tell me. I don’t want anything else to batter our family.
‘I didn’t tell the police about it because I was too scared.’
‘Tell me,’ I say to her.
She shakes her head, breathless sobs falling from her lips. ‘Please don’t be cross with me. Please don’t shout at me. Please don’t hate me.’
‘I won’t,’ I reply. ‘Whatever it is, just tell me, Phoebe.’
And she does.
‘Are you going to tell the police?’ she asks afterwards.
‘I think I have to,’ I say. My mouth is dry, my mind is racing to so many different places and thoughts and decisions all at once, I can’t keep up. I can’t hold a single thought in my head for too longbecause another dashes into its place. Air keeps snagging itself on the way in and out of my lungs so I haven’t taken a proper breath since my daughter started to speak, and my heart is running cold with the knowledge of who it was that killed my husband. And why.
I have to tell the police this, of course I do.
‘Please don’t, Mum.’
‘But, Phoebe—’
‘Please don’t, Mum. Please. Please. Please.’ Her twelve-year-old body, nestled on my lap, shakes with fretful sobs. ‘Please. Please. Please. I’m scared. I’m really scared.’
‘Phoebe, we can’t—’
‘Please, Mum. I’m really sorry, but please, don’t.’
‘Shhh, shhhhh,’ I say, rocking her, trying to hush her. This isn’t fair. None of this is fair. ‘Let’s not talk about it now. It’ll be OK, I’ll make it all OK.’
10 weeks after
That Day
(January, 2012)
‘Do you know if your husband ever used prostitutes?’
I stare at the he one who is my FLO for long, uncertain seconds, then rise from my seat and go to shut the living room door. The children don’t need to hear this. No one needs to hear this, but certainly not Phoebe and Zane.
‘No, he didn’t,’ I reply. I stand behind the door, needing the solidity of the wood to keep me upright. My body is simultaneously hot and cold, I’m trembling. What is he about to tell me? Is he going to take Joel away from me all over again?
The FLO sits back in his seat, looks uncomfortable. He lowers his voice, makes it soothing and caring. ‘It’s just there were long blonde hairs found on his clothing from the time of his death, but no way of knowing who they belong to because they didn’t have the bulb at the end with the DNA.’ His tone doesn’t fit with what he is saying – he sounds concerned while he is being accusatory.
‘Why immediately assume prostitutes? Why not an affair or afemale friend or colleague, why straight to a prostitute? Why would you try and hurt me like that?’
‘I’m sorry if this has upset you, but we do have to follow all lines of enquiry.’
‘He’d had sex just before he’d died, then?’ I ask. The cold-hot-cold feeling siphons itself from my heart to my feet, from my feet to my head and back to my heart.
‘No.’
‘You found out that he’d likely kissed someone?’
‘No.’
‘Someone had gone down on him?’ I am desperate to understand why this man would say this to me if there was nothing more than blonde hairs on his clothing.
‘No.’
‘He’d had a shower right before he died, meaning he was maybe trying to hide something?’
‘No.’
I am suddenly aware of every muscle in my body, I am aware of them tensing, contracting, adrenalin pumping through like drivers on a Formula One circuit.
I say nothing, so he does: ‘You just mentioned an affair, do you think your husband might have been seeing someone else?’
‘No. I was just … You know what I meant. And, anyway, wouldn’t his phone records tell you if he was calling one number more than any other?’
‘Men who have affairs or have some other kind of secret life involving drugs, prostitutes, gangs and the like often have more than one phone.’
‘Do they? I wouldn’t know.’
‘It wouldn’t be entirely surprising if you had no idea what your husband was up to. We thought we’d ask in
‘I didn’t tell the police about it because I was too scared.’
‘Tell me,’ I say to her.
She shakes her head, breathless sobs falling from her lips. ‘Please don’t be cross with me. Please don’t shout at me. Please don’t hate me.’
‘I won’t,’ I reply. ‘Whatever it is, just tell me, Phoebe.’
And she does.
‘Are you going to tell the police?’ she asks afterwards.
‘I think I have to,’ I say. My mouth is dry, my mind is racing to so many different places and thoughts and decisions all at once, I can’t keep up. I can’t hold a single thought in my head for too longbecause another dashes into its place. Air keeps snagging itself on the way in and out of my lungs so I haven’t taken a proper breath since my daughter started to speak, and my heart is running cold with the knowledge of who it was that killed my husband. And why.
I have to tell the police this, of course I do.
‘Please don’t, Mum.’
‘But, Phoebe—’
‘Please don’t, Mum. Please. Please. Please.’ Her twelve-year-old body, nestled on my lap, shakes with fretful sobs. ‘Please. Please. Please. I’m scared. I’m really scared.’
‘Phoebe, we can’t—’
‘Please, Mum. I’m really sorry, but please, don’t.’
‘Shhh, shhhhh,’ I say, rocking her, trying to hush her. This isn’t fair. None of this is fair. ‘Let’s not talk about it now. It’ll be OK, I’ll make it all OK.’
10 weeks after
That Day
(January, 2012)
‘Do you know if your husband ever used prostitutes?’
I stare at the he one who is my FLO for long, uncertain seconds, then rise from my seat and go to shut the living room door. The children don’t need to hear this. No one needs to hear this, but certainly not Phoebe and Zane.
‘No, he didn’t,’ I reply. I stand behind the door, needing the solidity of the wood to keep me upright. My body is simultaneously hot and cold, I’m trembling. What is he about to tell me? Is he going to take Joel away from me all over again?
The FLO sits back in his seat, looks uncomfortable. He lowers his voice, makes it soothing and caring. ‘It’s just there were long blonde hairs found on his clothing from the time of his death, but no way of knowing who they belong to because they didn’t have the bulb at the end with the DNA.’ His tone doesn’t fit with what he is saying – he sounds concerned while he is being accusatory.
‘Why immediately assume prostitutes? Why not an affair or afemale friend or colleague, why straight to a prostitute? Why would you try and hurt me like that?’
‘I’m sorry if this has upset you, but we do have to follow all lines of enquiry.’
‘He’d had sex just before he’d died, then?’ I ask. The cold-hot-cold feeling siphons itself from my heart to my feet, from my feet to my head and back to my heart.
‘No.’
‘You found out that he’d likely kissed someone?’
‘No.’
‘Someone had gone down on him?’ I am desperate to understand why this man would say this to me if there was nothing more than blonde hairs on his clothing.
‘No.’
‘He’d had a shower right before he died, meaning he was maybe trying to hide something?’
‘No.’
I am suddenly aware of every muscle in my body, I am aware of them tensing, contracting, adrenalin pumping through like drivers on a Formula One circuit.
I say nothing, so he does: ‘You just mentioned an affair, do you think your husband might have been seeing someone else?’
‘No. I was just … You know what I meant. And, anyway, wouldn’t his phone records tell you if he was calling one number more than any other?’
‘Men who have affairs or have some other kind of secret life involving drugs, prostitutes, gangs and the like often have more than one phone.’
‘Do they? I wouldn’t know.’
‘It wouldn’t be entirely surprising if you had no idea what your husband was up to. We thought we’d ask in
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