Хилари Боннер - The Cruellest Game

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Of course I don’t know, but... but there might be something. There might be someone...’

I hesitated. Well, I’d been planning to report Michael Shaw, hadn’t I? Just not under such disadvantaged circumstances.

‘I learned something earlier today that you should know about,’ I continued.

I told him then, to the best of my ability, about Sue Shaw’s condition and everything the Shaws had told me.

‘So you see, DS Jarvis, Michael Shaw is a man with a temper. He was angry enough to come here and confront my son on the day he died. He could have been responsible for Robbie’s death for all I know...’

‘Mrs Anderson,’ DS Jarvis interrupted. ‘It is true that the inquest into your son’s death has yet to be held, but those of us involved in the case have little or no doubt that he took his own life. And now, thanks to you, it looks as if we know what drove him to do so. Your son had just found out that he’d got his girlfriend pregnant. He was fifteen years old. He couldn’t cope, he felt he couldn’t go on.’

‘And that’s it, is it?’ I shouted, aware how unwise it was for me to raise my voice, but unable to help myself. ‘Are you not going to investigate Michael Shaw?’

‘Mrs Anderson, we are conducting an inquiry into, at the very least, the attempted murder of a child. I can assure you that all necessary action will be taken, and that no information we acquire will be overlooked.’

‘But don’t you see,’ I went on, ‘if Michael Shaw was angry enough to come storming around here to confront Robbie the way he admits he did, he might have done almost anything to seek revenge against me and my family. Mightn’t he? Anything.’

‘Yes, well, we will look into what you have told us. But could I ask you, Mrs Anderson, do you really think it is likely that the man would have abducted a child and left it to die to seek revenge against you?’

My head felt as if it might explode.

‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ I cried. ‘But it happened. Somebody put that child in my stable. And somebody broke into my house and then trashed the place.’

DS Jarvis sighed. ‘Right. So, apart from this Michael Shaw, do you have any thoughts about anyone else who might be responsible?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Just someone with some sort of enormous grudge against me, I suppose. And against my husband probably.’

‘Really, Mrs Anderson? Don’t you think that’s just a little self-obsessed? Never mind Michael Shaw, do you really think it’s likely that any third party snatched that defenceless child, maltreated him, stripped him naked, bound him hand and foot, and left him in a freezing stable to get at you?’

I met Jarvis’s gaze as steadily as I could then looked away. I had no answer. Put like that I had to admit it didn’t sound very likely.

‘And where is your husband?’ Jarvis went on.

‘He’s away working. On an oil rig in the North Sea.’

‘Are you quite sure of that?’

I stared at him. I supposed I was still sure of it, wasn’t I?

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘He seems to spend an awful lot of time on oil rigs,’ responded Jarvis.

‘Well, it is his job,’ I snapped. Thinking as I did so that I would never be absolutely certain what Robert was doing ever again.

It occurred to me that this might be the moment to tell Jarvis about Robert, about his having lived a lie for so long, and about my sham of a marriage. I decided against it. I wasn’t ready yet. And in any case it seemed obvious that anything I told the police at the moment was just likely to be used as further evidence against me. Further evidence that I was off my rocker.

‘I suggest you call your husband and get him home, Mrs Anderson, because I think you’re going to need him,’ Jarvis continued.

‘No, I don’t want him here,’ I responded, offering no explanation.

‘That’s your choice. You may wish to call a solicitor then.’

‘I don’t need a solicitor, either,’ I said. ‘I am totally innocent of everything you are suggesting. I would never hurt a child, for God’s sake. I’m innocent. So I don’t need a solicitor.’

‘Again, that is your choice, Mrs Anderson.’

Jarvis seemed to stand a little straighter, his expression becoming sterner, and when he spoke again his voice was louder, his delivery more pronounced.

‘Marion Anderson, I am arresting you on suspicion of the abduction and attempted murder of Luke Macintyre,’ he declared. ‘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.’

I thought my knees were going to give way. Certainly my legs buckled involuntarily. It was the pretty woman PCSO who moved quickly to my side and lent support to my elbow. I very nearly went down. She proved to be a lot stronger than she looked.

I don’t know what I had expected after finding the missing Luke Macintyre. And the arrival of the police. But it wasn’t this. Never this.

It was gone five o’clock before we left Highrise. They took me to Exeter in the back of a patrol car, sandwiched between PC Jacobs and the woman PCSO. The rain was falling steadily again and darkness had already descended on this appropriately dismal November day.

The bells of Blackstone parish church were ringing, presumably to summon evensong, and as we swished our way through the village I saw Gladys Ponsonby Smythe approaching the church, her ample figure clearly illuminated by the lamp which stood alongside the old lychgate. She was wrapped in a shiny green oilskin cape and carrying an armful of autumnal flowers. She had to step back to avoid our spray, and naturally took a good long look at the passing police car. I was pretty sure the lamp provided enough light for her to have spotted that I was inside it.

Our eyes seemed to meet and her mouth dropped open in shock.

At Heavitree Road Police Station I was escorted through the back door to the custody suite, and checked in by the custody sergeant, a sallow-faced man with a hangdog expression. I had to relinquish my personal effects, primarily my handbag which I’d grabbed as I left Highrise, and which contained my wallet, my make-up, my hairbrush and, of course, my mobile phone. I even had to hand over my watch. I was then taken into a cubicle by a woman PC and told to remove my clothes, including my underwear, which were placed in a plastic sack. Afterwards I was given a white paper suit to wear. Then I was photographed and my fingerprints taken. A swab of saliva was extracted from inside my mouth on a disposable spatula in order for my DNA to be obtained.

Processing, the police called it. And it should have been the most humiliating experience of my life, but I was past caring.

The interrogation started as soon as all these procedures had been completed. They call them interviews nowadays, of course. But it felt like an interrogation to me.

I was formally offered legal assistance. I had the right to free independent advice from a duty solicitor, I was told. I declined again. I still had this silly idea in my head that because I was innocent I didn’t need any help.

I was questioned by DS Jarvis, and a second detective, new to me, who announced himself, for the interview room video, as Detective Constable John Price. The two men went over the same ground again and again. Once more I was asked how little Luke Macintyre came to be found in my old stable. Once more I said that I had no idea.

Jarvis listed the evidence against me.

‘We confidently expect your DNA to be all over the child,’ he said at one point.

‘Well, of course,’ I said. ‘I picked the boy up, didn’t I? Would you have expected me to leave him just lying there outside, in the state he was in, on a day like this? I was carrying him into the house, into the warm, when your two PCs came along.’