Chapter 7 Imogen
Imogen
I stare at the two police officers, taking in their plain clothes and their identification cards and their grave expressions. It’s all too familiar and I’m suddenly fourteen again, unwittingly opening the door to a future without my lovely mum.
‘Has something happened to Josh?’ I blurt out.
DI Erica Shirley’s jaw softens slightly and she raises her eyebrows, and something about the way she does this tugs at my memory. ‘No. Nothing like that. We’d like to talk to you about Dorothea Roe, if we may come in?’
Relief surges through my body. ‘Sure. Yes … of course …’ I step back to allow them into the tiny hallway. ‘Please. Go through to the kitchen.’
I close the front door and follow them. I offer them a drink, which they both decline, and then the three of us stand awkwardly by the breakfast bar.
The male detective whose name I’ve already forgotten gets out a notebook from inside his jacket and then perches on a stool, with one foot resting on the metal bar.
I notice his trouser legs are too short, revealing a slice of very pale skin above his schoolboy grey socks.
DI Shirley does all the talking and I wonder if they tossed a coin to decide before they came in.
‘We understand that you are the main beneficiary to the estate of Dorothea Roe,’ she says, studying me closely. There’s something earnest and trustworthy about her face, but her gaze is intense. She has head-teacher energy.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
She assesses me for a few seconds. She has a cluster of sunspots on her cheekbones and deep nose-to-mouth lines, and I feel as though I’ve met her before.
‘Did you know that Dorothea had planned to leave you her house in her will?’
‘No! Of course not! I hadn’t talked to her, or seen her, in years. I … it was – is still – a shock to me.’
The detectives stare at me silently, judgement rolling off them, and I wonder if they know about my father and what he did. Is that why they’re looking at me like that?
‘Her death was an accident, wasn’t it?’ I say, remembering a newspaper article I read online after discovering Dorothea had left me her house. ‘I read somewhere that a candle started it?’
DI Shirley purses her lips together and the two detectives exchange glances.
The male officer says, ‘I’m afraid the fire investigations team found evidence of an accelerant used.’
‘Accelerant? But … she would have had turps, paints and all sorts of combustible stuff in her studio,’ I say.
‘Petrol was found,’ says DI Shirley gravely. ‘And we’ve only just been told that you’ve inherited her house.’
There is a loaded pause.
‘Wait! You don’t think … you don’t think I had anything to do with her death, do you?’ I blurt out.
‘You’re the only one to benefit from her death,’ the male detective pipes up and I want to slap him.
‘But … I haven’t seen her in years.’
‘Strange, then, that she’d leave everything to you,’ muses DI Shirley, her eyes not leaving mine.
‘Yes. Absolutely. I’m still trying to get my head around it. I don’t know why she left it to me.’
‘Where were you,’ asks the male detective, somewhat smugly, ‘on Sunday the fifth of January?’
My mind races. Where was I? I can’t remember what I did last night, never mind five months ago.
Oh yes, thank God. ‘I went to visit my sister, Alison Davies, in Cardiff,’ I cry out jubilantly.
‘For my niece’s sixth birthday. I was there until the Monday morning when I got the train back.
You can ring her to check if you like.’ I pick up my phone from the worktop and reel off her phone number, which the male detective scribbles down.
Then he tucks the book back inside his jacket and hops off the stool.
‘There’s something else,’ says DI Shirley. ‘We’re not totally sure, but it looks like Dorothea might have been pushed down the stairs.’
‘What?’ I can feel the blood draining from my face. ‘Pushed? Someone pushed her? But why?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ says DI Shirley.
‘But … there’s been nothing in the press about murder.’
‘We haven’t revealed it yet,’ she explains. ‘The fire investigation team took a while to submit their report. I know you’re a journalist, but we’d be grateful if it’s kept out of the press for now.’
‘Of course,’ I promise. Tears burn the back of my eyes at the thought of Dorothea being pushed down the stairs. Someone wasn’t content in just torching her studio, they actually wanted to make sure she died. The realization sends ripples of shock through me.
‘That’s all for now. We’ll be in touch,’ says the male detective.
As I’m showing them out, DI Shirley turns to me and adds, under her breath, ‘Will you be moving into Dorothea’s villa? A house like that probably shouldn’t be standing empty.’
‘Um … yes, we are,’ I say while thinking it’s none of her business.
