Chapter 6
SIX
BETH
You shouldn’t be here.
I shut the voice down and clutch at the plastic bag on my lap.
The fear is unbearable. The bare walls of the police interview room feel like they’re inching closer with each passing minute.
How long since the officer ushered me in here and asked me to wait?
Twenty minutes? Thirty? Are they watching me through the two-way mirror?
I squeeze my eyes shut then regret it instantly when the floor tilts.
My stomach lurches. Bile burns the back of my throat.
I snap my eyes open, holding myself statue-still.
The chair beneath me is broken. A screw is loose, making the plastic shift against the metal legs with every tiny movement, scratching at the frayed edges of my nerves, making my stomach twist again.
I stare at the fluorescent lights, counting the tiny dead bugs trapped inside the plastic cover.
The faint smell of coffee and sweat press in on me.
I wonder if the chair I’m sitting on has been thrown against the wall or against another person.
If that’s why it’s broken. If someone else sat here, waiting.
I wonder what would happen if I just walked out right now.
You swore you wouldn’t speak to the police.
It’s too late to second-guess everything we’ve done to get here. The only way out of this mess is to confess to a murder. To lie to Detective Sató.
It’s you that smells of sweat, you know?
The voice again. Always so smug. My mother’s voice maybe. She always was a know-it-all. Lived for ‘I told you so’. Like when I was sixteen and dated the popular boy at school.
‘He’ll break your heart.’
Or when I finished law school and began my training.
‘It’ll be a waste of time when you give it all up for children.’
I did give my career up. But not for the longed-for children.
Just one. One perfect boy. Henry. Who turned eight last month and loves trains and books about space.
Who is sweet and thoughtful, always thinking to include four-year-old Sofia in the games with Matilda and Oscar.
He loves football, but not playing in matches when the other dads shout from the sidelines, and the other boys call him ‘ginger’ and ‘carrot top’, like his beautiful hair makes him less than everyone else.
My mother died the year Henry was born; she never got to see him or tell me all the things I was doing wrong. And still, she lingers in that voice. She would’ve revelled in my sadness and my heartbreak of the past six years.
A noise shatters the silence. My gaze snaps to the door as it opens and the tall, slender frame of Detective Sató steps into the room. The fear threatens to take over again. My hands shake, rustling the plastic bag resting in my lap.
This is it.
Sató’s hair is pinned into its usual bun at the nape of her neck, and she’s wearing a fitted blazer with jeans and a jumper.
She looks more casual than the previous times I’ve seen her during the investigation into Jonny’s death.
But then it is a Saturday. Alistair will be wondering where I am by now.
I told him I was going for a walk with Tasha and Georgie this morning.
He’ll assume we’ve got caught up talking.
He’ll be putting the dirty laundry into the wash.
Running the hoover around. Always thinking of me and Henry. I know he’ll understand what I’ve done.
‘Good morning, Beth.’ Sató sits down in the chair opposite me.
My mouth fills with saliva, and my hands worry at the edges of the plastic bag on my lap.
‘How are you today?’ she asks.
The question is an opener. Chit-chat. A technique to build a connection between us. I ignore it. ‘I’d like to confess please.’
‘Yes, DC McLachlan told me. What exactly are you confessing to?’ Sató asks.
I swallow again, but it’s no good. The chair shifts beneath me.
The walls and the floor too. I’ve been fighting this feeling all morning, but the floral scent of Sató’s perfume, the reality of sitting in this small, windowless room and why I’m here – it’s too much.
I dip my head and heave into the plastic bin liner.
The sound of spattering liquid fills the room, the smell of my vomit making me heave again until my throat is raw and tears are stinging at my eyes.
It took a year to fall pregnant with Henry, and so when he was six months old, we started trying again.
Months stretched into a year. Then eighteen months.
The doctors were sure it would happen. But it didn’t.
Tests. Hormone drugs. More disappointment.
Tasha fell pregnant with Sofia, and I tried to be happy for her as we paid for round after round of IVF.
Eating into our savings, leaving us counting every penny.
It’s the real reason I make my own clothes.
Buying new things isn’t an option right now.
A year ago, I had no idea how to make clothes.
But I worked the problem. Researched. Learned.
Found the solution. Practised until it was perfect.
Years of nothing. Years of heartbreak. Then watching Tasha fall pregnant for a third time, the swell of her belly growing round.
It wasn’t fair. I’d done everything right.
Followed every piece of advice. Alistair and I both stopped drinking alcohol and caffeine, then we cut out refined sugar and processed foods.
I took up yoga to calm my mind and keep my body fit.
I even changed our washing powders and soaps and moisturisers, keeping anything with chemicals away from our skin.
I took so many vitamins I swear I rattled most days.
I stayed positive for as long as I could.
I even took Georgie’s advice and visualised that positive line on the pregnancy test.
Six years of failure.
We did everything right. So why wasn’t it happening for us?
It was that question that drove me to go to London that day in March when Georgie and Tasha looked after Henry. The day I bumped into Jonny on the street as I was coming out of the clinic.
To see the one person I detested most in the world when I was at my most vulnerable was truly awful. And now finally I’m healing and Jonny is dead and I am here. Even in death, he’s a selfish bastard.
When I’m done retching, I lift my head. Sató is no longer in her seat but standing by the door, one hand already on the handle, poised to get help. ‘Are you OK?’ she asks.
