Chapter Thirty-Five
Things are a little misty as to what happened next. The details are not razor sharp.
I do recall my heartrate escalating until it felt like a pair of fists were hammering under my ribcage.
My legs had turned to jelly, and my head had been full of noise – a horrible buzzing. It had made me feel extremely sick and quite faint.
For one crazy moment, I’d thought I might pass out and tumble down the stairs after Peter. And then my thoughts had instantly swerved to Joy and James. No way could they find me also deceased, draped over their father’s body.
My hands had flown to my mouth. My poor children. They no longer had a father. As my body had momentarily swayed on that landing, I’d stepped smartly away from the top step lest my kids suddenly be without a mother too. Although, if I’d gone to prison, they’d have been without a mother anyway.
As that latter thought had landed in my brain, an inner calm had descended.
I can recall it even now. It was as if the top of my head had opened and a shaft of cold liquid-light had beamed straight through the crown of my skull.
It had travelled all the way down to my heart, accompanied by a detached voice.
You’re not going to fall down the stairs, Jen.
Nor are you going to prison. You’re going to remove your tea from the console table and go to bed.
For now, nobody needs to know anything about what has happened.
As far as anyone is aware, you left a party with a bad headache.
Peter himself spoke to your sister and brother-in-law in front of you, remember?
He told them that you needed to lay down in a quiet dark room before the headache became a migraine.
He also playfully told Sally and Alec that it would be the attic room for you tonight.
That nothing must disturb you until you were tickety-boo again.
So go to the attic room. Get into bed. Drink your tea.
Read your book. Then go to sleep. Carry on as normal.
This is very important. You leave Peter where he is.
He’ll still be there in the morning. And then you can call an ambulance and – in a panic-stricken voice – say you’ve just woken up and found your husband lying at the foot of the stairs – and yes, quite dead.
I’d listened to the inner voice and even found myself nodding my head, as if a real person had been standing alongside me giving advice. However, I’d not initially taken it.
Instead, I’d stood on that first-floor landing for quite a while. You see, a part of me had been terrified that Peter was only knocked out – even though the angle of his neck had said otherwise.
I think I finished drinking my tea on that landing, taking intermittent gulps while half expecting Peter to rear up, swivel his head, and look up at me furiously.
‘Bloody hell, Jen. My fucking head!’
And then what? I’d have been terrified of him exacting revenge. Of him chasing me up to the top floor where I’d have barricaded myself inside one of the bathrooms, praying the door would have held if he’d pummelled upon it.
After an hour, maybe two – time went haywire – I must have gone up that second flight of stairs, because I’d found myself perched on the edge of the bed.
My book had remained unread. My mug – now empty – had been placed upon the bedside table.
My phone had been in my hands, and I’d turned it over repeatedly.
Every now and again I’d trembled. But then another bucket of icy calm had washed over me. And my hands had stilled again.
I’d wanted to log into Facebook. To type Joyce Hatton into the search bar.
But I hadn’t. If my story were to ring true about being asleep at the time of Peter’s demise, then I had to be authentic.
I wasn’t particularly tech-savvy, but I had no doubt that if the police got involved – and surely they would – some geek detective might turn up and give me a damn good grilling.
‘You were in bed, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘Asleep?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why, Mrs Armstrong, does your Messenger say that you were last active at precisely a quarter to three in the morning?’
Except… except I hadn’t used Messenger. But that didn’t mean that Detective Geek wouldn’t consult, if necessary, Mark Zuckerberg himself in order to get a satisfactory conclusion to his investigation.
‘Mrs Armstrong. Are you aware that we have spoken to Mr Zuckerberg and have discovered fresh information? Indeed, we now know you were checking out the Facebook profile of a woman called Joyce Hatton.’
‘Er…’
‘And are you also aware that we have reason to believe you pushed your husband down the stairs?’
‘Um…’
‘Can you please take us through what happened, step by step.’
‘Is that a trick question?’
I’d gone a little bit mad in that attic room. Hardly surprising. After all, it’s not every day you murder your husband.