Just What Kind of Mother Are You? (25 page)

‘You know she did. We’ve been through this – how many times is it? I’ve lost track.’

‘Where were you last night?’

‘At home.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’

‘Where were you this morning when Mrs Kallisto found your wife unconscious?’

‘I was out.’

‘Where?’

‘It’s not relevant.’

Joanne tilts her head. ‘I think it is.’

‘Do I have to answer?’

‘No, but—’

‘Then I won’t.’

‘Mr Riverty. Let me explain again. At the moment, you are not under arrest. But that can change right this minute if you decide not to cooperate with this inquiry. It’s up to you. Now, if it were me, I’d save myself a lot of trouble, not to mention bad press, by answering the questions I put to you.’

‘To arrest me, you have to charge me.
With what
are you planning to charge me, Detective?’

‘We can hold you here without charge. You are aware of that?’

He stares at her, unfazed. ‘I am. And if that’s the course of action you wish to take, then you had better make arrangements for my son. Because he’ll be expecting someone to be there to pick him up from school.’

Joanne’s face doesn’t register his attempt to make things difficult for her. He’s appealing to her maternal side, not a common tack taken by suspects, but one that’s used all the same.

Most people become plain abusive when being questioned. Joanne’s used to it. Expects it. She’s been called all manner of things. The worst of it often coming from the mouths of
women. Women you wouldn’t think could generate such hatred towards another woman.

Nothing surprises Joanne any more. In this job, you deal with the dregs of society. Same families, same faces, same problems, again and again. None of it touches her. At least, that’s what she tries to convey.

Joanne replaces the cap on her pen and straightens her spine. ‘It remains your responsibility to make arrangements for your son to be collected from school, Mr Riverty. Would you like to take a moment to make a phone call?’ She pauses, waits for an answer. When none is forthcoming, she adds, ‘I could do with a coffee, actually, so perhaps now would be a good time to break.’

Still he doesn’t speak, just narrows his eyes slightly in an attempt to mask his annoyance with her.

Joanne pushes the desk phone towards him and stands. ‘Take as long as you need,’ she says. ‘No need to rush now that we’ve got plenty of time. I’ll go and get myself a crappy coffee.’ Spoken as if an afterthought, she says, ‘Oh, you might want to contact your solicitor while you’re at it – kill two birds with one stone—’

She gathers up the paperwork, exchanges glances with DC Cunningham and heads out into the corridor, almost walking slap bang into Cynthia Spence. Cynthia is a member of the civvie staff brought in to take the pressure off CID. She’s expolice and takes on some of the routine interviews for Cumbria Constabulary.

Joanne’s worked with Cynthia on a number of occasions. She’s good at what she does.

Cynthia asks, nodding her head towards Guy Riverty, ‘He talking yet?’

Joanne steps away from the thin rectangle of fire-resistant glass in the door, out of Guy Riverty’s line of sight. ‘Being cagey,’ she says. ‘Refusing to tell me everything.’

‘Are you leaving him to stew for a bit?’

‘Learned my best tricks from you, Cynth.’

Cynthia takes a quick look at Guy. ‘Give him at least half an hour in there on his own.’

‘That long?’

‘He’s twitching madly already. I’m guessing he’s not the type who’s used to waiting. He’s
certainly
not the type to put his head down on the desk and pretend to sleep – I’ve had a run of those lately. Let him wait for long enough and he’ll give you what you’re after.’

There’s a burst of laughter from the end of the hallway, and Joanne and Cynthia turn to see two young women from admin draping tinsel around the door frame to their office. One is halfway up a stepladder, laughing so hard she has her hand lodged between her legs. The other is twirling Christmas baubles around as if they’re attached to her nipples. Cynthia shakes her head at them good-naturedly and tells Joanne they’ll catch up later.

After grabbing a coffee, Joanne takes a minute to stop by Ron Quigley’s desk, just to check if there have been any developments in her absence.

Ron’s on the phone, looking harried. He holds his palm up so Joanne doesn’t interrupt him but motions for her to stay where she is. Something’s happened. Something big. Ron’s taking down an address and nodding as he receives instructions.

‘So what time was it?’ he’s asking. ‘Yeah, yeah … I understand. I’ll get round there now, straight away.’

