Dead To Me (37 page)

‘She said she didn’t want to see me any more, that was it, she didn’t want me in her life.’ Denise closed her eyes briefly. ‘I was in a state, really upset. She’s all I have—’ She broke off. ‘I tried to put it … to forget … in my head … thinking of Nathan … I’d done … and she …’ Denise was almost incoherent until she said, ‘She was always pushing me away. I wasn’t going to sit back and let her ruin her life. Find her dead from an overdose, or sent to prison. She was all I had left—’ She broke off again, coughed and cleared her throat. ‘I couldn’t settle. I had a drink, a couple, but it didn’t touch me. In the end I went round there.’

How? On foot? On the bus? In a taxi? Janet knew her questions would wait. The fine-grain detail would come later. For now, Denise needed to tell her story without interruption or qualification. Janet trusted Rachel would be making notes of any gaps in the narrative or any inconsistencies. There would be plenty of time to return to them later.

Denise was picking at her nails, her face drawn with misery and fatigue. ‘She was off her head,’ she said, ‘swanning around with just this scrap of a negligee thing on. She wouldn’t listen. Soon as she saw me, she’s effing and blinding, telling me I’m crap this and crap that.’ Her face crumpled, and Janet saw tears in her eyes. ‘I did love her,’ she said, appealing to Janet. ‘I always loved her, even when …’ Unable to continue, she stopped, covering her eyes with her hand.

‘You all right to carry on?’ Janet said softly.

Denise sniffed, reached for a tissue from the box on the low table and wiped at her face. ‘So, she was shouting and screaming because I told her to sort herself out, that Sean was a loser, that he was dragging her down with him. And her brother—’ Again she halted, as if a switch had been thrown, cutting the supply of words. Her hand to her mouth, a fist stopping her lips.

‘Take your time,’ Janet said. She could feel Denise’s anxiety, taut as cheese-wire in the atmosphere. She could hear the sound of the machines, the tape recorder, the camcorder, the high-pitched hum of the central heating, the breathing of the people in the room. Her mouth was dry.

When Denise began speaking again, it was almost a whisper: ‘I said, look at Nathan, look at what the drugs did to him,’ she gulped. ‘She said, she screamed at me, “It wasn’t the drugs, it was you, you’re the reason he fucking killed himself. It’s your fault he was a junkie, ’cos you never gave a shit for him or for me.” ’ Denise was weeping as she spoke, her words choppy, her breathing laboured and uneven, her chest rising and falling as if she was having an asthma attack. ‘She grabbed at her chain and said, “You can have this, I don’t want anything from you,” and she yanked it off and threw it at me. It landed in the kitchen and I went to pick it up. I was going to go then. She was off her head. When she got like that there was no dealing with her.’ Denise gave a shuddering breath, ‘But then she said, “Why do you think Nathan strung himself up outside your house? Because he wanted you to know it was your fault.” ’

Oh, God. Janet could imagine how that would have cut Denise to the core.

Denise glanced at Janet. Her lips were chapped, Janet could see a tiny thread of red blood in one of the cracks. ‘I just wanted to shut her up,’ Denise said, ‘stop her saying those lies, those evil things.’ Denise fell quiet, only the rattle of her breath accompanying the play of her emotions.

Janet heard Rachel clear her throat.

‘The knife,’ Denise said, ‘the knife.’ She swallowed, hit at her temples with the heels of her hands, a swift and violent gesture that made Janet flinch, though she restricted her reaction to a blink. ‘The knife was on the sink. I just wanted to stop her saying those things. I never—’ she broke off, distressed.

‘Yes,’ Janet said. She had pain in her stomach now, deep and twisting.

Denise was sweating around her hairline, little beads of liquid visible. ‘I can’t—’ she said.

‘Have a drink of water,’ Janet suggested. It was vital not to break the interview now, so close to a full confession. Denise didn’t want to tell her what she had done, did not want to admit the awful truth of it. Janet could tell she was finding the pressure of the situation intolerable, but it was her job to keep her here, keep her talking, build her story to its climax.