She waits until her colleague is at their car before adding, ‘You probably don’t remember me. I was one of the detectives working on your mother’s case.’
That’s why she’d looked familiar. I nod. ‘Oh yes, I remember now, meeting you in court …’
Something shifts in my memory and an image of her rushing over to me and Alison as we entered the lobby of Bristol Crown Court on the first day of my father’s trial pops into my mind.
A younger DI Erica Shirley appearing through the throng of people (which I’d later realize were the CPS solicitors and barristers); her kind chestnut eyes and general air of dishevelment had put my nerves at ease.
She’d escorted us to the right court room, insisting we find her if we needed anything.
‘You and your sister were very brave,’ she says with a small smile, bringing me back to the present. Then she turns and joins her colleague at the car.
I contemplate calling Alison but I talk myself out of it, reasoning she’ll be busy in the salon as she works Tuesdays.
I decide to ring Rachel instead. I haven’t spoken to her since being suspended.
She’d tried to call me a few times and she left messages asking if I was okay, but I didn’t have the energy to call her back.
I was too ashamed. I still feel ashamed. But I was a good journalist, before.
‘Immy!’ she exclaims as soon as she picks up her phone. ‘I was worried I’d never hear from you again.’
I hop onto a bar stool, slightly disgusted to see the imprint of the male detective’s bottom in the leather. ‘I’m so sorry. So much has happened. I’m just so embarrassed about it all. I mean, it’s just so …’
‘Oh Immy,’ she sighs. ‘Anyway, you’ve still got your job for now, so that’s something.’
‘I don’t know if I have. I’ve been suspended while they look into my conduct, apparently.’
‘You’re a brilliant journalist. He’d be a fool to sack you.’
I press my foot against the panel of the breakfast bar. ‘Has he said anything to you?’
‘No. Not really, just something about how lucky you are that Dominic Filcher didn’t press charges.’
‘He didn’t press charges because he knows how fucking guilty he is.’
‘Hmmm. Well, I can assure you he’s on my radar.’
‘Thanks, Rach.’
‘We’ll get him eventually. Don’t worry about that. God, you must be bored. I know what you’re like! At least you’re still getting paid. You are getting paid, aren’t you?’
‘Nope.’
‘Oh … shit.’
‘But it’s okay because, well, the strangest thing happened.’ I tell her all about the villa but I don’t reveal the visit from the police. It’s not that I don’t trust Rachel, but she is a journalist after all. The temptation to report on it would be too strong.
And if anybody is going to report on it, it will be me. When the time is right.
‘Wow,’ she says when I’ve finished. ‘Great news about the inheritance, but I’m sorry to hear about your artist friend. Dorothea Roe. Yes, we covered her death at the station back at the start of the year.’
I don’t know how I could have missed it. But then I had been in the middle of the Filcher case at the time.
‘She was pretty well known,’ I say, ‘at least she was in the eighties and nineties.’ I can hear Chris’s booming voice in the background shouting at someone, and I flinch. ‘I better go,’ she whispers. ‘I’ll see you soon.’ She ends the call before I’ve had the chance to reply.
When Josh gets home from work I tell him about the police visit and how they think it’s arson. I don’t mention that Dorothea might have been pushed down the stairs. He doesn’t need to know that detail for now, it will only make him worry.
Straight away his body language shifts and I can sense his anxiety. ‘Maybe we should stay here now we know someone torched Dorothea’s place?’
Disappointment floods through me. ‘Why would someone want to hurt us, though?’
He perches on the stool next to me and loosens his tie. He looks tired. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of investigating this, Ims. Leave it to the police.’
‘Of course not,’ I lie. ‘And if we move into the villa we can get security cameras, make sure everything is locked and secure.’ I can’t admit that one of the reasons I want to live in the villa is so that I can chase the truth more easily.
‘Come on, Josh, we were so excited by this. The villa is amazing. And it’s ours.
It’s all ours!’ I want him to revert to the fun Josh of last night when he was spinning me around in excitement and making plans for his ugly TV.
I watch his face, willing him to say yes.
And then he flashes me an indulgent smile. ‘You’re right. We’ll be fine. Whatever happened to Dorothea has nothing to do with us, and she was an old lady. Vulnerable. But I’ll call the security firm straight away, okay?’
‘Okay, great idea.’ I jump up and give him a quick kiss and ruffle his hair, which makes him laugh.
I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get my job back.