He makes a circling action with his index finger, signalling that he’s almost finished with the call. Ron Quigley does not get this animated easily and Joanne feels a flutter of excitement mixed with an impending dread. Developments at this stage are rarely good. She’s hoping another child hasn’t vanished, one, because, obviously, that would be shit. But two, she’d have no choice but to let Guy Riverty go, because this time his alibi
was definitely watertight: he was being interviewed by her.

Ron ends the call and tears off the piece of paper on which he was writing from the pad.

He takes a long inhalation before speaking. ‘Girl number three’s turned up. Same deal. Dumped in Bowness, no idea where she is, thinks she’s been raped. Probably more than once. She’s not in a good way.’ His jaw is tight as he speaks. Spitting the last words out is difficult for him.

‘So what’s happened to girl number two?’ Joanne asks. ‘What about Lucinda Riverty? If girls one and three are back, then where is
she
?’

‘Big fat mystery, that,’ Ron says grimly. ‘There’s a meeting with the DI in five minutes, might shed some light on it.’

‘And, in the meantime, what do I do with Guy Riverty?’

‘Is he still in the interview room?’

Joanne nods.

‘What’s he said about where he was this morning?’

‘Told me it wasn’t relevant to our investigation.’

‘Not relevant?’ Ron angles his head slightly to the side. ‘Make the fucker wait, then.’

32

I
PARK IN THE PUBLIC
Pay & Display.

Opposite, they’re unloading a stretcher from the air ambulance. I stay in the car for a moment.

When patient and crew are safely inside, I make my way towards the hospital building, wondering whether Kate has regained consciousness, wondering whether she can even recollect taking the pills. I’ve heard stories of people unable to remember, people who wake and are genuinely shocked to learn they tried to take their own life. Will that be the case with Kate?

The sun has melted the ice in patches. It’s now possible to walk in some places without breaking your neck. Or perhaps not, I think, reflecting on the stretcher taken from the air ambulance.

I decide against fully trusting the ground and take tiny, even steps, my arms stuck out to the side, ready for a fall. The car park’s been gritted but it’s a haphazard attempt. There are great, bare sections devoid of grip, sections where you have to hope for the best.

I heard on the radio on my way to the infirmary that the emergency services are stretched to the limit after the freezing rain of yesterday. I consoled myself with the knowledge that, had I found Kate any later, the paramedics might not have got to her in time.

Although I suppose if I’d found her any later, she’d be dead regardless.

I’m outside the main doors, and there’s a throng of people. Some are in dressing gowns and slippers, having a smoke. There’s a teenager on crutches craning his neck in the direction of the main gates, perhaps waiting for a lift.

Some poor sod in his early fifties is conducting a survey. With his clipboard raised, he’s trying to put a brave face on things, but looks as if he’s losing the will. He has the haunted appearance of the newly unemployed.

The automatic double doors open as I approach, and I head over to the main reception desk. A plump lady glances up from her work. ‘Yes, love?’ she says pleasantly. She has thick darts-player forearms and steel-grey, curly hair that’s been cropped close to her head.

‘I’m looking for Mrs Kate Riverty. She was brought in this morning.’

The receptionist begins typing and turns her head to view the screen, which is placed at an angle. ‘Ah, yes, she’s just been moved to a general ward.’

‘Is that a good thing?’ I ask, nervously. Scared that Kate’s condition has deteriorated.

‘Usually means they’re on the mend,’ she says matter-of-factly, before pointing over my shoulder. ‘You want to go back out through those doors, the way you came in, cross the car park … try not to break any bones … and go on over to that brown building. You want ward four. It’s on the second floor.’

‘Thanks,’ I tell her, and head over there.

Ward four has six beds. All occupied.

I see Alexa sitting by the side of Kate’s bed at the far end of the room and my stomach lurches. I shiver, and a cold sweat springs up in my armpits. Alexa looks at me as I enter but doesn’t alter her expression. Her face is set.

Kate is sleeping – or else still unconscious. She has a drip in her right wrist and she’s dressed in a white hospital gown. It gives her the look of a psychiatric patient. Or maybe that’s just because everyone else on the ward is dressed in their own night-clothes, and she’s a little out of place.

‘How’s she doing?’ I whisper, and Alexa looks away. She’s not yet decided whether she’s going to speak to me or not.