Denise lifted the cup, her hands shaking so badly that drops of water spilled over the side and dripped on to her overalls. She sipped some water and put the cup back down.

‘OK,’ said Janet, meaning,
Carry on, keep going
.

‘She was still shouting, screaming, “Why did you ever even have me? Just dumped me, first chance you got. You either fucking me over or …” she said it … I couldn’t … she said it.’ Denise shook her head slowly, bowed forwards, her hands over her nose.

Said what?

‘I don’t know how she knew. How did she know? She was a new baby. I never told anyone. She couldn’t remember, not that young.’ She sounded bewildered.

Janet was confused. ‘What did Lisa say?’ She kept her voice soft.

‘“Smothering me.” She was only a baby, how did she know? No one knew. “Smothering me”, she said that, straight out.’ She stared at Janet, and her brow creased, eyes questioning, avid with pain.

Janet felt pressure squeezing in her chest, felt her skin tighten and chill. ‘That’s why you put Lisa into care, back then?’ she said.

There was a beat or two, Janet counted the thump of her own heart. ‘I thought I might do it again,’ Denise said in a whisper. ‘I was so tired and Lisa was a terrible baby.’ Denise raised her hand as if to cup it over her own face. ‘I didn’t want to hurt her. I couldn’t trust … She were better off in care.’

Janet understood. She had put Lisa in care to protect her from harm, from Denise herself. Who had tried to smother her once already.

Silence hung in the room, Janet waited, resisting the images that danced just out of sight, ghosts and grief. Concentrating only on the here and now, the woman in front of her, her face ruined by drink and tragedy.

Finally Denise stirred. ‘When she said that, and the knife, I had the knife, and she came at me, she’s shouting, “Do it, go on, do it. You killed him, you gonna kill me as well now? Go on then, you shitbag, you bitch!” On and on, and I wanted her to stop. And I—’ Tears rolled down her cheeks, dripped from her nose.

Janet sat without moving, waiting for the final act.

‘She just kept coming and I pushed the knife and she fell.’ Denise closed her eyes. When she opened them she stared unseeing at the floor. ‘She didn’t move or anything. I went home,’ she added.

‘Thank you,’ Janet said. They had the confession. ‘We’re going to have a break now. And then I’d like to talk to you again and your solicitor will probably want to talk to you some more before that. OK?’

As Janet emerged, her head spinning, shaky, acid burning behind her breastbone, she found Gill in the corridor. Gill didn’t say anything, but signalled understanding in the look she gave her. Janet needed fresh air, she needed to be outside, away from the building, from the violence of Denise’s life, from the pity and revulsion she felt.

‘Janet,’ Rachel called, her voice bright, animated.

‘Leave her,’ Gill said. ‘Just leave her be.’ A serious undertone that must have got through because Rachel didn’t come swinging out after her.

Janet walked round the block, only dimly aware of the traffic and the fierce easterly wind coming down off the Pennines, and let the memories flood back.

That moment never left her: calling his name, amused that, after his usual fussy night, he was now so soundly asleep. Joshua. Putting out her hand, cupping his cheek. Lukewarm. His lips, the faintest kiss of blue feathering the pink. And her heart climbing in her throat, a wave of terror rippling up her spine, clawing at the back of her skull, robbing her of breath, turning her bowels to water.

‘Joshua—’ Shaking his shoulder.

Then screaming for Ade. Screaming as she lifted him up.
Baby baby please wake up please wake up Mummy’s here wake up wake up Joshua
.

They wanted to take him, but it was too soon, she wasn’t ready. How could she ever be ready? With his soft blond hair and his tiny teeth, his eyes the same colour as hers. My babe. My boy. She could not relinquish him.

The other police officer, Gill, kept coming in, with tea, with offers of help. What help? Anyone she could ring?

The thought broke Janet’s heart afresh: her mum, her dad, her mates. All the people who loved Joshua. Who didn’t yet know …

Ade lay at the other side of the bed, the baby between them. He was caressing Joshua’s back, the tears dry on his face. He spoke occasionally, sounds more than words, groans of sorrow.

