Author: Amanda Robson
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/amanda-robson/page,11,560635-my_darling.html
My heart sang. ‘Yes please.’
He pulled a small box from his pocket, opened it and thrust it towards me. A ring with two almond-shaped diamonds glimmered inside it. He took the ring out of the box and slipped it onto my finger. It fitted perfectly.
‘It’s wonderful, thank you,’ I said as my lips melted into his.
On top of the Eye. On top of the world.
77
Jade
I open the door. DS Miranda Jupiter is standing in front of me, almost smiling. She looks like the Mona Lisa. A younger officer is beside her. A man in his twenties I have not seen before. He has cut himself shaving. He has a spot on his cheek.
‘Do you mind if we come in?’ she asks.
‘Of course not.’ I try to stretch my lips into a smile, but my skin feels tight.
I step back from the door and my visitors enter. They push past me a little roughly. I shut the door and turn to face them.
‘You are under arrest on suspicion of murdering your husband Tomas. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence,’ DS Miranda Jupiter spouts.
I stand watching her, mouth open in shock. I panic inside. What has happened? It was all sewn up.
‘But what are you talking about? You know I didn’t do this.’
‘New evidence has come to light, so we are arresting you and taking you to the police station.’
‘What new evidence?’
‘I’ll explain at the station.’
‘I can’t come to the station without my meds.’
Her body stiffens. ‘What meds?’
‘Diazepam, aripiprazole and paroxetine. I can’t manage without them.’
‘OK. Tell me where they are and PC Browning will get them.’
‘In the bathroom cabinet, where do you think?’
PC Browning, the boy with the spot, disappears upstairs.
‘We’ll take you to the station and get an appropriate adult to help you,’ Miranda Jupiter continues. ‘A doctor will assess you.’
The young policeman bundles me into the waiting police car. He scrapes my leg on the car door as he pushes me in. Miranda Jupiter is driving. She presses a button on her central control to lock the car doors. She turns the ignition and we set off. She even drives haughtily, with her proud head held high. I am trembling and scared.
‘What’s happening?’ I ask.
‘We’ve arrested you, Jade, and we’re taking you to the police station to make a statement. If we have enough evidence we will charge you.’
‘You won’t manage that.’
‘Our case against you is pretty solid,’ she says as we wait at the lights.
I wriggle away from Spot and kick the back of her seat. She presses her talons on the steering wheel and the siren wails. We jump the lights. The car skids into the police station car park, like a scene in a TV car chase.
Frogmarched between them, I am rushed into the police station and thrown into a cell. The door locks behind me. I am in a cell with a barred window. A holding cell, just a bench to sit on, no other facilities. The grid in the door opens and Miranda’s voice floats towards me.
‘We’ll send a psychiatrist to assess you and an appropriate adult to assist you. Do you have a family member who could act as an appropriate adult?’
‘No.’
‘Would you like us to find someone?’
I don’t reply. I sit on the bench, put my head back and scream.
The cell door opens. Two women enter. A tall, thin, elderly woman with grey hair and a short, dumpy blonde with a neat face. The door locks behind them.
‘Hello Jade,’ the tall thin one with grey hair says.
They stand in front of me.
‘I’m the psychiatrist here to assess you. To make sure you get the medicine you need. My name is Penny.’
‘And I’m Constance, your appropriate adult,’ the dumpy one says.
They stand in front of me like holograms, not people I can relate to. The short dumpy one stares at me wide-eyed, until her eyelids droop and she blinks. ‘I’m here to represent you, to make sure you are treated fairly.’
‘Well, if I was being treated fairly I wouldn’t be here.’
‘Not necessarily. That depends on what you’ve done.’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t understand why I need you.’
‘DS Jupiter infers from the medicine you are on that you must have mental health issues – so you need help to make sure you get all the treatment and understanding that you require.’
Pushing back tears. ‘I just need to go home,’ I whimper. ‘I always feel all right at home.’