‘I’m pregnant,’ I tell her with a weak smile I don’t try to fight. Because even with my world imploding, Alistair and I are finally having the second baby we have both longed for. A brother or sister for Henry. Our perfect family complete at long last.
‘Would you like a glass of water and a moment to yourself?’
‘No,’ I reply quickly. I can’t stand to wait anymore.
I tie the handles of the bag tightly together and place it by my feet.
‘Thank you, but I have some water here.’ I reach into my handbag, past the Tupperware of ginger biscuits I made yesterday, ignoring the weight of the other object sitting beside it, and pluck out my water bottle.
I fight the urge to gulp it back and take a small sip, before pulling out another bin liner just in case.
‘I’m happy to continue,’ I add. Terrified, more like. The same terror I’ve lived with for weeks. More even. The second I found out I was pregnant and my entire world became about protecting this wonderful, perfect baby growing inside me.
But there’s no going back now, even if I wanted to. And I don’t. I’m glad Jonny is dead. Whatever comes next, that fact will never change.
Sató retakes her seat without a word. We go through the mechanics of the interview. She asks me if she can record it, and I agree. I give her my name and address and finally she says, ‘What do you want to confess to, Beth?’
Don’t do it!
I ignore the voice. I take a breath and meet Sató’s gaze. Her eyes are dark and disbelieving. ‘The murder of Jonny Wilson. I killed him. I acted completely alone.’
Sató sighs like I’ve just made her day a lot harder. You’d think she’d be happy to have a confession.
‘Do you know how many people confess to crimes before they’re charged, Beth?’ she asks me.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Neither do I,’ she admits. ‘But it’s not like TV shows and Hollywood films would have us believe.
Confessions don’t come after gruelling interviews, or even out of the blue,’ she adds, gesturing a hand at me.
‘They come after the Crown Prosecution Service has accepted the case. After the lawyers have advised their clients on their best chances. That’s when we see confessions.
So you’ll forgive me if I’m a little surprised by your confession today.
’ She pulls out a notebook from the inside pocket of her blazer and reads something before looking back at me.
It’s an act. She’s allowing her words to settle, to unnerve me before moving on.
‘Why should I believe you?’ she asks.
‘Why wouldn’t you?’ I reply.
‘Because I have your two friends, Georgie and Tasha, also in this police station. Also confessing to the same murder. I’ll tell you this now, Beth, Tasha isn’t doing well. She’s very upset.’
I bite down hard on the inside of my lip.
My pulse is drumming in my ears. Poor Tasha.
This isn’t fair on any of us but especially on her.
She’s already gone through so much with her parents and what Jonny did to ruin her chance of making a home for them on Magnolia Close.
If there was a way to stop this from happening, I’d do it.
But we’re all sitting in the same out-of-control car and there’s no way to stop what’s coming.
It’s just a tactic. She’s trying to rile you.
For once, I listen to that voice. Grab hold of the words and force myself to stay calm. ‘They’re lying,’ I say. ‘They’re trying to protect me because of the baby.’ I place a hand on the small bump of my stomach.
Sató considers this for a moment. ‘That’s some friendship. Giving up their lives and their families, going to prison for murder so you can walk free.’
I don’t reply. There’s no point trying to explain the closeness we share – how Magnolia Close has made us more than friends.
We’re family. I remember my training as a solicitor.
Sometimes it feels like another lifetime.
Another person. Other times it feels like yesterday.
I won’t be drawn into talking – giving more than I intend in the silences Sató is leaving me.
I stay quiet, like always. People mistake this as shyness, but it’s not.
I just prefer to sit back and watch and listen.
The detective shakes her head. ‘It still doesn’t answer why I should believe you over your friends. Right now, I’m inclined to think all three of you are lying, so I’ll remind you that wasting police time is a criminal offence. I could charge all three of you.’
I told you she wouldn’t buy this. She’s too smart for you.
I hold back my plea for Sató to listen. Hold back the fear threatening to eat me alive. I’m not scared of this room or this detective. I’m terrified of the reason we’re all here. And that’s something Sató, with her sharp eyes and her neat handwriting, will never understand.
The nausea returns. A roiling wave that starts at the top of my head before moving its way down my body, all the way to my stomach.
My fingers fumble with the new bin liner, opening it up, getting ready.
I force my gaze up to Sató again. ‘You should believe me. Because I killed Jonny. And I can prove it. I can tell you exactly how I did it – how he died – which I believe hasn’t been made public yet. ’
‘It hasn’t.’ There’s a spark in her eyes now. I’ve caught her attention. ‘How did you kill Jonny Wilson, Beth?
‘I stabbed him three times in the stomach with a kitchen knife and then suffocated him with his pillow.’
The words hang in the air, just like Keira’s did that night in the pub when she’d first suggested killing him.
Sató doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
I close my eyes, just for a second, just long enough to see Keira’s smirk at the table and hear Georgie’s wild laughter in my head followed by Tasha’s hiccupped giggles. We thought it was a game that night. What fools.
The nausea surges. I clutch the bin liner, hunching forward as my stomach twists inside out.
I feel Sató’s eyes on me as I dry-heave into the bag, my stomach already empty. When I’m done, I wipe my mouth with a tissue and force myself to sit up straight. ‘Do you believe me now?’
I don’t breathe as I wait for Sató’s reply.