Gill came in again. They had to take Joshua’s feeding things from the kitchen, his bedding, to try and help them understand why he had died. Though usually there was no explanation. ‘We have to try our best,’ she said.

Did Janet cry? Hard to remember now.

Afterwards there were tears. A vale of tears, but then the shock and grief seemed too deep, any sobs buried under the weight of them, deep in the core of her.

They wanted to take him. Her arms pulled him close. Another night. Another day. A few more hours.

She would die herself, she would lie down and die. Or go mad. Already she could feel a tsunami of guilt and blame swelling. Ready to smash her sanity, the ability to function. Send her howling in the wilderness, pursued by demons.

They said that she and Ade should choose some clothes for him, change him. One last time. They needed to take his clothes. The clothes he was wearing. She cried then. Yes. She remembers that. Hot tears dripping on to the babygros and little outfits as they tried to choose.

When they took him it was as if they had torn her skin away, her skin and the soul of her. Leaving her raw and damaged.

Ade had held her all night long. The doctor had given them both something to take. But Janet had not wanted to sleep. Because sleep felt like an abandonment, a travesty. And if she slept she might forget. And wake up to fresh horror. And she feared her dreams.

They couldn’t account for his death. Janet and Ade had done everything right, kept the room at a reasonable temperature, not too hot, not too much bedding, baby on his back, though he was old enough to roll over by then, mattress passed all the required safety tests. Joshua had no infection, no hidden heart problems, no problems of any sort. He was a healthy baby. He was dead.

You can’t hurry grief. Janet learned that in the years afterwards. Grief took its own sweet time, broke all the rules, there was no template. People talked of stages and milestones, but they were just clumsy labels that dissolved as the white-water roared around her. There was no map taking you from A to B, it was a whirlpool and you went round and round, got lost for ever. The bereavement counsellor gave them one piece of advice that made some sense:
Whatever you feel, it’s all right for you to feel that. There is no right and wrong
.

Oh, and she felt so many things, in amongst those heavy numb days. Anger hot enough to melt iron, jealousy, fury. For weeks she could not see a child, a parent, without an urge to hide or hurt them. Repugnance, at herself, at her weakness. Guilt.

The damp spot at the back of his neck, the way he threw back his head when he chortled. He would never grow another tooth, learn a new word, or wear school uniform, play an instrument or marry or mess up and get hooked on drugs or fail his exams or have children of his own, apply for a job, learn to swim, watch the sunrise, emigrate and leave her missing him. He’d never say mama again.

Denise had stood over her child’s cot and tried to smother her. Janet had stood over her own child’s cot and tried to bring him back to life. And now she had to go in there and do her job, indifferent to any such irony and with all the empathy she could muster.

48

THE FINAL INTERVIEW
was a three-hour marathon with Janet teasing out every tiny little detail from Denise. All the stuff about how she’d got the bus down there and back, how she’d wrapped the knife in a tea towel and put it in a carrier bag to take home. How there had been a bit of blood on her coat sleeve so she had put it in the wash and it had come out fine. How she had known the door wouldn’t be locked, had just gone in and found Lisa in the living room. How Lisa’s robe had come apart when they were arguing and Denise had told her to cover herself up and Lisa had screamed at her to get out, to fuck off, she never wanted to see her again. How easily the knife slipped in. She only meant to frighten her into silence. How Lisa fell and Denise still held the knife. How Lisa had hit the edge of the coffee table, breaking one of the legs. Denise made no apology for blaming Sean for her daughter’s death. And even in the light of her own confession, seemed still to hold him accountable.

* * *

Rachel had gone with Janet to lay the charges. They’d done it! They’d got the bitch
. Her first murder case solved. She felt like going dancing and getting hammered. Even the spurt of frustration and anger she felt every time she thought of James Raleigh and what he’d done to Rosie Vaughan didn’t diminish the sense of victory in the Lisa Finn case. When they left the custody suite and got back to the office, there was a round of applause. Her Maj was grinning like a Cheshire cat. ‘Command are most impressed, as they should be.’ Andy popped a bottle of fizz, only enough for a thimbleful each, and then it was back to work.