Roz Watkins - Dead Man’s Daughter

I was relieved Craig was being pleasant (ish), although I didn’t quite trust it, and I wasn’t sure what to do with his outstretched hand. If I shook it, he’d probably tell Richard I’d bet on the outcome of the case. If I didn’t shake it, he’d think I was snubbing him. I was sure other people didn’t put this much thought into every little interaction. I ignored the hand.

Craig pulled his arm back. The atmosphere stiffened.

‘Did you get the name of the parents?’ I said. ‘Of the child who had the accident on the beach?’

‘Of course I did. Mr and Mrs Darren O’Brian.’

‘She not have a name then?’

‘Don’t get all feminist with me – that was what they gave me.’

‘Get her name too, please, and check them out. They could have a motive.’

Fiona poked her head through the door. She caught my eye and a trace of a smile flitted across her face. ‘Craig, your wife’s in reception. With your kids.’

Craig jumped up, his bulk shoving my desk backwards in a persuasive demonstration of Newton’s Third Law. ‘Oh, Christ.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Shit.’ He blundered out of the room.

I beckoned Fiona over. ‘What are his wife and kids doing here?’

She moved close and spoke quietly. ‘I got the impression he’d promised to be home early, and he must have forgotten, so she’s dumping them on him.’

Craig was the kind of father who called it babysitting when he looked after his own children, so this was a fun development for Fiona and me. ‘Good for her,’ I said.

‘I suppose a new murder case is quite an excuse for being late though.’ Fiona was so damn reasonable.

‘But someone’s got to take responsibility, haven’t they, Fiona, and if it’s always women, nothing will ever change. Look at all the female detectives we know – hardly any of them have kids. And then look at the men – they’ve nearly all got them, but little wifey’s there in the background taking responsibility. Even if she has her own job – even if it’s a good job – somehow it’s always her taking little Johnny to the doctor when he’s got a snotty nose. And if it’s not kids, it’s sick relatives.’

‘It does seem to work out that way.’

‘Never mind the glass ceiling – there’s another ceiling made of nappies, baby sick, and grandparents’ corn plasters.’ I wondered what it would have been like if I’d had a brother – whether he’d have felt as responsible for Mum and Gran as I did. ‘And nobody questions it.’

‘Well, you clearly are. And so’s Craig’s wife.’ She gave me a conspiratorial look. ‘And luckily us two are better than the men here, so we can afford to spend more time on other things and still do a better job than them. That’s why Craig hates you so much.’

That felt like a punch. ‘Does he really hate me?’

‘Maybe that’s putting it a bit strongly. He knows he’s not DI material and you clearly are. And he’s maybe jealous we’re women and yet we can stay late, whereas he’s getting stick from his wife.’

‘I’m not exactly commitment-free.’

‘No, and the less said about my family, the better. It’s not exactly a positive thing that I don’t have much to do with them.’

Not for the first time, I wondered about Fiona’s family. She rarely mentioned them, apart from her gran and a brother who she liked, but who I got the impression wasn’t her only sibling. I vowed to get to know her better. But now wasn’t the time. Rachel Thornton was waiting to give a statement.

‘Have you met Craig’s wife?’ Fiona asked.

‘Yes, at that gruesome barbecue Richard organised, after he’d been on a course about how to make us all bond. I admit I may have made assumptions about her based on the quantity of make-up she was wearing. What’s her name again?’

‘Tamsyn. I think she’s actually alright. And I’m sure she has a point, but Craig needs to pull his weight on the case, doesn’t he? Kids or no kids. She can’t expect him to act like he’s got a nine-to-five job.’

He’d pull his weight alright. His desperation to undermine me would ensure that.

I looked at my watch. ‘Right. I’m interviewing Rachel Thornton. Craig was supposed to be doing it with me. Can I give you a shout if he’s had to go home?’

‘Sure.’

I set off towards the interview room, and as I was passing through the reception area, I saw Craig’s wife shooing a child towards the door. She looked up, saw me, and gave a bright smile. ‘Meg! Hello.’

Thank God I’d asked Fiona for her name. I smiled awkwardly. ‘Tamsyn.’

‘I wanted a word actually, if that’s okay.’

Oh God. ‘I’m just on my way to an interview now. But . . . ’

‘It’ll be quick.’ She moved closer. She looked like she’d recently applied foundation and lipstick. How did these women find time? The child had plonked himself on a seat and was looking at his phone and swinging his legs, in a way which made him appear both engrossed and pissed off at the same time. ‘I’ve said it’s okay for Craig to stay late tonight, in the circumstances, but I was going to ask you if you could maybe go a bit easier on him?’

I took a step back. ‘Sorry?’

‘He’s been working late a lot and I need him to do more with the kids, and the pressure seems to be coming from you.’

Had he been working late? I didn’t remember much of that. I didn’t know what to say.

Tamsyn lowered her voice. ‘He wants to impress you.’

Now I was in some kind of parallel universe. ‘Right. I don’t think I’m putting pressure on him but I’ll bear it in mind. I’d better go. Sorry. Nice to see you.’

I smiled at a point above her head and scarpered.

*

The light flickered overhead, emphasising the deep, February blackness outside. We were in our oldest interview room – the only one that had been available – and it was rich with layers of unidentifiable smells which no amount of cherry disinfectant could remove. We couldn’t even leave suspects in there because it had too many ligature points.

Rachel Thornton perched on the edge of her chair, bouncing her knee and tapping her fingers on the table. There was a tension in her upper body that seemed set into the bones, as if she’d been anxious for so long it had become part of her structure.

She’d got a lawyer in, as some people always did – midrange, I guessed. Not super-smug and shiny, and with a rather unfortunate mole on his chin, but not actually downtrodden.

‘We have a few more questions for you,’ I said. ‘And we need to get you to sign a statement for us.’

I had to focus on the interview, but couldn’t get Craig’s wife out of my head. Was any of what she’d said true, or was Craig making it up for his own reasons? I knew for sure he wasn’t trying to impress me.

Rachel’s gaze darted between Craig and me. ‘Why’ve you asked me to come in here? Can you not imagine how I feel? And I don’t want to leave Abbie for long. She’s distraught.’ She seemed very different from earlier – as if she’d moved past her initial shock and into defensive mode. When she mentioned Abbie, I saw a lioness protecting her cub.

‘It’s important for us to move quickly,’ I said. ‘We realise it’s difficult for you, but the first forty-eight hours are vital. We want to find who did this to your – ’

The lawyer butted in. ‘We’re very unhappy about your actions this morning.’ He stared aggressively at me.

I jerked upright. ‘Sorry?’

‘We’re considering a claim for police brutality.’

‘You’re what? ’

Craig visibly perked up. He looked from me to the lawyer and back again.

‘It’s clear you used unnecessary force against my client. You pushed her to the ground, causing injury to her arm and hip.’