Хилари Боннер - The Cruellest Game

The next interrogation was the most gruelling. This time DS Jarvis was accompanied by PC Janet Cox. I came to the conclusion that the girl must be angling for promotion. There was no longer a hint of the friendly neighbourhood cop I had first met. She was brusque and unforgiving.

‘If you really have no explanation for that child being found on your property, then we shall ultimately have no choice but to charge you,’ she informed me.

‘You must do what you must do,’ I told her resignedly. ‘I’d never seen the little boy in my life until I found him in our stable.’

‘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.