‘We need to talk to you Jade,’ Penny starts up in the sycophantic, syrupy tone that some therapists use. Hands held together in front of her stomach, lips simmering into a ‘look at me, I’m kind’ smile. ‘We want to ring the guards and get you taken to an interview room where you will be more comfortable.’ Voice silky smooth. ‘Is that OK?’ she continues.
‘It’s not OK. Nothing is OK.’
‘So you’d rather talk here?’
I know the routine. Give two bad choices, second one worse, so the difficult child acquiesces to the first. ‘That is not what I said.’
They exchange glances.
Penny pulls a pad and pen out of her pocket. ‘I’ve checked your medical records.’
‘You’re breaching my legal confidentiality,’ I shout. ‘I never signed anything to allow you to look at my medical history.’
Calm. Kind. Smarmy. Body relaxed, head slightly tilted. ‘That’s not correct. I’m a doctor assigned to treat you. Unless you specifically signed a form denying use of your data I’m allowed to look at it. And I need to, to help you.’
‘I do not want your help,’ I yell, as I stand up, heart pumping fast, blood pounding against my eardrums.
Constance presses a button on a cord around her neck. The cell door opens. Two guards run in and hold me back.
I feel flattened. As if all my energy has been punched out of me. There’s a knock on the door. It opens slowly. Miranda Jupiter and her sidekick. Walking towards me in tandem; feet in unison. She puts her head on one side. Mouth in a line. Time passes. And somewhere in the distance of my mind her words contort.
‘I am charging you with murdering your husband, Tomas Covington, and with attempting to pervert the course of justice by creating false evidence.’
Charged with murdering you. Don’t these people understand it was your behaviour that was killing me? Not me that was killing you. Don’t they understand I love you? I had to kill you for your own good, and mine.
Memories
On top of the world. Rotating in the London Eye. Admiring the broad sweep of the tree-lined river. The motherly dome of St Paul’s dominated now by a plethora of modern buildings. The Shard, the Gherkin, the Leadenhall. The sleek modernity of Canary Wharf. Cleopatra’s Needle. Alexandra Palace and its radio mast. Down we moved, almost imperceptibly. Seeing the fragile beauty of the Houses of Parliament, and Big Ben. The wedding-cake magnificence of the old M16 building. Nelson’s Column. Buckingham Palace. The Post Office Tower. Park after park of green.
We emerged at the bottom, looked at the photograph taken and laughed as we decided not to buy it. We walked hand in hand to Skylon and ordered a bottle of Krug to celebrate our engagement.
‘Come on,’ I said, a little tipsy as we finished the bottle. ‘Let’s go to my parents’ house and tell them.’
Colin’s dark eyes turned to flint. ‘I don’t want to. Let’s keep this evening special. Let’s keep it to ourselves.’
‘Let’s get it over with. Colin, please.’
An hour later, having stopped at the off-licence to buy another bottle of Champagne, we arrived at 17 Downton Road, East Finchley.
Mother answered the door in her denim apron, looking paler than ever. Her face lit up as soon as she saw me. She p
ulled her body against mine and held me.
‘Come in,’ she almost squeaked. ‘It’s so fantastic to see you, isn’t it, Terry?’
My father appeared in the hallway, hovering behind her. Wearing green corduroy trousers, a checked shirt and a frown.
‘Always a pleasure to see my favourite daughter,’ he said, voice gruff.
‘Your only daughter,’ I replied with a hollow laugh.
We followed my parents into the small living room of their 1930s semi which seemed to shrink every time I visited.
‘What can we get you to drink?’ Mother asked.
‘We’ve come to tell you we’ve just got engaged so I think Champagne is in order,’ Colin announced, handing my father the chilled bottle of bubbles.
I stretched my left hand out to show off my pretty almond-shaped diamonds.
‘Congratulations,’ Mother said, with her mouth, but not her eyes.
‘We didn’t know. You didn’t ask my permission.’
‘I thought that was a little dated, old chap,’ Colin said, patting my father on his back.
My father stiffened and pulled away from Colin. He handed the Krug to my mother. ‘Come on Sally. Get this opened. Find the glasses.’
