“There,” the doctor said. “How’s that?” Without waiting for an answer, she began to thrust scissors and dressings away with an impatient manner that said she had more important things to do.
I put an experimental hand to my eyebrow. It was stinging and throbbing at the same time under its antiseptic wodge of dressing.
“Next time, don’t buy a used helmet,” said the doctor curtly. She checked her watch, tutted and left the room without a goodbye. I heard her voice out in the corridor.
“…shock with a possibility of concussion. Keep an eye on her. Any drowsiness, faintness or vomiting, take her into Kendal A and E.”
Inspector Larry Irlam’s fruity voice mumbled at her indecipherably. Hers rose in answer.
“I’m not a police doctor, for Christ’s sake! I’ve got a long list of visits to do yet, and now I’ll be late for all of them. If you want a theory about what hit her on the head, get one of your own people to do it.” The door squealed. It needed oiling.
Hunter came in and took my fingerprints without telling me why, his long, competent left hand placing my fingers on the scanner while his right hand, at the controls, said I have no fingerprints. I am not a criminal, like you. Thank you, said Hunter formally.
Inspector Irlam came in after him. Happy Larry; only he wasn’t now. His well-fed jowls had a discontented droop instead of the usual grin. Didn’t want a death on his patch, I thought a little fuzzily.
“You’re all right, are you?” said Larry. “Feeling better?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Good. We’ll want to talk to you about recent events. You’ll need a lawyer.”
“A lawyer? Why?”
“You’ve got some explaining to do. I’m sure that, with your past experience, you know a lawyer or two. Otherwise we can arrange for one. You may also ring a member of your family. Or friend.” He sounded as if he didn’t think I had any. “WPC Curry will help you make any necessary calls.”
He and Hunter left. Fiona brought me a phone to ring my mother. It was as bad as that first call, almost two years ago, which had nearly killed me: the worst moment, bar one, of my whole fraudulent career. Since Fiona had warned me not to mention Isaac’s name, and I could barely bring myself to speak of his death, I struggled to explain why I was at the police station awaiting questioning. I thought I would have to repeat everything three times, as I had on that earlier occasion, to try and make her understand.
But she was unsurprised. Resigned. That was worse than anything: that she thought so poorly of me now, expected so little.
“Morally bankrupt,” the judge had called me at the trial. I’d been indignant. Who had I hurt? Nobody. I’d added to several people’s pleasure by providing them with a nice painting. The edge of a slippery slope, the judge said. A slippery slope to what, exactly? Biting the heads off jelly babies? I’d stopped listening.
My mum evidently thought I was well down that slope now. Without a murmur of sympathy she told me she’d get hold of a lawyer. She rang off.
I sat and looked at the table, until Fiona brought a cup of tea for me to look at. After a while I put my head down on the table next to it.
“Wake up,” said Fiona sharply. I decided that maybe I should pretend to fall asleep and then they would have to cart me off to A and E and clean white sheets, where I could be told that Isaac’s death was a delusion, a hallucination.
But it wouldn’t change anything. I was definitely delirious, though. I kept seeing the bull’s large, soulful eye. I felt sick and draped myself across the bin, but nothing came up. No saving trip to A and E.
Eventually a lawyer appeared: one I’d never met, young and suave and confident.
“So what’s this all about?”
I just looked at him. When Larry Irlam and Hunter came back in, the lawyer began to tell them that I was too concussed to be interviewed.
“I’m not. I’m fine,” I said.
“Are you sure?” said Hunter.
“I want to do it now,” I said. My mother was presumably paying for this lawyer, and I didn’t want to cost her any more than necessary. Anyway, I thought confusedly, if I seemed confused it could be put down to concussion. It would be a good excuse.
I just didn’t know what for. I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t like the way that Hunter didn’t smile, didn’t nod, just sat down in the corner and crossed his legs.
“You are under arrest for suspected theft,” said Larry, “for now. Other charges may follow.” He switched a recorder on and read me my rights off a piece of A4 card in a fast, angry rattle of words, before thrusting the card impatiently aside.
“Theft?” I said.
“We’ll come to that,” said Larry. “Tell us exactly what happened this morning.”
I had already tried to blurt out my account to Hunter, before he shut me up. Now I went through it all again.
“My client is concussed. She’s not well enough for this now,” said my lawyer.
“Yes, I am. What theft?”
Larry laid Selena’s birth certificate on the table in front of me. “Why was this in your coat pocket?”