Then she hisses, ‘Did you have to come?’, and I say, yes, of course I had to come. I found her.

This seems to soften her a bit. I can see her thawing marginally as she thinks through the situation –
what if she hadn’t found her
 …

She speaks without looking at me. ‘Physically,’ she says, ‘they say she should recover quite quickly. The pills weren’t in her system long enough to do any real damage. As for psychologically, well, obviously, we’ll have to wait and see about that.’

Alexa’s tone is as cold as it’s possible for a person to be. She’s spitting out her words and it’s clear that, even without the added complication of me having slept with her husband, because of Lucinda’s disappearance, she’s holding me fully responsible for what Kate’s done to herself. If I hadn’t actually found Kate, saved her, Alexa would throw me out of here right this second.

I fetch a chair from the stack over in the corner and sit down next to Alexa. She shuffles over, put out. I sense she doesn’t want to talk about what’s happened, so I turn my attention to Kate.

Her wispy blonde hair is fanning out on the pillow, giving her an ethereal quality, the skin on her forehead is a milky-blue, as if she’s been smeared with an emollient. I find it hard to look at her. Dropping my gaze slightly, I notice her lips. They’re thin. They seem not to be her own. There’s a trace of black charcoal in the corner creases, which has the effect of turning her mouth downwards.

‘Has she spoken yet?’

Alexa shakes her head. ‘Opened her eyes a couple of times, but that’s it. They’ve told me she’s going to be sleepy for a good while, so not to panic if she doesn’t communicate.’

‘Poor Kate,’ I say, and all at once feel unbearably sad about the whole thing. I’d driven here on automatic pilot. Too dazed about the news of Guy’s arrest really to plan what I’d say to Kate even if she was awake. I say a silent prayer and give thanks for small mercies, grateful she’s still out of it.

Alexa folds shut the magazine she’s been reading –
Vanity Fair –
then takes a hanky from her handbag and dabs underneath her lower lashes. Her mascara is as neat as when first applied, not like last night.

‘When did you last talk to her?’ Alexa asks me.

‘I spoke to Guy last night, but I’m not sure when I—’ I pause. When
did
I last talk to Kate? Suddenly I can’t even remember what day it is.

‘What day is it?’ I ask Alexa, and she looks at me as if I’m losing my mind. ‘I’ve lost track,’ I explain. ‘A lot’s happened.’

‘Thursday,’ she mutters.

‘Sorry, everything’s just got a bit jumbled.’

We sit in silence for a few minutes, Alexa stroking Kate’s hand a couple of times. Then I lean in towards Alexa, dropping my voice. ‘Are you going to tell her about Guy when she wakes, or do you think it would be best not to mention it right now?’

She gives me a sharp look. ‘What about Guy? I tried ringing him, but he’s not picking up.’

My eyes widen involuntarily. ‘He’s been arrested,’ I mouth. I sit back and bite my lip, not quite sure what to think. Why hasn’t he rung her? Why hasn’t he at least let someone know where he is?

Alexa turns in her seat. ‘Dear God,’ she says. ‘Arrested for what?’

I shrug, embarrassed. ‘I’m not really sure.’

She stares straight ahead, but I can see her mind is electric. The pulse in her temple is racing and that vein on her forehead has risen up; it’s like an earthworm beneath her skin. After an awkward silence she pushes her chair back and stands.

‘I have to make a telephone call. Will you stay with Kate?’

I nod.

‘Don’t leave her,’ she warns.

‘’Course not.’

Visibly shaken, Alexa grabs her handbag. ‘I’ll try not to be long,’ she says, striding away. Her heels click across hard resin flooring, her flat, shapeless Mum-bum barely swaying in her designer jeans. When she disappears through the ward entrance I exhale.

What a mess.

I can’t imagine what Alexa must be feeling.

Your sister takes an overdose, naturally you are frantic with worry but at the same time relieved beyond measure that she didn’t actually succeed. You’re also filled with questions as to her motivation.

I imagine Alexa had concluded – as had I, at first – that Kate couldn’t cope with the news of the third girl gone missing. Her disappearance brought with it the near-certainty that Lucinda was not coming back. People have killed themselves for a lot less.

Now she has to process the news that Kate had possibly tried killing herself because she’d stumbled upon something that links Guy to the missing girls.