Хилари Боннер - A Deep Deceit

Carl was listening too. He stood with his head slightly on one side. Suddenly I was sure that I wasn’t imagining the sound of the dog barking and that it was more than one dog. I think Carl realised the same thing at almost exactly the same moment. He looked frightened and bewildered. He did not move. It was as if he were frozen to the spot.

Before either of us had time to work out what was going on there was a loud bang. The door burst open, torn off its hinges by some sort of battering ram expertly wielded by two large uniformed policemen.

More uniformed police stormed in, several of them armed. Three of them pounced on Carl and two more were quickly by my side reassuring me. From then on everything seemed to happen very fast.

DS Perry appeared and swiftly untied my bonds. I tried to sit up, but my limbs still felt leaden and I collapsed back on to the pillows.

‘Take it steady,’ said Julie Perry. ‘We’ve got an ambulance outside.’

One of the policemen holding Carl addressed him very loudly and clearly, as if making quite sure that he understood. ‘Carl Peters,’ he said. ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of abduction...’

Carl let out a cry, almost as if somebody had hit him. ‘Abduction? I haven’t abducted anyone. Suzanne is my wife. She’s mine. I brought her here to protect her. She came with me willingly, I didn’t abduct her... how could I... tell them, Suzanne, tell them...’

The words poured out of him. He was almost screaming by the time he had finished. The police bundled him off as quickly as they could. I didn’t say anything. I had nothing to say.

They didn’t explain it all to me, not then. Although Detective Sergeant Perry did tell me how they came to find us. Curious rather than alarmed – Carl and I were, after all, two adults not wanted for any crime – she had talked to Mariette after we disappeared, and asked her if she knew any favourite haunts of ours, places we liked to visit, anywhere we might be. For some reason, perhaps because it was still the season, Mariette had mentioned the hidden-away bluebell wood, which I remembered telling her of when she had asked me questions about my life with Carl. But Mariette had been unable to give precise directions and in any case it had not necessarily been relevant. But then, apparently, a courting couple had heard my screams the night I tried to escape and had reported the incident to the police. When DS Perry learned about this, luckily for me she began to put two and two together.

Carl and I had both regarded the area around the bluebell wood, and certainly the old quarry further along the track where the hut was, as being very remote, but in fact nowhere is far from civilisation in Cornwall. And apparently the rough track both of us had only previously driven along during the day became something of a lovers’ lane at night.

I suppose I was relieved. I was also confused – Carl had been right about that – and my physical condition only added to my distress. I was suddenly over-whelmed by a coughing fit. DS Perry passed me a paper tissue and I coughed dark phlegm into it. It even hurt to breathe. But in spite of feeling so ill – my chest infection was definitely getting worse – my mind was in turmoil.

I had an absolute corker of a headache. I was only vaguely aware of being carried out of the hut and loaded into the waiting ambulance. Even cocooned in blankets, I still couldn’t stop shivering. The paramedic who rode in the back with me listened to my chest, took my temperature and looked anxious. But I remained more worried about all that had happened than I was about my physical state. They drove me to hospital in Penzance where I was wheeled into Casualty. I did not have to wait long before being seen by a young, white-coated doctor.

‘You’re suffering from severe shock,’ he said almost at once.

I didn’t need a medical diagnosis to know that. And I reckoned I was still woozy from whatever drugs Carl had fed me.

‘I also think you may have chronic bronchitis,’ the doctor went on.

I managed a wan smile. ‘I’m used to it,’ I said. ‘It’s OK.’

He gave me a look that indicated he wasn’t quite sure about that. ‘Better have you in for a couple of days,’ he said.

In spite of my protests that I would be absolutely fine I was admitted with surprising alacrity for the National Health Service and tucked into bed. Warm and safe at last, I could feel myself drifting off almost at once. I don’t know whether it was the after effects of the drugs Carl had fed me or some sort of defence mechanism. All I knew was that I wanted to sleep for ever. But I wouldn’t let myself. I was determined to stay awake until someone explained to me exactly what had really happened all those years ago in Hounslow when Robert Foster had died. I was sure it held the key to everything that had happened, to all that Carl had done.

A nurse brought me some medication but certainly I did not intend to swallow any more drugs. ‘I’m not taking anything,’ I announced.

‘Just to make you sleep, and some antibiotics for the chest infection.’

Little did she know how hard I was fighting to keep awake. ‘I don’t want anything to make me sleep. I don’t want to sleep at all until someone explains things to me.’

The nurse sighed and said she’d fetch the ward sister.

‘All right,’ said the ward sister and sighed too. ‘There’s a Sergeant Perry outside. I’ll bring her in.’

I made a big effort and propped myself up on the pillows. My chest felt as if it was being crushed beneath a double-decker bus. I tried to ignore it.

After a couple of minutes the curtains around my bed were pulled slightly to one side and Sergeant Perry stuck her head round. ‘The Führer says I’ve got five minutes,’ she announced with a smile.

I didn’t smile back. I felt much more ill than I was revealing to anyone, but that paled into insignificance compared with my mental state.

I had to know the truth about Robert. I had found my husband covered with blood. I had killed him. I must have killed him. Carl had been determined that we still had to hide, horrifically determined, prepared to go to almost any lengths, it seemed. Yet the police had already told me that Robert had not been murdered. I was beginning to wonder if it was me who was going mad.

‘Just tell me everything you know, please,’ I said.

Sergeant Perry glanced instinctively at her watch, then took a closer look at me. I could see the anxiety in her eyes. I knew I was beginning to sweat and I had given up trying to control my shakes.

‘Please,’ I said again. ‘I have to know. For a start, if my husband Robert Foster wasn’t murdered, what did happen to him?’

Sergeant Perry was still standing at the foot of my bed. As if making a decision she came over and sat down on the chair next to me. ‘Robert Foster died of natural causes,’ she said expressionlessly.

I looked at her askance. ‘How could he have done?’ I asked. ‘I saw all the blood, I got it all over me...’

I stopped. I still didn’t want to think about it, even after all these years. That had always been one of the problems. I couldn’t face the thought that I had stabbed a man to death, not even a man I hated so much, and with such good reason. When I had confessed at the police station I had, I suppose, hoped in some silly kind of way that, whatever happened to me, I wouldn’t have to confront Robert’s death again. I had confessed to killing him and that would be that. I knew well enough, now, that whatever the truth, it wasn’t going to be as simple as that. I had to concentrate, to try to remember.

‘I went into the bedroom and saw him lying there in his own blood,’ I went on. ‘I have never been able to remember exactly what happened in the night. Like I told you before. I have just always assumed that when I got the chance I got hold of the knife and used it on him. What else could I have thought? There was nobody other than me who could have killed him, nobody else was in the house until I called Carl. I am absolutely sure Robert was dead before Carl arrived. And all that blood – he had to have died a violent death.’