Murmurs of ‘Yes, Sarge.’
‘Right. Simmons and Anjali, you start at the back; Grover, you’re with me.’
* * *
Adam Fawley
22 October
13.45
‘How are you feeling now, Mrs Swann?’
She’s staring resolutely out of the window, even though the only thing visible is grey sky. And I know she saw us arrive. There’s just the one chair by the bed, and Baxter gets the short straw.
She still hasn’t acknowledged my presence, so I pull my warrant card from my jacket. I don’t usually bother doing routine interviews like this, but after what Ev said at the meeting I decided pulling rank may actually haul something out of this woman. And then Quinn called when I was on the way here and told me we have a witness. A witness who actually saw Richard Swann after the shooting. That’s a line of questioning his lady wife won’t be expecting.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Adam Fawley,’ I say. ‘I’m the Senior Investigating Officer on this case. This is my colleague DC Andrew Baxter.’
She looks across, sniffs, and turns away again. Baxter didn’t even merit a glance.
I drag the chair out, making as much noise as possible and earning myself a disapproving tut from one of the nurses.
‘Your doctor said you were well enough to speak to me, so I’m hoping you’ll be able to give us some more details about what happened last night.’
‘Where’s my husband?’
‘He’s being interviewed by my colleague. He has a lawyer with him.’
She lifts her chin and looks away. ‘He’s done nothing wrong.’
I nod to Baxter, who gets out his notebook.
‘So perhaps you could tell me your version of what happened?’
Maybe I put a little too much emphasis on ‘version’ because she gives me a sour look.
‘We were upstairs. I was reading and Richard was watching television. We heard a noise downstairs, and Richard went down.’
‘Do you know where the gun was at that time?’
‘I have no idea. Presumably in the safe. He is always extremely careful about that.’
‘I see. So he goes downstairs, then what?’
‘I heard him shout something, and then a shot. I’ve already told that woman all of this.’
I try my most charming smile, the one that gets Alex giving me side-eye. ‘I really do appreciate your help.’
Another sigh. ‘Yes, I heard the shot.’
A silence. A silence I’m perfectly comfortable with. I’m not so sure about her.
She stares at me now. ‘Well?’
‘What did you do then?’
She frowns. ‘What do you mean?’
I shrug. ‘Did you go downstairs? Call the police, what?’
She gives me a withering look. ‘You know perfectly well that I didn’t call the police.’
‘But you did go downstairs.’
‘No, I went to the head of the stairs. I was concerned about Richard.’
‘But you told my officer that you put your husband’s pyjamas in the wash – you must have gone downstairs at some stage.’
‘That was later.’
‘So you went into the kitchen at that point – you saw the man?’
‘No,’ she says firmly, ‘I did not. For your information, the washing machine is in the scullery.’
I do my best not to smile. The rest of the world has a utility room; Margaret Swann has a scullery. It’s like something out of Downton Abbey.
‘So you never saw the man – you have no idea who it might have been?’
‘As I told that woman, we don’t make a habit of fraternizing with that sort of person.’
‘And while you were doing the washing, what was your husband doing?’
She frowns again. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Was he with you, in the sitting room, upstairs?’
‘Oh, I see. He got changed upstairs and came back down.’
‘And then?’
‘And then what?’
‘Did he stay in the house?’
She reaches for the water jug beside her bed and pours herself a glass. Her hand is shaking slightly. I sense Baxter stir behind me, but he says nothing.
‘Mrs Swann? I’m asking if your husband went outside at all before the police officers arrived. It’s a straightforward question.’
But I don’t get an answer. In fact, I don’t get anything at all. She calls to the nurse, says she’s feeling ‘unwell’, and we’re summarily ejected.
I turn to Baxter as we make our way down the corridor. ‘What was that all about – with the water?’
He gives a wry smile. ‘I was just wondering what was really in the jug.’
I glance across. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning I just got a text from Ev. Apparently the old buzzard has a jug like that by her bed at home, only that one’s neat gin.’
I nod slowly, wondering whether it’s significant or just a red herring. Though it might, at least, account for all those hospital admissions. I make a mental note to chase up on Margaret Swann’s medical records.
I leave Baxter in the lobby, telling him I’m going to visit Somer, and though he offers to come with me he looks relieved when I say it’s best I do this alone.
It takes me ten minutes to find the right ward, time I don’t really have, but I’d feel bad coming here and not seeing her. And it’s not just that: Gis took me aside as I was leaving the station.
‘Can you look in on Somer while you’re at the JR, boss? Ev’s worried about her. I don’t think she’s doing so well.’
I doubt I would be either, in her position. She hasn’t told me what’s wrong with her – not officially – but she’s in an Oncology ward. Enough said.
I give my name at the nurses’ station, and they point me in the right direction, but when I round the corner I see there’s someone with her. I’ve only met him once but I recognize him. Giles something. A DI with Hants.
I check my pace and turn. I don’t want to intrude, and I can’t see my presence adding anything useful. Not now.
The last thing I see as I turn the corner is Somer’s face. She’s smiling. Not the broad smile of real joy, but a smile all the same.
* * *
Margaret Swann does her best to conceal her irritation with the nurse. She was useful enough when it came to repelling those tiresome police officers but now it’s all fuss, fuss, fuss. No, she doesn’t have the pain any more; no, she doesn’t need a drink of water; no, she doesn’t want the nurse to ‘pop across’ and get the doctor. This place, it’s all ‘popping’ this and ‘slipping’ that. As if the patients are all halfwits. It drives her mad.
She flaps her hand at the nurse, who finally gets the message and goes away. Margaret turns over and puts her back to the rest of the ward. Those stupid policemen with their supercilious smiles and ponderous heavy hints, they clearly think she really is a halfwit. But that sort of nonsense she can handle. Richard – now that’s another matter. She’s still worried about what he might say. Not deliberately, no, he wouldn’t do that: he’s good at keeping secrets. They both are; they’ve had a lot of practice. But there are things he doesn’t know, things he might hint at without even realizing. She purses her lips. She’d been in two minds whether to tell him all those weeks ago, but she told herself it was nothing: they’d been so careful, no one could possibly have found them. It was just a mistake – a random coincidence. She wishes now that she’d checked, that she’d made sure, but in the moment she’d acted without thinking, out of instinct and from bitter lessons learned too welclass="underline" the only way to survive this is to turn your back. Walk away. And she’d been vindicated – or so she thought – because there’d been nothing after that. No follow-up. No repetition.