‘She wants us to go ahead and bring Linda back first for questioning.’
‘Has her solicitor showed up yet?’ asked Peterson.
‘Yeah, I just saw him in reception. He doesn’t look happy, being pulled in at this ungodly hour.’
‘Oh well, it will all be over by nine,’ said PC Singh, coming up and going to grab the last coffee.
‘Sorry. I need that one,’ snapped Moss. ‘Go and get one from the machine.’
‘That was a bit harsh,’ said Peterson, when Singh had walked off.
‘She made it sound like we’re just clock-watching until nine am . . . Like it’s a formality.’
‘Isn’t it?’ asked Peterson, awkwardly.
‘No,’ said Moss, pointedly. ‘Now listen, the boss has had an idea . . .’
72
Linda’s bedroom was small and gloomy. A sash window with a deep cushioned window seat overlooked the garden, and from above Erika could see that the lawn was still dotted with a few patches of dirty snow. A heavy dark wardrobe stood beside the window. The door creaked as Erika opened it. On one side hung a selection of dark voluminous skirts; next to these was a block of crisply ironed white blouses, some with lacework on the collar; and the rest of the wardrobe was taken up by a huge selection of cat jumpers, all thick and heavy. At the bottom of the wardrobe was a jumble of court shoes, some sensible sandals, a pair of powder-blue running shoes, a dusty pair of ice skates, and a pink Thighmaster.
A single bed with a dark wood frame was tucked in the corner against the back wall, and above its curved wooden headboard was a thick metal crucifix. A line of toy cats sat guard on the neatly made patchwork bedspread. They were arranged in descending height order. Their Disney-esque eyes looked heartbreakingly optimistic amongst the sad gloom. Erika paused for a moment to consider that Linda had made her bed and arranged the cats before she was hauled into a police car.
On the bedside table was a small, Tiffany-style lamp, and a little curved plastic box containing a clear plastic bite guard. There was also a small picture in a frame taken a few years back, of Linda sitting on a swing chair in the garden with a beautiful black cat on her lap. It had white fur on its paws. Erika picked up the frame and turned it over, unhooking the metal clasps and pulling off the cardboard backing. On the back of the photo, in a neat hand was written:
My darling boy, Boots, and me.
Erika held onto the photo as she carried on looking around. An old-fashioned secretary desk in matching dark wood was against the wall at the end of the bed. It was filled with pens and a girly stationery set. A large square in the dust showed where the police had removed Linda’s laptop. A dressing table between the window and the secretary desk held the bare minimum of make-up, a large pot of E45 cream and a bag of cotton wool balls. A brush lay on its side, and strands of Linda’s mousy hair caught the light from the window. Beside the door was a large bookcase crammed with novels by Jackie Collins and Judith Krantz, and scores of historical romance novels. There were a couple of photos from the family holidays in Croatia, Portugal, and Slovakia – mainly of Linda and Andrea with various stray cats – and there was a photo of Linda standing at the base of a cliff with a large tanned guy with dirty blond hair. Linda wore climbing gear and a red plastic hard hat. She was grinning so hard that the chinstrap cut into her shiny tanned face. There was nothing written on the back of the photo.
On the wall beside the door was a large pinboard with a photo collage. The photos were pinned overlapping and were all of Boots, the beautiful black cat with the white paws: Linda sat astride a bike with a wicker basket where Boots perched on a blanket; Linda on a swing in the garden with Boots on her lap; Andrea and Linda eating breakfast in the kitchen, Boots sprawled on his back across the middle of the breakfast bar holding a piece of toast in his white paws. Linda and Andrea’s heads were thrown back laughing. There was a picture of Boots on Simon’s desk, lounging on a pile of paperwork. Despite him being in the middle of something, he had allowed Linda to take a photo of his work being disrupted. Erika began to remove the pins and take away the photos. In several of the photos, where they overlapped, a figure had either been cut out, or the end of the photo had been snipped off unevenly. Scanning the photos of family gatherings, Erika realised who the missing person was.
73
Linda looked drained when Peterson entered the interview room. Her hair was tousled, and she didn’t look like she’d got much sleep in her cell. The solicitor finished polishing his glasses and put them back on.
‘Here, I got you a coffee, Linda,’ said Peterson, sitting opposite and pushing the takeaway cup towards her. The solicitor saw Peterson had a coffee of his own, and looked annoyed that he hadn’t been included.
Peterson tilted up his cup to the light. ‘Look, they never get it right; I said my name was Peterson. They’ve written “Peter Son”.’
Linda stared at him for a moment, and then reached out for her cup and checked the side.
‘They got my name right,’ she said. She turned the cup and her face broke into a smile. ‘Oh, and they drew a little cat! Look!’ She twisted the cup round so Peterson could see.
‘I thought you’d like that.’ Peterson grinned.
Linda’s eyes narrowed. ‘I see what you’re doing,’ she said. She sat back and pushed the cup away. ‘I’m not that easy.’
‘I never thought you were,’ said Peterson. He read out his name and the time and the interview tape started recording.
‘Linda, you said yesterday you didn’t have a cat.’
‘No. I don’t,’ she said, cautiously sipping at her coffee.
‘Did you?’
‘Yes, I did,’ she said softly. ‘His name was Boots.’
‘Boots?’
‘Yes, he was black, but he had four white paws, like he was wearing boots . . .’
The minutes ticked by, and Linda became quite animated, talking about Boots. She was just telling Peterson about how Boots used to sleep under the covers with her, with his head on her pillow, when the solicitor interrupted.
‘Look, DI Peterson, what has this got to do with your investigation?’
‘I’m talking about my cat, thank you very much,’ Linda snapped back.
‘I’m working for you here, Miss Douglas-Brown . . .’
‘Yes, you are, and I’m talking about my fucking cat, okay?’
‘Yes, very well,’ said the solicitor.
Linda turned back from the solicitor to Peterson. ‘I’m sick of people who think cats are just pets. They’re not. They’re such intelligent, beautiful creatures . . .’
Back in the observation room, Moss and Crane were watching. ‘Keep her talking about Boots,’ said Moss into a microphone. Inside the interview room her voice came quietly through the earpiece Peterson wore.
‘Did Boots have a middle name? I had a dog called Barnaby Clive,’ said Peterson.
‘No. He was Boots Douglas-Brown; that was quite enough. I wish I had a middle name, or even a nicer name than just boring old Linda.’
‘I dunno; I like the name Linda,’ said Peterson.
‘But Boots is so much more exotic . . .’
‘And, what happened to Boots? I take it she’s not still with us?’ asked Peterson.
‘He, Boots was a HE. . . And no. He’s not with us,’ said Linda. She gripped the edge of the desk.
‘Are you okay? Is this upsetting to talk about how Boots died?’ pressed Peterson.
‘Of course it was upsetting. He DIED!’ shouted Linda.
There was a silence.
‘Okay, this is good, Peterson, keep on at her. We’re breaking her down,’ said Moss, in his ear.