Chapter 52 #2
Detective Price raises an arched eyebrow at the interruption and continues.
‘Away, on holiday themselves, as a matter of fact,’ she says. ‘As I was saying, we’ve been gathering information from the firefighters and early attendants at the scene and we have reason to believe there may be cause for suspected arson.’
Lottie nods. She is not surprised at this. It merely confirms the rumours that have been swirling since this morning.
‘That’s what we heard as well,’ she says. ‘Lots of stories and theories going round amongst the locals. But then it could have been a banger, couldn’t it? Or sparks from a small bonfire?’
‘Try not to pay attention to idle tittle-tattle, Mrs Jenkins. We want to deal in facts not gossip.’
Lottie nods.
‘What’s happened to the two people who were found at the site?’
Again, Detective Price holds her gaze, searches her face before answering.
‘We can’t disclose particulars I’m afraid, save to say their condition is critical.’
‘How awful,’ says Lottie, her eyes drifting away from the table and falling down to her skirt, her hands, the floor. She can’t bear to imagine how dreadful it must be to find yourself inside a burning building or trapped by fallen debris.
‘Yes,’ says Detective Price in her business-like way. ‘All the more reason to get to the bottom of what happened, how the fire started.’
‘Look, me and my husband, Tim, have given you our full statements. I’m not sure what else we can say,’ says Lottie.‘Although, we’re happy to help in whatever way we can,’ she adds.
There is something about speaking to figures of authority these days that makes her feel unaccountably obsequious.
As though she is always trying to compensate, atone even.
She is aware she must sound nervous, overly solicitous.
Does that translate as guilt, she wonders?
She looks towards the young man. He is taking notes down on a lined jotter.
A left-hander, she sees, so that he grasps his biro in that awkward, clawed way that sometimes smudges the ink.
He looks up and smiles before wiping the expression clean from his face, as though he has just remembered his training.
‘Yes, you and your husband have been most helpful. He’s a schoolteacher, isn’t he?’ asks Detective Price. ‘And you’re a charity worker, I believe?’
‘Fundraiser,’ clarifies Lottie.
‘Hmmm, right. And would you describe yourselves as good people? Upstanding pillars of the community? What’s the word?’ Her eyes graze the ceiling as though searching for something. ‘Altruistic?’
Lottie is trapped. It is a trap of her own making, she admits, as she feels the snare tightening around her, unable to escape it. She knows where this line of enquiry is leading, can sense it closing in on her. She looks Detective Price directly in the eyes.
‘Yes. Yes, I would actually,’ she says in what she hopes is an assured voice.
‘Really? That’s interesting. Because you yourself haven’t always been so. Have you, Mrs Jenkins?’
The words hang in the air around them and Lottie can almost see herself from above; her dark neat head, long neck, the twisting of her hands in her lap under the desk.
The two other righteous figures opposite her in their drab grey and navy clothing, their still bodies, their searching expressions.
The pause lengthens like a stretched rope that is fraying.
‘Doesn’t that depend on your definition of the word …’ she begins, the inner child still present and eager to deny, deny, deny until the very last moment.
Detective Price stares her out, lips pursed almost in faint amusement at this display. Her colleague drops his pen and watches Lottie as well, as though this is the moment they have both been waiting to witness and would not want to miss.
‘Oh, come on,’ the woman says, her shoulders dropping a fraction, her head tilting to the side. And then as Lottie fails to respond, she gives a laboured sigh and says two words. ‘Muriel Hadlow.’
Even though they are expected, Lottie feels the words like an impact, a slap to the face or a blow to the stomach, threatening to wind her, forcing her to double up in pain.
All of the guilt she has carried around with her for so long is suddenly levelled at her again. She will never outrun it, she realises.
‘I was cleared of all charges. No case to answer for,’ says Lottie eventually.
‘You must know that. Why is that even still on record? It was years ago. I was exonerated,’ she adds, her voice rising.
She no longer cares about maintaining a show of strength or decorum.
These people, they already think she’s guilty. And in a way, she is.
She sits up straight again, feels a little of her old spirit, the defiance flaring in her.
‘Look, like I said, that was a long time ago and I’m a different person now. I regret what happened but it has absolutely nothing to do with the Woolfs, the property next door, whatever happened last night. You have to believe me.’
Detective Price allows her to finish, observing with mild interest this range of emotions, varying from meekness to fear, to denial, anger and back again, before she gives a slow smile.
‘Well, Mrs Jenkins,’ she says. ‘No smoke without fire.’