Dead Man’s Daughter. Roz Watkins
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quick. It would be better than the agonising, nauseous decline that was probably in store for Gran, if we didn’t get her to Switzerland.
I dressed and breakfasted quickly in my freezing kitchen, Hamlet curling around my ankles and demanding three breakfasts before retreating to his ridiculously indulgent heated bed. Sleet battered the windows that never shut properly, and a small dribble of water had seeped inside and plopped onto the tiled floor.
I donned boots and my best coat, gave Hamlet a backward glance, wondered why I couldn’t be a cat, and opened the front door. A blast of sleety air whipped into the hallway, lifting unread bills and flipping the pages of books I’d left on the hall shelf. The weather was so bad, it was almost invigorating, allowing me to feel slightly heroic just by leaving the house. I stepped out and pulled the door firmly shut behind me.
*
Abbie looked even younger than her ten years, skinny in too- baggy clothes, dark shadows under huge eyes. We’d put her in our special interview room – made officially child-friendly through the presence of smaller chairs, a couple of pictures so completely lacking in content that no human could be upset by them, regardless of the traumas they’d suffered, and walls where the shade of puke-yellow had been toned down a notch.
Rachel had fought strenuously to attend the interview, but we couldn’t let her, in view of her suspicious behaviour. Instead we’d let Rachel’s mother sit in. She was Abbie’s only grandparent – a robust-looking woman named Patricia, coiffured to perfection and botoxed into a permanent look of horrified astonishment, which seemed quite appropriate for the circumstances. I was a little concerned about her, since there was a chance she was lying to protect Rachel. But I wanted it to be someone Abbie knew.
Craig was in the room with me, Jai watching again.
Abbie was just about holding it together, shaky but coping. She was sandwiched between her grandmother and a child protection officer from social services, who looked about twelve. I tried to put Abbie at ease and gently shift her focus to the day before, by talking about Elaine’s dog.
‘You shouldn’t let her near pets,’ Patricia said. ‘She could get an infection.’
‘I want Mum.’ Abbie called Rachel Mum even though she wasn’t her biological mother. ‘Why can’t Mum be here?’ I sensed she was in danger of completely falling apart. Understandably.
‘Your mum’s right outside,’ I said. ‘You can see her in a minute.’
Abbie turned to Patricia. ‘This lady was nice.’ She pointed a shaking finger at me. ‘The dog was nice.’ There was tension between Abbie and her grandmother. The air looked sliceable.
I smiled at Abbie, and said to Patricia, ‘I’m sorry. We didn’t know about not letting Abbie near pets. But the dog helped us get home safely.’
Patricia sniffed and looked over her reading glasses, down her long nose.
Craig set up the recording apparatus and we gently took Abbie through the questions to find out if she knew the difference between truth and lies. It seemed she did. It was a shame we couldn’t do the same with the solicitors.
‘Abbie,’ I said, ‘we need to have a chat with you about what happened yesterday. Is that okay?’
She chewed on a piece of hair and nodded slowly, her eyes damp with tears. She was sitting bolt upright with her arms tight to her ribs, as if she didn’t want to spread towards either of her companions.
I focused my attention softly on the whole room, rather than directly on Abbie. ‘Can you tell us what you remember?’
A tear crawled down Abbie’s cheek. The social worker reached into her pocket and passed her a tissue.
Abbie took the tissue and dragged it across her face. ‘I had a dream,’ she said. ‘It’s hard to remember.’
‘It’s okay. Take your time. Just tell us anything you can think of.’
‘There was blood everywhere. Then I was in the shower. And Mum dried my hair. Dad was . . . ’ She swallowed.
‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘There’s no hurry. You had a shower and your mum dried your hair?’
‘In my dream, I think?’ She said it as a question.
‘What else do you remember?’
She shook her head.
‘It’s okay. Do you remember waking up?’
‘I don’t know. Later, I woke up, I went to Mum and Dad’s room and . . . ’
Patricia popped up in her seat. ‘This is too much for her.’ She wrapped her arm around Abbie.
Abbie accepted the arm but didn’t seem to appreciate it. ‘And Dad . . . I couldn’t make him wake up. I got blood all on me. He wouldn’t wake up. I got scared and ran away.’ She gulped a single sob. ‘And you found me.’
‘Well done, Abbie. Well done for remembering.’
She gave me a tiny smile though her tears.
‘And the dream where you had a shower and your mum dried your hair – do you remember anything from before that?’
It was so vital not to lead, especially with children. You could easily implant false memories. I wanted to ask if she was sure this had been a dream, if she’d seen anyone else in the house, if she’d ever seen her dad with another woman, if her parents had fights, if she’d seen her mum slit her dad’s throat . . . But I had to keep my questions clean.
She swallowed. ‘Blood everywhere . . . I always have horrible dreams.’ She shrugged off her grandmother’s arm and blew her nose. ‘I’ve been screaming in the night. There’s something wrong with me.’
I looked into Abbie’s eyes. She had thick, dark lashes. ‘What do you mean, something wrong?’
‘I went to see a man to make me better, but I got scared.’
‘Who did you see?’
‘It was appalling,’ Patricia said. ‘They took her to a psychiatrist because of the night terrors, and he insisted on seeing her alone, and hypnotising her, and Rachel said she started screaming and screaming. It was terrible. I don’t know what he did to her.’
‘I got scared,’ Abbie said. ‘You won’t make me do it again, will you? Make me go to sleep like that?’
‘No. Don’t worry, you won’t have to do it again. Do you remember anything about why you got scared?’
I flicked a glance at Craig. He was tapping his fingers. Uh oh, I could do without him getting worked up. ‘Did the psychiatrist do something to you, Abbie?’ he said.
Abbie shook her head.
‘I don’t know . . . Yes . . . Daddy . . . ’ She stared behind us, as if she was looking at something we couldn’t see. She shook her head, and shrank back a little in her chair.
The social worker shifted forwards in her seat. ‘No more today.’
Abbie wiped her eyes. She was crying properly now. ‘It’s my heart,’ she said.
Patricia touched Abbie’s arm. ‘Come on now, Abbie, don’t get upset. They’re not going to ask you any more questions.’
I ignored Patricia and spoke gently. ‘What do you mean, Abbie? What about your heart?’
The social worker turned to Abbie. ‘It’s okay, you don’t need to say any more now.’ She gave me a hostile look.
Abbie let out a sob, and I felt a wrenching in my chest as if I wanted to cry too. Not a good move for a detective.
‘What do you mean about your heart?’ I said. Was this something to do with what Karen had said? Did Abbie believe her new heart had affected her too?
Abbie