. The guards exchanged forms and I was asked to confirm my name and date of birth. The entrance to the complex was a big metal gate and gatehouse. Fences ran off either side, cream-coloured steel mesh topped with coils of razor wire.

A prison officer led me through to the reception area, unlocking and relocking a series of doors. There, I was met by two other officers, women. Again I had to give my name and date of birth.

‘Have you been to prison before?’ PO Vernon, asked me, various forms spread out in front of her.

‘No.’

‘Every time you enter or leave the prison we have to do a full search. Please put your clothes in the basket here. Socks and shoes in here. Your bag on the side there.’

My fingers trembled and I wanted to cry. I removed everything until I stood naked before them.

‘Now walk in a circle.’

I did. My face burning, my pulse quick and uneven. I was so thirsty. And horribly aware of the eyes watching.

Everyone was very matter-of-fact and workaday about this process because it was their daily work. But me, I was drowning. Anxiety prickled my every pore. I was hot with shame and stiff with apprehension. My muscles twitched and shivered without control.

One of the women moved to my clothes and looked through them, holding them up to the light of the window, checking seams and pockets, shaking them. Then she examined my shoes.

The officer told me I could get dressed and asked my dress size. They gave me a change of clothes – briefs, bra and T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms and sweatshirt. Casual, anonymous garb. When I finished, they asked me to sit down.

‘You get a towel and soap.’ PO Vernon passed them to me. ‘Do you need any sanitary supplies – Tampax or towels?’

‘No.’ It was two years since I’d had a period.

She poured the contents of my bag out on the table. ‘There are some items that are prohibited,’ she told me. ‘They will go on your property card and be kept for you, until your release.’

She set aside my mobile phone, money and credit cards, paracetamol and lip salve. ‘We can’t allow any cosmetics in,’ she explained. ‘Some of the women conceal drugs in them. You can buy some here once you’re settled.’

She also picked up the photograph of the four of us taken just before Neil got ill.

‘Why can’t I keep that?’ I asked.

‘Nothing allowed if it has your face on it. It could be copied, used to fake ID. You can have them send in some other photos from home. Everything will be checked before you get it.’

They let me keep my wedding ring.

‘Do you smoke, Deborah?’

‘No.’

She made a note on one of the forms.

‘Are you a drug-user?’

‘No.’

‘Are you currently on any medication?’

‘No.’

‘Do you have any existing medical conditions?’

‘No.’

‘Do you suffer from any of the complaints on this list?’

She passed me a sheet, which I read through. It reminded me of the permission slips we had to fill in for the children’s school trips. Asthma, diabetes, epilepsy.

‘Sign here for the property we’ve taken.’

I wrote my name.

PO Vernon held out a plastic card to me. ‘This is for the phone. There’s two pounds’ credit already on it. You can make a brief call to let your family know where you are.’

They took me through, locking and unlocking doors, and across the grounds to another building. There I waited behind two other women until I could use the phone. It was noisy: there were lots of women milling about, talking loudly, snatches of raucous laughter. People were glancing my way, a new face. I felt disoriented, shaky and exposed.

Adam answered the phone. ‘Mum?’

‘Adam, I’m… erm. Listen, love, I want you to call Grandma, okay? Ask her to come over.’

‘Why? Where are you? Are you still at the police station?’

‘I’m in prison, in Styal.’

‘Fuck. Why? Because of Dad?’

Did I even answer his questions? I don’t know.

‘Is Sophie there?’

‘She’s in the shower.’

Disappointment weighed me down. I longed to hear her voice, picture her disconcerted but determined to manage. It probably wasn’t fair but I was hoping she would make me feel better. ‘Tell her I’m fine. You both look after yourselves. And will you ring Jane and explain to her? The number’s on the thing in the kitchen.’

‘Mum, it’s going to be all right, isn’t it?’ Was he trying to reassure me or asking me? ‘How long are you going to be there?’

‘I don’t know. I have to go to court in the morning. They might give me bail. I’d better go now. I love you.’

I was still in shock. People had to repeat things to me before I grasped what they were saying. My knees were weak and I worried that I might throw up, though there was nothing much to throw as I hadn’t managed to eat anything for hours.

As a novice, I was put into a special unit called the First Night Centre. It was designed to give new prisoners extra care and support but I was so bewildered to find myself locked up that I was unable to pay much heed to such distinctions.

I shared a room with a slight, dark-skinned woman who spoke no English. I don’t know where she was from, Africa perhaps. When I made attempts to find out her name, she just shook her head. We spent the time silent, each in our own cocoon of despair, numb and unresponsive. Everything around us was out of proportion, escalated like in a fever. The level of noise was debilitating: the hard surfaces amplified the sound of chairs scraping, gates clanging, coughs and shouts and canned television laughter. The smells, of women and food and unfamiliar toiletries, were overpowering. The ceilings were too low, the lights brash, the colours sickly and unsettling. When I touched the plastic chair in my room, an electric shock bit my fingers.

If they’d employed me I could have shown them how to use natural materials to absorb the sound and vibration, reduce the amount of static. Soften the lighting with daylight bulbs to give an easier spectrum, less tiring for everyone. Pick colours to soothe the eyes and ease the emotions.

The day after, I appear in the magistrates’ court. There are three people sitting at the bench. I confirm my name and address and date of birth. The charge is read out and my solicitor says I am not entering a plea. She asks them to consider bail. The magistrate in the middle looks to her colleagues and a couple of whispers are exchanged. Then she straightens up, presses her lips together briefly before replying. ‘Given the seriousness of the charges involved we will not be granting bail. The accused will be held on remand until the preliminary hearing next week.’ They send me back to prison.