Nicole
Nicole
The walls of the interview room are dark blue, comprising large panels of cushioned hessian, much like Nicole imagines a padded cell in a psychiatric institution might look. There is no window, and Nicole cannot escape the thought that this is what it might be like in prison; this tiny, airless room might be a foretaste of what is to come.
Attached to the ceiling in one corner of the room is a small camera, and she wonders if she is being filmed, whether somebody is watching the interview live in a different room, analysing the tone of her voice, her body language, the guilt on her face. The thought fills her with unparalleled dread, and she tries to concentrate, to focus on the questions she is being asked.
‘Let me get this straight, Mrs Forrester. You were texting your husband, while driving, and Isla Richardson ran into the road in front of your vehicle. You weren’t able to apply the brakes in time, and you collided with Ms Richardson. You were aware that you had knocked somebody down – though at the time you didn’t realise the identity of the victim – and then rather than stay at the scene and call the emergency services, you drove away, hid your car on an industrial estate, and later that evening reported the vehicle stolen?’
Nicole listens to the story relayed back to her, words congealing in her mouth. She nods her head.
‘Can you give me a verbal answer please, Mrs Forrester, for the tape.’
Nicole looks down at the recording machine on the table, cannot escape the sense that this is surreal. ‘Yes, that’s correct.’
‘And you told nobody what had happened?’
The interviewing detective – a different officer to the ones who brought her here – cannot restrain the scepticism in his voice.
In the chair next to Nicole, her solicitor – someone Andrew must have found at breakneck speed, Andrew not foolish enough to leave her to the mercies of a duty solicitor – leans forward, advises her to answer the question.
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘And you maintain that you didn’t discover your husband’s affair with Isla Richardson until after the accident? Until the day of Isla’s funeral, in fact, fifteen days later?’ It is there again, the cynicism in the detective’s voice, and Nicole shakes her head before remembering the tape and giving a verbal answer.
The clock on the wall tells her it is a quarter past nine. She is not sure what time she arrived, knows it must have been after six-thirty, but beyond that, it is as though time has taken on a different dimension, as though it is being stretched and then contracted from one minute to the next until it is warped beyond all recognition. All she knows is that she has told the detective the same facts again and again, has confirmed the details over and over, a seemingly endless array of clarifications. It is as though the four of them – Nicole, her solicitor, the interviewing detective and the taciturn officer – are trapped in a Groundhog Day of questioning.
The door opens, and a policewoman – the female officer who was at Nicole’s house earlier today – enters the room, whispers something into the interviewing detective’s ear. The detective frowns before speaking.
‘Interview paused at...’ He studies the clock on the wall. ‘Twenty-one eighteen.’ Pressing a finger down on the tape machine, he pushes his chair back from the table and stands up.
Without further explanation, he leaves the room, closing the door behind him. Nicole turns to her solicitor who tells her not to worry, it is all quite normal. The remaining officer studies whatever notes she has made in her book, does not make eye contact.
The minutes tick by – 21.19, 21.20, 21.21 – and Nicole is aware of sweat pooling in the small of her back. Her mind is awash with speculations as to what is taking the detective so long, and she tries to reassure herself that interruptions like this must happen all the time. But doubts escalate in her mind, and she picks up the cup of water in front of her, sips from it, tries to wet her parched lips.
Recollections rush to fill the empty time. She recalls the collective shock that greeted her confession earlier this evening and wishes that so many things in the past had been different, that the future she has been dreading were not now a reality.
The thought runs through her head that she does not know when she will see her boys again. She does not know if – when the questioning is over – she will be released on bail or held on remand. Whether it will be hours or days or even weeks before she can hug them again. The prospect of being separated from Nathaniel and Jack is like a vice tightening around her throat, a possibility she dare not dwell on for too long.
The door opens, and the detective returns, carrying an iPad. There is a silent, visual exchange between the detective and the officer seated at the table, a tacit communication Nicole cannot decipher.
The detective retakes his seat opposite her, presses a finger on the tape machine to restart it, announces the continuation of the interview at nine twenty-eight p.m. He looks at Nicole for a moment as though trying to solve an impenetrable puzzle, the iPad still in his hand, its screen concealed from Nicole.
‘Is there anything else you’d like to tell us, Mrs Forrester? Anything you think might be relevant about the night of Isla Richardson’s death?’
The palms of Nicole’s hands are clammy, and she wipes them on her trousers. She feels as though she has stepped onto the wrong path and now cannot find her way back. ‘I don’t think so, no.’
The detective pauses. ‘That’s interesting.’ He takes in a deep breath, lets it out again slowly. ‘Just humour me for a moment, will you, while I tell you a little story.’