Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
TASHA
There’s another officer with DS Sató waiting on our doorstep when we return from the school drop-off. I fight the urge to spin on my heels and walk away. I fight the panic squeezing me tight. I want to forget this day is happening. Forget Keira’s strange comment.
‘Can you imagine if anyone found out?’
There’s something about her that scares me. It isn’t just that she knows what we talked about. It’s something more. But I can’t explain what.
Wish for the devil and he shall appear.
My hands tighten on the pushchair. There’s no time to dwell on Keira.
No time to talk to this detective again either.
I need to pick up the new prescription for my dad’s sleeping pills on the way across town.
I still can’t believe I lost them. I should get my parents some fruit from the market stall too.
They’d like that. And I still haven’t called the plumber about the leak under their kitchen sink.
I meant to do it yesterday, but then Matilda needed help with her reading homework, and Lanie was crying, and I just…
forgot. Already, I feel the six precious hours of the school day slipping away.
No matter how hard I try, no matter what I do, there is never enough time. Never enough of me.
If I could just leave right now—
Sató turns on the doorstep and our eyes meet. She nods a greeting and, no matter how much I want to escape, I force my feet forward. I find myself searching her face for any sign that she has her own growing list of things she needs to do – her own burdens – but all I see is an alertness.
Marc is a step ahead and reaches them first, pulling out his keys to open the front door, smiling a greeting.
I wonder what Sató sees as she looks at us.
Marc looks dreadful. Like a man who hasn’t slept.
His black hair is limp, his dark stubble two days old, his clothes rumpled, but it’s the expression on his face as he greets the detectives that stops me dead.
I’ve known Marc for over half my life. I know every inch of his face – every expression.
And the one drawing on his features right now is guilt.
But what does my husband have to feel guilty about?
‘Mr and Mrs Carter,’ Sató says with a smile that borders the line between friendly and professional, ‘this is my colleague DC McLachlan.’ She gestures to a woman younger than Sató and wearing a white shirt with a navy V-neck jumper that’s a size too big, like she’s borrowed it from someone else, but her smile is kind, her eyes warm, and I find myself wishing it was just this younger detective on my doorstep.
‘Do you have a few minutes to answer a couple of questions please?’ Sató asks.
‘Of course,’ Marc says. ‘Come in.’
‘I’m due at my parents’ shortly,’ I say.
‘Will this take long?’ I glance from Sató to Marc, expecting him to mention that he needs to get to work, but he remains silent.
He won’t meet my eye. He hasn’t said a word to me since last night.
The first I knew of him coming on the school run was when he stepped out of the door ahead of me this morning, holding Sofia’s hand.
‘This won’t take long,’ Sató replies, and I turn to unclip Lanie from the pushchair just to break eye contact. I don’t like the way the detective is watching me.
Marc leads Sató through to the living room.
The girls were playing ‘The Floor is Lava’ before school, and the evidence of their game is everywhere – cushions scattered across the floor, the sofas pushed at odd angles from being climbed and jumped on, last night’s dolls game now scattered into the corners.
I place Lanie in a ring of cushions with one of Sofia’s Barbies her sister doesn’t let her play with.
She squeals with delight and starts a string of babbling before shoving the doll in her mouth.
I must remember to wipe it clean and dry the hair before the school pick-up.
Another thing added to the list. But worth it for the joy it brings my youngest daughter.
Sató declines my offer of a drink, and she and DC McLachlan perch on the edge of the sofa as Marc and I settle on the one opposite.
Sató pulls her notebook from the inside pocket of her blazer.
‘We now have a time of death for Mr Wilson,’ she says.
‘We believe he was killed by someone he knew, and we’re starting our enquiries with establishing where all the residents of Magnolia Close were at the time of his murder. ’
‘You can’t think it was one of us,’ Marc says, scrubbing a hand over his face.
‘It’s just a formality at this stage,’ Sató continues. ‘But I do need to ask you both where you were between eight p.m. and eleven p.m. on Tuesday evening – two nights ago.’
A silent scream lodges in my throat. I clench my jaw, fighting to keep the fear from playing on my face.
The murder window. The same murder window Keira suggested that night in the pub.
‘You could murder Jonny next week, during the PTA quiz night. One of you could slip out and kill Jonny. Then all three of you swear you were with each other all night.’
Then I think of Beth last night. ‘We say nothing to the police. Only that we were together all of yesterday evening.’
‘I was at the Magnolia Primary School PTA quiz,’ I reply, almost tripping over the words in my hurry to get them out.
‘Georgie, Beth and I were running the event. All three of us were together the entire evening from six thirty until around eleven. The quiz ended around nine, but we stayed to clear up.’ The words feel wooden – too practised – but there’s nothing I can do about it now.
‘And you, Mr Carter?’ Sató asks, looking at Marc.
‘Alistair and I got back to the close around nine thirty,’ Marc continues.
‘We had babysitters to sort out. The local teens do it. We used Florence from next door – number eleven. We didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
Believe me, anything happens in Magnolia Close and we notice. We’re a close-knit community.’
‘So I understand,’ Sató replies with a meaning to her comment that makes me nervous. She believes someone close to Jonny killed him.
She scans her notes before looking back at me. ‘That’s Georgie and Nate Bell from number six, and Beth and Alistair Smith from number three?’
We both nod.
