Her mother was about to be charged with murder, they had been told by that black policeman. Three murders to be precise. Charlotte was going to her, whatever anybody said. Nothing made sense. She had to find out what was going on. And she was fed up with hiding away from the world.
Her wonderful family life had fallen apart with a vengeance, into a nightmare beyond her comprehension, but Charlotte was darned if she was going to hang her head. That was not how she had been brought up. She had done nothing to be ashamed of, and she still could not really believe that her mother had, either.
William, however, was behaving like a complete bastard in Charlotte’s opinion. She could not understand him at all. Of course the whole family was in shock, but William was being so bloody tight-lipped. Pompous, priggish — and ostrich-like as well, Charlotte reckoned. William had told his sister quite categorically that he wanted nothing to do with his mother ever again, and that all he desired in the world was to preserve Chalmpton Village Farm for future generations and restore normality to his family life.
Charlotte knew that in the village they all thought William was behaving wonderfully well. Even the dreadful Marcia Spry had remarked that morning — when she had just happened to be passing Charlotte’s cottage as the younger woman left, lurking there for hours on the off chance more likely, Charlotte reckoned — on William’s new-found maturity and sense of responsibility.
Charlotte did not see it quite like that. That lunchtime, just after learning the latest terrible news from DS Mellor, Charlotte had clashed angrily with her brother.
‘It’s obvious, Mother has had a complete breakdown because of father’s death,’ she told him, angrily. ‘None of these things can possibly be true of her. How can you stop believing in her the way you have?’
Her brother had not even bothered to answer.
Constance sat on the narrow bunk in her cell in the custody unit of Staple Hill Police Station. The solicitor whose services she had so reluctantly accepted had told her not to expect bail. Constance, after all, was to be charged with three murders. It was a foregone conclusion that she would be remanded in custody until her trial which would probably begin in around six months’ time. There was no women’s prison in Bristol so she could expect to be transferred to the Eastwood Park Remand Centre, twenty miles or so away, immediately after her court appearance.
Constance didn’t mind. It was strange that. She quite liked the seclusion of the small bare room in which she was currently confined. She had been shocked at first by the starkness of it, by the crudity of the lavatory without a seat in the corner and by the sight of the bars on the tiny window in one wall, too high even to see out of, by the severity of the narrow iron shelf, firmly attached to both floor and wall, which, covered only with a thin plastic mattress, served as her bed. Her initial reaction had been pretty much what you would expect from someone used to the creature comforts of life, who had never been in a police cell before. But almost from the moment the door was closed with a heavy clunk behind her and the metal viewing panel clamped shut, she felt more relief than anything else.
She had found her examination by the prison doctor humiliating, of course, when samples of her hair and body tissue had been removed for forensic investigation. She knew about DNA — deoxyribonucleic acid, the substance in the chromosomes of most organisms which stores genetic information. Didn’t everybody? But she doubted that much would be deduced from it in this case. There had been next to no body contact at all. She was as sure as she could possibly be. She’d told them about the boots and the gloves and, in any case, she doubted they would ever be found, after all she had thrown them into the sea along with the murder weapon. No, without her confession they would have nothing. But she had wanted to confess. And she did not regret it for an instant.
The routine of her life in custody already seemed almost comforting to her. The regular times for exercise, the carbolic soap in the wash room, the provision of dull, sometimes unidentifiable, food at regular intervals. At no stage was she required to think for herself. Except when she was being interviewed. And that would stop soon too, she had been told. Once she was charged the police would no longer have the right to question her so intensely whenever they felt like it. She relished that. She particularly didn’t want to have to talk to that woman detective inspector any more. That one asked the kind of questions which could get Constance tied up in knots if she wasn’t very careful. She didn’t want to have to be careful. She didn’t want to have to think about anything. After all, nothing mattered to her any more. It was a curious feeling. There was a vacuum inside her head. Her life was over, and that was about the only thought she had.
So when the custody officer — a tall thin-faced sergeant who gave the impression that he had seen it all before and was pretty damned bored with it too — came to tell her that her daughter had arrived to visit her, Constance had some difficulty even taking it in. In her own mind she had dismissed her family. She had decided that she should have nothing more to do with them, that they would be better off without her. That had been a major part of the reasoning behind her confession.
She refused to see Charlotte.
‘I don’t want any visitors,’ she told the sergeant. ‘I don’t want any contact with the outside world. That’s all over for me, now.’
Charlotte, who had only got as far as the police station’s front office, at first did not quite understand what the tall sergeant was saying to her.
‘It is your mother’s right, I’m afraid, Mrs Lawson. She does not have to see visitors unless she wishes too.’
‘But I have to see her. I have to know.’ Charlotte knew that she was shouting. She couldn’t help it.
‘I’m afraid there is nothing I can do, Mrs Lawson.’ The sergeant spoke patiently, but he sounded weary.
Charlotte began to plead. ‘Can’t you at least ask her again, tell her I must see her, tell her...’ Charlotte’s voice trailed away. A small woman wearing a smart blue trouser suit, her fluffy blonde hair forming a halo around a sharply intelligent face, had suddenly appeared between her and the sergeant, behaving almost as if she had not even noticed that Charlotte was standing there.
‘We need to see Constance Lange one more time before she goes to court, George,’ said the small blonde woman.
Before the policeman could respond Charlotte heard her own voice. The words came out in a kind of childish wail.
‘I’m her daughter, why should anyone else see her? I want my mother...’
The blonde woman turned to face her then, her eyes appraising.
‘You must be Charlotte,’ she said quietly. It was a statement, not a question. ‘I’m DCI Rose Piper.’ She held out her hand in greeting. Charlotte ignored it.
‘I don’t understand what is happening,’ she said. ‘Why is my mother being charged with these terrible crimes? Why? It’s just crazy.’
Rose Piper continued to study her carefully.
‘Your mother has confessed to murder...’
Charlotte interrupted her. ‘My mother shouldn’t be here, she shouldn’t be locked up with criminals...’ She was almost screaming now.
Rose Piper’s voice remained quiet and well-modulated when she spoke again.
‘Your mother has confessed to murder, Charlotte. We have no choice but to charge her. There can be no alternative.’
‘Why won’t she see me?’
The detective Chief Inspector placed one hand lightly on Charlotte’s arm.
‘I’m sure she will soon,’ she said, and her voice really was surprisingly gentle. ‘Give her time. And give yourself time. Go home. Get some rest. Take it day by day.’