Chapter 22 #2
How long was grief supposed to last? Was there a time when you thought you’d done enough crying and it was time to laugh again?
If so, how much longer was she going to have to sit in agony?
And when she did finally laugh, would she feel guilty for enjoying herself when her daughter would never laugh, talk, dance, sing or breathe again?
She increased her grip on her husband’s hand. He squeezed back.
Since the funeral, their lives had continued in a kind of non-state.
They got up in a morning once it was light, padded around the house doing odd jobs, making tea, letting it go cold, snacking on slices of toast and bowls of cereal, never hungry enough for a full meal.
In the evenings, they sat together on the sofa, not speaking, not watching television, not laughing at Are You Being Served?
, not giving ridiculous answers to the questions on What’s My Line?
and Mr and Mrs. They simply existed in their own dark world of sadness.
The telephone rang. It was a sound so loud in the quiet vacuum they were in that both of them jumped. It was unusual for Judith’s mother to call so late in the day, but they doubted it would be anyone else.
Judith went over to the windowsill where the phone was and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’ she asked, her voice hoarse from lack of use.
‘Mrs Patterson, it’s Detective Inspector Henry Bishop. Is your husband there?’
‘Yes. I’ll just get him.’ She turned to her husband. ‘It’s Inspector Bishop for you.’
Geoff took a deep breath and pushed himself up from the sofa. He took the receiver from Judith and cleared his throat before speaking. ‘Hello?’
‘Mr Patterson, I’m sorry to call so late in the evening, but we’ve made a development and I thought you’d like to hear it from me rather than from the news. We’ve arrested someone for your daughter’s murder.’
‘Really?’ He looked over to his wife. ‘That is good news. Are you allowed to tell me who it is?’
‘His name is Anthony Winstanley. He lives in Crescent Avenue, not a five-minute walk from your house, I believe.’
‘No. It’s not far. I don’t … I don’t know the name.’
‘A young man in his late twenties, slightly odd character, I’m afraid, a bit of a misfit.’
‘Has he admitted … you know?’
‘He has. I have his confession on my desk in front of me,’ Bishop said, sounding almost pleased.
‘Well, that is good. Thank you for taking the time to call me and let me know.’
‘You’re very welcome, Mr Patterson. If there is anything else you need to know, you have my number. Please, call me any time.’
‘That’s very kind of you. Thank you.’
‘Good evening, Mr Patterson,’ Bishop said, his voice full of life as he ended the call.
Geoff, still with the receiver in his hand, turned to look at his wife who was sitting on the edge of the sofa, looking hopefully at him.
‘They’ve arrested someone.’
‘Oh, thank God,’ she said, almost collapsing on herself.
Geoff put the phone down and went back to the sofa where he took his wife’s hands in his. ‘He’s called Anthony Winstanley. He lives on Crescent Avenue. Does the name ring any bells?’
She frowned as she thought. Then her eyes widened as the penny dropped.
‘Oh my God. He’s the young man in the library.
He and Alice are always having a laugh and a joke.
Oh my God, Geoff, I’ve spoken to him so many times.
I encouraged them to chat. They seemed to really get on. Oh, Geoff,’ she cried.
He rushed to her side, put his arms around her and pulled her into a protective embrace. He told her everything was going to be all right, all the words he thought would help but he didn’t believe.
‘So, what happens now?’ Judith asked, sitting up and wiping her eyes with her sleeve.
‘I don’t know. I’m guessing if he’s admitted it then there doesn’t need to be a trial. There’s no point in a jury finding him guilty or not guilty if he’s admitting it, is there?’
‘I suppose not. So, he’ll just go straight to prison then.’
‘I assume so.’
Judith started crying. Geoff grabbed her and wrapped his arms tightly around her.
‘It’s all right, Judi, it’s all right,’ he reassured her. ‘We’ll get through this together. I promise you.’
She pushed her husband away and looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. ‘What is everyone going to say?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’re going to know who did it. They’ll know how close he was. They’re going to be talking and whispering about us every time we go outside or to the supermarket. How can I go back to work, Geoff?’ she cried and collapsed back into her husband.
He took a deep breath. He had no idea how to answer.
So far, everyone they’d come into contact with had been sympathetic, offering their condolences and saying, if there was anything they could do, Geoff and Judi only needed to ask.
But Judi was right. Soon, the gossip would begin.
People would start talking about how they always suspected Anthony Winstanley was capable of doing something like that and how could Geoff and Judi have allowed their daughter – their mentally handicapped daughter – to go out on her own with a pervert living just around the corner?
What kind of parents were they in the first place?
Geoff squeezed his wife tighter. However long this ordeal was going to go on for, even if it was for the rest of their lives, he would be there for Judith. The last thing he wanted was for her to face more heartache.
Anthony Winstanley was sitting on a thin mattress in a dank police cell.
There was a draught coming from somewhere that was chilling him to the bone.
The policeman had promised he’d be able to see his mum and have something to eat if he admitted killing Alice.
The plastic tray with a plate of pie, mashed potato and mushy peas was on the floor next to him, untouched.
It was probably cold by now. When the uniformed police officer brought it to him, he could smell the meat pie and saw the thick gravy glistening on the steaming potatoes.
He was so hungry. The police officer stood in the doorway, hacked up a huge ball of phlegm and spat it onto his food.
Even with the heavy cell door closed, Anthony could hear them all laughing.
He wanted his mum. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He was brought up to believe policemen were the good guys and, if you did everything right, if you did everything they told you, things would be fine. He’d done what they’d asked him to do and they’d immediately locked him in a cell. Why?
He curled up on the mattress, pulled his knees up to his chest and held them tightly in place. He was so cold. He was so scared. Maybe, if he was good, they’d let him go home in the morning, and if there was one thing his mum always told him, it was that he was a very good boy.