Destroy Me by Karen Cole (read people like a book TXT) 📗

There’s a short silence. ‘What makes you think Charlotte was killed in the early hours of the morning?’

Shit. I don’t want her to know I’ve been talking to the residents of Cecily House. ‘Well, wasn’t she?’ I say lamely.

‘I can’t disclose that information, Catherine,’ she says tartly. She gives a loud, angry sigh. ‘And you really just need to let us get on with our work.’

‘Well, the fact that you’re so interested in the time Luke was with me from eleven o’clock onwards suggests that Charlie was killed after that,’ I retort testily. ‘And by the way, have you talked to him again yet? You know that he’s lying, don’t you?’

‘Er, no, actually. I know nothing of the sort.’ Littlewood sounds annoyed, her usual icy calm cracking a little. ‘This has nothing to do with Luke. There’s something else – something we’d like you to take a look at. Something that has come to light.’

‘Oh?’ My gut clenches uneasily.

‘We’ve received a new piece of evidence and we’d like to discuss it with you. Could you come to the station today?’

‘What time?’

‘As soon as you can get here. Let’s say in about half an hour?’

What am I supposed to say? I can’t exactly refuse, can I? It’s a Friday and Theo is picking up Dylan from school so I can’t even use him as an excuse.

‘Okay.’ I agree wearily and then add, with a short, explosive burst of anger, ‘But I’m getting sick and tired of this whole thing. You need to do your job properly. Find the real killer. None of this has anything to do with me.’

DI Littlewood doesn’t respond. ‘Right then,’ she says in a tight, deliberately calm voice. ‘See you soon.’

Why the hell did I snap at Littlewood? I berate myself as I walk into town. I need to keep her on my side – if she ever was on my side, which is doubtful. And what is the new evidence she was talking about? It’s got to be good for me, right? I didn’t kill Charlie and I wasn’t anywhere near Cecily House on the night she died, so any new evidence should point to someone else. But then why do the police want to discuss it with me? My thoughts spiral and my stomach churns with anxiety until I reach the police station and push open the blue painted doors.

I’m shown to the same interview room as before. And DI Littlewood and another male officer, not Sergeant Fisher, are sitting chatting. They stop abruptly when they see me and DI Littlewood addresses me gravely.

‘Take a seat please, Catherine.’

‘I’m sorry about earlier,’ I say. ‘I’m sure you’re doing your best. I’m just under a lot of stress right now, that’s all.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ says Littlewood coolly. ‘Sit down.’

I hesitate in the doorway, fighting the urge to turn tail and run. Everything is so formal and serious. I hadn’t expected this, and I can’t help feeling ambushed.

‘What’s going on?’ I blurt. ‘Am I under arrest? Do I need a lawyer?’

DI Littlewood smiles soothingly. ‘You’re not under arrest and we’re not charging you with anything, but of course you have the right to speak to a lawyer if you want.’

I step into the room and perch on the only empty chair gingerly. It’s slightly wobbly and it crosses my mind that they’ve given me an unstable chair deliberately to unsettle me. ‘No, it’s okay,’ I say airily. If I’m not guilty why would I need a lawyer? It will just make me look suspicious if I started demanding representation now.

‘Good. Then we’re okay to proceed?’

I nod and DI Littlewood presses record on the tape recorder on the table.

‘I’d like to show you something, Catherine and for you to tell us if it means anything to you.’ She speaks loudly and clearly into the recorder. ‘For the record, I’m showing Catherine Bayntun photograph 16A.’

She pushes a clear plastic envelope with a photograph inside across the table to me and I peer at it without touching it, my hands clasped in my lap. It shows a picture of an old stone country house next to a river. Next to it is what was once a stable, converted into a garage with large, dirty white doors and a gravel driveway. It seems faintly familiar, but that’s probably because it looks like hundreds of other houses in this part of the world.

‘Um, I don’t think so,’ I say cautiously. Under the table my leg is jiggling out of control. I feel as though I’m falling into a trap, but I don’t know what the trap is. ‘Why, what is it?’ I ask.

‘Look again. Carefully. Are you sure you don’t recognise it?’ Littlewood laces her fingers together under her chin and regards me in that unnervingly icy-cool way she has.

‘Um . . .’ I’m thinking rapidly, glancing at the picture again, and I flush because now I realise that I do know it, and it’s going to look as if I was lying if I admit that.

‘Now I come to think of it, I’ve been there before,’ I say cautiously. ‘It’s in South Baunton, right? It’s the house of a girl I was at school with. I don’t know if her family still lives there – Vanessa Price, she was called.’

‘A family called Carter lives there now. Do you know them?’

I shake my head.

Littlewood leans forward. ‘You said you attended the same school as Charlotte Holbrooke. Did she know this Vanessa Price too?’

‘Yes, she knew Nessa, she was our classmate.’

I didn’t know Nessa very well, but she was always near the top of the class, always ambitious. I expect she’s in some high-flying job in London by now. I can’t imagine her sticking around here in this backwater for long.

‘So, when did you go to this house?’ asks the other police officer, introducing himself as DI Clarke. He leans forward and his impassive brown eyes bore into me as if he can see through to my lying core.