Sató makes another note, and we sit in silence. I swallow, my mouth dry. I remember the tea I made myself at breakfast, sitting cold and untouched on the kitchen counter. When was the last time I drank anything? I want to get a glass of water, but I force myself to stay sitting.
‘Thank you for confirming that for us,’ she says, and I think they’re going to leave, but then the other detective, DC McLachlan, leans forward. Eager and ready. And I have to bite back another scream and the need to escape.
‘Mrs Carter—’
‘Call me Tasha,’ I say, the words automatic. I always thought I’d grow into being called Mrs Carter, but, at forty-two, I’m still waiting.
McLachlan nods. ‘Tasha, one of your neighbours mentioned that you had an issue with Mr Wilson.’ Her tone is casual like she’s making conversation.
I’m back underground – buried in the earth. Can’t breathe. I lick my lips and make a show of rolling my eyes, adding an amused smile, a head shake that says it was nothing. ‘Really? Who told you that?’
No reply.
Marc breaks the silence. ‘We had a small disagreement with Jonny in the summer,’ he explains, like Jonny didn’t ruin our lives.
I think of Georgie’s comment last night.
Now Jonny is dead, we can reapply for planning permission.
I wait for the relief, but all I feel is the weight of my burdens.
Georgie and Beth both hated Jonny too, but I had the most to gain from his death.
And considering this is DS Sató’s second visit in less than twenty-four hours, I think she knows it too.
‘I guess someone could’ve meant that,’ Marc continues.
‘I’ve been told Mr Wilson blocked planning permission for an extension for your elderly parents, and that you were very upset about it,’ McLachlan says.
There’s a ringing in my ears. A deafening clang.
I scoop Lanie into my lap and let Marc explain the plans for the extension and my parents and the care they need from me, still making it sound like it wasn’t a big deal.
I fight back the lump stuck in my throat and watch Sató’s pen move across the page of her notebook before looking back at me.
‘You’re very close to Beth Smith and Georgie Bell. Is that right?’ Sató asks, taking control of the questions once more.
I nod. ‘We have children the same age.’ I lick my lips again. God, I’m so thirsty. ‘Is this going to be much longer? It’s just that my parents are expecting me.’
‘I’m sorry to be holding you up,’ Sató replies. ‘We’re almost done.’ Sató looks to McLachlan, and something silent passes between them.
The younger detective sits forward again, hands clasped in front of her. Lanie babbles, reaching a hand out, making McLachlan smile. ‘In homes like this, we’d expect to see doorbell cameras or CCTV. But I haven’t noticed any in Magnolia Close.’
‘It’s against the bylaws,’ Marc replies.
‘Because the houses all face each other, a doorbell camera would capture everyone’s comings and goings.
It was considered an invasion of privacy.
With the gates, it never felt like we needed to worry about extra security.
We’re a community. We take in each other’s deliveries and look out for each other. ’
Sató nods before closing her notebook, and finally the two detectives stand. It’s an effort not to sag with relief.
‘Thank you for your time this morning,’ Sató says. ‘I’ll be back if I have any further questions, but if you remember anything unusual about Tuesday evening, or anything pertinent to the investigation, here’s my card.’
She steps forward and I stand, shifting Lanie onto my hip and taking the card with my spare hand before showing the detectives out, Marc following behind. I close the door, and we wait in silence until they are down the path and on the pavement. Out of earshot.
I try to get a hold of myself, like scooping up the grains of rice from a bag that’s spilled, but I can’t remember what I needed to do today.
Prescriptions and plumbers and…
In my arms, Lanie tugs at my hair, trying to suck the ends. I look up to find Marc is still standing in the hall. I don’t know what to say, but Marc does. He steps forward, slipping his hand into mine.
‘I’m sorry, Tesoro,’ he says. ‘I shouldn’t have gotten mad last night.’
Another wave of relief floods my body. I didn’t realise how much I needed to hear him say that.
‘I’m sorry too.’ I squeeze his hand before I step into the kitchen and place Lanie in her high chair, handing her a breadstick.
‘You have nothing to apologise for,’ he says, voice hoarse. ‘I was upset about Jonny, and I lashed out.’ He pulls me into his arms and holds me for a long time. Lanie shouts, hands up to be lifted from the high chair and join in our embrace.
A part of me – the part thinking about everything I have to do – wants to kiss Marc’s cheek and carry on with my day. I’m already running late, and there is so much to do. But our neighbour is dead, and Marc’s reaction last night was so unlike him.
‘What aren’t you telling me?’ I ask, pulling back and searching his face. ‘What did you mean last night when you said I have no idea what you’ve done for me.’
Marc freezes. I feel the muscles in his back tense beneath my hands.
Oh God.
I want to take back the words. I want Marc to tell me everything is fine. But, instead, he’s stepping out of my arms. His dark eyes are glassy and wide, and the anguish is back on his face.
Lanie shouts again, and I lift her from the high chair, kiss the top of her head, hold her close as I carry her through to the living room then place her in the playpen. She grumbles for a moment, but then I switch on the TV and she’s lost to Peppa Pig.
Only when she’s settled do I turn back to Marc. He’s running a hand through his hair, and when he looks at me, a strangled noise escapes his throat.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and even though he doesn’t say it, I know it’s not another apology for last night but for whatever he’s about to tell me. Fear slams into me. I glance at Lanie, making sure she’s happy with the TV, then nod to the kitchen.
He pulls me to the table, not letting go of my hand as we sit down.
‘I’ve made a terrible mistake,’ he says, his voice breaking.