I looked at Hunter’s inscrutable face. It did not help me. I couldn’t think of an acceptable answer. Now I wanted to plead sickness, and thought of falling limply off my chair: but it was too late.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Larry pushed a plastic bag across the table at me. Inside it were some banknotes and a screwed up tube of mints. “These were also in your pocket. Are they yours?”
“Yes. I got sixty pounds out of the bank this morning.”
“Did you get that bang on the head there too?”
“What? I fell off my scooter.”
“So you told us. Exactly what time did you say that was?” Larry seemed to have turned into someone else entirely. It was scary.
“A bit before twelve, I think.” I described what I could of my accident and the angry driver. It sounded like a child’s invention.
“My client is concussed,” said the lawyer.
Larry ignored him. “Did you exchange names and addresses?”
“No. I was too shaken up.”
“Numberplate?”
I shook my head. Hunter leaned forward.
“The man in the pickup who stopped to intervene: did you exchange any details with him?”
“No. I was fine. I mean I thought I was fine. I mean I didn’t want any fuss.”
“So you got back on your scooter and continued to Staithwaite’s farm.”
“After a while. And I walked the scooter,” I said. “I didn’t ride it.”
Larry said, “Then it’s strange that you were seen riding the scooter up the farm track.”
“I just rode the last bit. Who told you that?”
“What time was it when you arrived at the farm?”
“I don’t know.” I remembered looking at my watch. Where had the hands been? Flying round the moon, for all I knew.
“Please describe to us again exactly your movements upon your arrival at the farm,” said Larry sternly, as if it was an exam question and I was a failing student. He wasn’t enjoying himself.
Neither was I. There were too many images: too many feelings. I didn’t want to look at them or feel them again. I didn’t want any of it to be real. Isaac wasn’t dead: he couldn’t be. Ruby had made a mistake.
I tried to get things in the right order. Larry kept asking me to go back, to repeat myself. I must have been speaking too quietly, trying to turn the leaves of memory without quite touching them. I didn’t mention going into the parlour, let alone opening the dresser drawers. I described how I’d looked in on the calves, heard the bull, seen the cap on the ground…
It was a hard tale to tell. Neither of them made it easier. They didn’t say a word, just sat and listened to me filling the silence with my helplessness.
“Why didn’t you move the bull into the next stall?” asked Larry.
“I didn’t know you could.” It sounded like a
feeble answer, even to me.
“So you left Isaac there.”
“I tried to get him out.”
“But you failed.”
“I… had to sit down. I felt ill. My head hurt.” It was hurting again now. I put up a hand and touched the huge soft bump of dressing.
“Did you ring for help?”
“I couldn’t find my phone until Ruby got there.”
“We’ve talked to Ruby,” Hunter said.
“She was extremely helpful,” Larry said. “Unlike some people.”
“She said your phone was in your pocket,” added Hunter.
“Along with a birth certificate that doesn’t belong to you,” said Larry irritably.
“I don’t remember.” I didn’t want to remember. I wanted to somehow undo the whole day, unzip it and turn it inside out and start again.
Larry was staring at me with furious distaste. “Why did you go into the farmhouse first?”
“I told you. The door wasn’t shut, so I went into the kitchen to see if there was anyone there.”
“Had you been into the farmhouse on any previous occasion?”
“Only the kitchen. Sergeant Brigg was there.”
“Tell us again exactly where you went this time,” said Hunter, his voice very level.
“Into the kitchen.”
“Nowhere else?”
I was about to shake my head when I caught Hunter’s steely eye. I said, “I think I went through to the parlour. I don’t remember properly. I think I called hallo.”
“Did you touch anything in there?”
I hesitated again. “I put my hand on the dresser. I felt faint. I had to steady myself.”
“You steadied yourself with your hands inside the drawers?” said Larry. The contempt in his voice knocked me back. “Your fingerprints are all over the drawers, inside and out. Is that where you found the certificate and the money?”
“My client is concussed,” said the lawyer, sounding less confident than before.
“The money’s mine,” I said. “I told you. You can check with the bank.”
“But you did open the drawers?”
“I must have,” I said. I’d gone all hoarse. “I don’t remember. But I didn’t take anything.”
Hunter said, “How did Isaac get his bang on the head?” His voice was expressionless. I didn’t like this.
“I don’t know! What bang?”
“The heavy blow to the top of his head.”
“Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?” commented Larry. “Two people with head injuries, same day, same time. What did you hit him with? Was there a struggle? Did he go down straight away? No, he had time to hit you back.”
Interrogation didn’t suit Larry. He sat back looking fed up.
The lawyer said, “Those are leading questions. I advise you not to answer them, Miss Herron.”
Hunter said, more quietly,
“Eden. Did you hit Isaac for any reason?”
“No,” I said. “I found him there. I didn’t hit him. And he didn’t hit me. The bull kicked me.”
“What about this?” Larry pushed over the crumpled painting, in a clear plastic wallet. I looked at it. Under the smears of mud, it was indisputably mine, with the scribbled signature and the glue spots on the back. Coniston Old Man. Not one of my best.
“I did that weeks ago,” I said. “It was for a card.”
“And what was it doing in the farmyard?”
“I suppose Isaac must have bought it,” I said, with a pang. Maybe he had really liked my work enough to seek it out.
“And then he threw it away, did he?” said Larry. “Thought it was rubbish, did he? How did that make you feel?”
“He didn’t,” I said.
“Or perhaps there was a different reason. Perhaps you made a pass at him, and he didn’t care for it? You were keen on Isaac. But you didn’t like being turned down, did you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I managed to say. “He was already dead. I didn’t get any chance to even talk to him.”
“Or to offer him a mint? Those mints were all over the place. The same sort as were in your pocket. You passed them round at Ruby’s house only three days ago. You turned up to paint Isaac, you offered him a sweet, you got out your portfolio, and then what happened?”
“Nothing!”
“My client is concussed,” the lawyer said.
“This interview is concluded,” said Larry. He switched off the recorder and pushed his chair back with an angry scrape. “You will shortly be taken to Kendal police station where you will be held for a further period. A detective chief inspector will review possible charges. I’d say it could be manslaughter at the very least.”
He stamped out. Hunter got up to follow.
“Hunter?” I said. He turned at the door and looked at me. My lawyer was checking his phone.
I swallowed, not daring to say Birth Certificate. “I was trying to put it back.”
“Then tell him so,” said Hunter, and he was gone.
Soon after that I was led out to a van and driven to a cell at Kendal. There I lay on a plastic mattress like a giant gym mat, and tried to fill my head with colours: attempting to overlay the picture in my head that would not be overlaid, the chaotic brown and red.
Someone brought me a microwaved shepherd’s pie, which I couldn’t eat. After a while I tried to sleep. It was as bad as my first night in jail, when I hadn’t slept at all.
I lay awake reliving that endless night; and remembered how next day I’d been taken aside by one of the prison officers, who sat me down and told me the routines, gave me some advice. I hadn’t been there long enough to know how rare such kindness was.
“The important thing,” she counselled, “is not to lose sight of who you are. Keep hold of who you are.” I nodded, storing the advice away. Only later, when I took the words out to look at them again, did I realise they were useless. I had no idea of who or what I was. I was a fake. A counterfeit. A shadow on the wall.
If I had no idea then, I had even less now. Either I, or the world, or maybe both, had turned to fog. I was slipping from my own grasp. I must have slept, eventually, because I had a dream in which I was trampling all over Isaac in boots that didn’t fit. I awoke suddenly to cold toast and a message from a constable, saying the DI would be seeing me about midday.
I didn’t have to wait that long. At eleven I was ushered into an identikit interview room, same grey breezeblock as at Ambleside, with the same scratched desk, a clone of the one Hunter and Larry had sat behind: and there was Hunter, or a clone of him, neat and fresh-shaven and as self-satisfied as the cat with the cream. He told me I was free to go.
“Go where?” I said stupidly.
“Go home,” said Hunter. “The DI doesn’t need a further interview. Your accident has been verified. The man in the pickup reported the other driver to Barrow station last night. He took her number.”
“Did he?”
“We checked her out and she admits she was there and saw you come off your bike. She doesn’t admit any fault. We’ve notified your lawyer. Do you want to press charges?”
“No.” I looked at him blankly. “That’s it, then?”
“And as far as Isaac’s death is concerned, you’re in the clear. The pathologist says he died well before you got there. He was dead by noon.”
“Are you sure?”
“The pathologist is sure,” said Hunter, “because quite apart from the body temperature, Isaac’s watch had stopped. The bull stood on it at ten to twelve, just as you fell off your scooter. You couldn’t have got there before twenty to one. Your friendly witness drove back on his return trip half an hour after your accident and saw you pushing the bike along. He actually pulled up and watched you for a few minutes to make sure you were all right.”