‘Emma, come with me,’ Mother said. ‘I need a little help with the Champers.’
I followed her into her tidy kitchen. Neatly lined plants on the windowsill. A cookbook open ready on a stand on the shiny counter top. She placed the bottle on the table and stretched up to a cupboard above the sink to pull out four Champagne flutes. Flutes in hand, she stood staring at me.
‘It’s all a bit quick. Are you sure about this?’
‘Yes. Of course I’m sure.’
‘Colin’s a Leo, isn’t he?’
I nodded.
‘Do be careful. Leos can be so controlling.’
And my stomach tightened. How could she be critical of Colin when she tolerated my father? Could she see something I couldn’t? Or was she just scared of men?
78
Emma
Two guards are approaching: a man and a woman. The woman is thin and pointy. Sharp nose. Skinny arms. Darts for elbows. Long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. The man, who has a much softer face, is going grey around his temples. They stand in front of the plastic dining table. The man places his arms on the table in front of me and leans towards me.
‘Guvnor wants to see you,’ he announces.
‘Now?’ I ask.
‘Yes, if you can tear yourself away from your food.’
‘Of course.’
‘Come with us,’ the sharp, pointy one instructs, with a toss of her ponytail.
I abandon my egg and chips, and follow them across the canteen. Eyeballs slide towards us as we leave.. Into the corridor that looks like a giant metal pipe, decorated with white paint spread like butter over rust. White paint flaking like dandruff. Flaking dandruff and rust. We push through gate after gate. Opened with their keys, automatically locking behind us. The corridor twists and turns into a section of the prison I have never seen before. It looks like school offices. It has an open area with low chairs and big windows, blue carpets and homely child-like artwork. The female guard knocks on the prison governor’s office door.
‘Come in.’
She opens the door and puts her head around it. ‘Emma Stockton for you.’
‘Fine, fine, send her in.’
The guard opens the door and gesticulates for me to enter. Heart in my mouth, I step towards the prison governor, Fiona Perry-Jones, who is sitting behind her desk, looking at me over the top of half-moon glasses. Her iron-grey hair is cut into a statuesque bob. Something about her tailored black trouser suit and white polo-neck jumper make her look like a female version of James Bond. Elegance and simplicity.
‘Do sit down,’ she says.
I accept her invitation and sit in the armchair in front of her desk.
‘Good news. You’re being released.’
I jump up from the chair, excitement pulsing through me like electricity, smiling from cheek to cheek. It is all I can do to stop myself being inappropriate and hugging her.
‘Fantastic. That’s amazing news. Thanks. What changed things?’
‘New DNA analysis.’
Alastair came good at last.
Released. A whirlwind of activity. I am escorted back to my cell and allowed to hurriedly collect my belongings, putting them in a clear plastic bag with a hole in the corner. Not that I had much. A few clothes. A pad. A pen. A few toiletries. Back along the rusty corridor to the holding area. The area I passed through when I came in. Forms to fill in. The possessions they took off me when I came in to prison are here for me to collect. My jewellery. My phone and charger. My handbag. My credit cards. I sit on a sofa and one of the volunteer inmates brings me a cup of tea. My hand shakes as I drink. What if this is a dream? What if I wake up in a few minutes in my cell and it isn’t real?
But it is real. They let me out through the front gate to wait for my taxi. Wind caresses my face. I breathe deeply and drink the air. It tastes sweet. It tastes of trees and flowers and rain.
My taxi arrives. A young man, with a shaved head and a tattoo of a snake on his neck, is driving.
‘Wotcha,’ he says.
‘Wotcha,’ I reply.
‘What’s a nice girl like you doing coming out of a place like that?’
I smile at him. ‘What makes you think I’m nice?’
I get into the back of his Prius. Smooth FM is playing. He drives. The world moves around me. Colourful. Explosive. I want to dance. I want to sing. I want to hold you, Alastair, and thank you. Is it safe? Can I text you? No. I must just wait for you to arrive at my house under cover of darkness. My stomach knots in anticipation. I can’t wait to get home.
79
Jade
The psychiatrist, Penny, is back with two prison guards. Slowly, slowly she walks towards me, flanked by her entourage.
‘I am sectioning you, under the Mental Health Act 1983, as I and one other doctor have certified that we consider you to be a danger to yourself,’ Penny says. ‘You’ll be transferred to the psychiatric unit at the local hospital,’ she continues.
Hospital? Prison? The hospital seems like a prison to me.
Magistrates’ Court. Waiting in a cell with a seat. No bed. No windows. Into a court. People talking. People listening. No one listening to me.
Crown Court. Somebody talking. Making up lies about me. Saying I killed you Tomas, when you killed me first. When I loved you. And I miss you. When really they know that Emma did it.
Closed doors and windows. No way out. The nurse is here, making sure I take my tablets, handing them to me with a cup of water and watching me swallow. Satisfied, she bustles to puff up my pillow and pads away, closing the door behind her.
80
Emma
Twilight glows orange over the river as I cross the bridge in a taxi. I see the familiar shapes of the houses along the bank of the river, the willow trees, the boathouses.
‘Nice area, love,’ the driver mutters.
‘It’s good to be back.’
‘How long were you in for?’
‘Three months.’
‘Not too long then.’
‘It felt like an eternity.’
Left at the pub, past Jade’s house, into my drive. I pay him and stagger out of the back of the car, grabbing my handbag and my plastic bag. His Prius glides silently away.
I fumble for my keys and turn the lock. Into the hallway. Hearing the background throb of the burglar alarm. Pressing the code to switch it off.
And Casper is here, pushing his head against my feet, purring like a lawn tractor. Andrea brought him back home to welcome me. Not her; just the cat. After so long incarcerated I need peace and privacy. I lift him up and hold his warm body against me. I press his fur against my face. A living, breathing cuddly toy, soft and pliable in my hands. Nothing aloof about him; totally unlike any moggy I have had. Not just a cat. I expect
he became vital evidence. The reason Jade couldn’t shaft me. I’m longing to hear all about it from you, Alastair.
I carry Casper into my living kitchen and put him down gently. The luxury of my shiny kitchen unfolds in front of me. Soft oak. Glittering granite. Cream sofas. A fifty-inch TV. Floor-to-ceiling windows so that I look out into the garden with a view so clear, I feel as if I could reach out and touch my plants and bushes. I have loved gardening ever since my unhappy days with Colin. I never have much time for it now that I have my own practice.
I reach for the letter on the table that Andrea has left for me. I sit and read it. It makes me smile. Updates on the surgery. The locum. How she has managed. Good girl. She will get a big pay rise.
So long since I drank alcohol, I pull a bottle of Fleurie from the cupboard. Casper tangles his body around my ankles, as I open the wine and pour myself the largest of glasses.
I snap on the sound system. ‘Take Five’ by Dave Brubeck slices into the room, every instrument so clear it sounds as if the musicians are playing live. I kick off my shoes, sink into the sofa, Casper on top of me. The music pierces me. I drink as twilight bleeds into darkness. When I’m surrounded by the solidity of the night I press a button to close the blinds. Waiting for you to arrive, Alastair.
81
Alastair
I take you in my arms and hold you, so tight. I want to engulf you. I could stay like this forever, feeling your heat, drinking the aroma of your body. But you pull away.
‘Come to the sitting room. I’ve opened some wine.’
I follow you, watching the willowy grace of your figure as you walk. A bottle of Fleurie on the coffee table, a half-full glass and an empty one waiting for me. You pour me a glass. ‘You knew I was coming?’
‘I hoped.’
We sink together onto the sofa.
‘Are you pleased to be home?’ I ask.
Your eyes shine. Your face creases into a smile. ‘You bet.’ You lean across, pull me into your arms, and kiss me. You taste of heat and wine. Desire spills through me. ‘Thank you for my freedom,’ you whisper. ‘No words can explain how grateful I am.’