“That was nice of him.”
“Extraordinarily. I wish everyone was that public-spirited.” Hunter looked positively jaunty. I felt like a zombie with a hangover.
“What about the birth certificate?” I said.
“Well, I had to spin Larry a yarn about that. I said Isaac had lent it you because he was worried about its authenticity, and he’d asked you to bring it in to the station to show me. I said your concussion must have made you forget.”
“And Larry believed you?”
“I had the photocopy to back your story up. He agreed that the birth certificate needs checking out. He had a moan about me not mentioning it, but I told him I didn’t want to put words into your mouth. I was waiting to see what you would say. That bit was true at least.”
“Thank you,” I muttered. Lying wouldn’t have come easily to Hunter: it must have been a wrench. I wasn’t sure why he’d done it for me. Especially considering all the other stuff he must have told Larry – about me being keen on Isaac, for a start.
Hunter shrugged. “Larry wasn’t difficult to convince, especially once the bank confirmed the cash was yours. He was relieved, if anything. He’d rather it was just an accident. Larry likes his solutions simple. Do you want a lift back to Ambleside?”
I didn’t. Now that I could leave, I wanted to stay in the shelter of the cell. I didn’t want to go out into the big bleak world where Isaac had just died. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure how else I would get home.
In the police car I felt conspicuous. Everyone seemed to be staring in at me: that’s her, the fraud, the convict. I bet she did it, whatever it was.
“You all right?” said Hunter. “Head still hurting?”
“Not much. What exactly – what exactly happened to Isaac?”
“Death was due to massive internal injuries. A bull can weigh well over a ton. The rest’s still under investigation, but he probably just slipped. It happens.” He glanced at me. “Sorry.”
“You should be,” I said bitterly. “You thought I’d done him in. You told Larry that I might have made a pass at him. How could you think that? How could you think I’d hurt him?”
“Whoa! That wasn’t me.”
“Well, who was it, then?”
“Larry had to consider every possibility,” was all he said.
So Isaac had just slipped. Bad luck, bad timing. My head was aching again. I tossed it restlessly against the car seat. “I should have been there. Why was there nobody else there? Where were Bryony and Selena?”
“Bryony was at the doctor’s surgery. Selena was shopping in Keswick, apparently.”
“That’s a long way to go.”
“She likes the shops there better than the ones this end. Apparently.”
“If I’d only got there on time,” I said, “or if they’d only been at home, Isaac might not have died. We could have got him out. Or he might not have gone into the bull’s shed at all.”
I could hardly bear to think about it: Isaac’s cry as he fell, perhaps knocking himself out – I hoped so: because otherwise it would have meant the terrible panic, the failed attempts to get up from under those heavy trampling hooves, the stench and pain and fear and finally, blackness.
Although I didn’t want to, I made myself look at the scene again. The whining dogs in the yard. The scatter of mints like pale pebbles. Who had left those? Hansel and Gretel? And that sheet of paper on the ground.
“That painting,” I said. “Where did that painting come from?”
“It was one of yours,” said Hunter patiently.
“I know it was. But I didn’t bring it.”
“You probably left it behind last time.”
“No, I didn’t. It was torn out of a card – you could see the glue still on the corners.”
“Are you sure?” said Hunter.
“Positive. You have a look.”
“I will.” He was silent for a moment. “So maybe Isaac bought it.”
“Maybe,” I said doubtfully. I remembered those four cards sold in Tiggywinkles: none of Coniston Old Man. And Freddie had sold five cards, but surely none to Isaac, or he would have mentioned it. Wouldn’t he?
“I’ll bear it in mind,” said Hunter. The traffic was worsening as we neared Ambleside, slowing to its usual crawl.
“Drop me off at the corner.” I didn’t want the Pattinsons to see me arrive in a police car.
“You’re still living in the same place?”
“For now. I’ve got to move before Easter.” But where to? Ruby’s? That dreadful tableau in the farmyard replayed itself: her furious, horrified face; my useless fumbling with the phone. She blamed me. I saw her accusation as she picked up that discarded painting. How had it inserted itself there, in that scene? It didn’t fit. A tight, black band of foreboding constricted round my head.
“Don’t move without telling us,” said Hunter. “We may need to have another talk.” He pulled the door closed after me, and drove away.
Chapter Thirteen