Rachel,’ I said. ‘How are you?’
She shrugged. Her look said, I’m socially conditioned to say I’m fine but I’m quite clearly not.
‘We found the bag,’ I said.
Rachel jerked back an inch, as if she’d been hit. She took a sharp in-breath.
I held out some photographs. ‘Could you confirm if these are your clothes, and Abbie’s nightdress. And if you recognise the knife. We’ve sent them for analysis, but it would speed things up if you’d just tell us what you know.’
She licked her lips and said nothing. I contemplated all the blood on the nightdress, hoping she’d say That’s not Abbie’s nightdress and I’ve never seen that knife before. She didn’t. She leant back in her seat and sat very still, staring at an ugly standard lamp that squatted on the far side of the room. Even though she was shocked and upset, she looked more composed than she had the day before, and somehow more solid.
‘Did you kill your husband?’ I said.
She looked surprised, and paused with her mouth open. ‘No . . . Er, I . . . ’ She frowned and shook her head slightly. ‘No. No, I didn’t.’
‘You’d better tell us what happened then.’
She sighed and said nothing for a moment. Then she leant back into the couch. I did the same.
‘I didn’t want you to jump to the wrong conclusion,’ she said. ‘I know it looks bad but it must have been an intruder that killed him. That stalker. The woman he was having the affair with.’
‘What happened, Rachel?’
She paused. Licked her lips and took a breath. ‘When I got in, I went to our bedroom and . . . ’
I nodded encouragement at her.
‘And I saw Phil lying there covered in blood, like I’ve told you. And . . . ’ She waited a moment and then blurted it out fast. ‘Abbie was there. She was on the floor.’
‘With . . . ’ I took a moment to picture the scene. ‘With your husband?’
She nodded. I sensed she was telling the truth. One of those feelings I got, that Richard found so irritating.
‘Lying on the floor by our bed,’ Rachel said. ‘I was terrified she was hurt. Can you imagine how I felt?’
I nodded slowly.
‘So I rushed over and grabbed her. But she was okay. Covered in blood but asleep. And unhurt.’
Where does a mother go first – her husband or her child? It’s times like these the truth comes out. They usually go to the child.
‘She was absolutely drenched in blood.’ Rachel sat forward again and crossed her legs, jiggling her foot. She reached round and grabbed one of the doily things, and rubbed it between her fingers. ‘And it was really hard to wake her up. I didn’t want you to think . . . I got her up and put her in the shower, washed her hair. I had to dry it – it took ages . . . ’
Rachel juddered to a halt. She sat staring into space.
‘What happened next?’ I said, as gently as I could.
She moved her eyes slowly to me, then raised them as if trying to visualise the scene on that awful morning. Some people claimed that if suspects looked up and to the right, they were making things up, but unfortunately it wasn’t that simple. Anyway, Rachel was looking up and left. ‘I put Abbie back to bed,’ she said, ‘and packed our things with blood on them into a Waitrose bag, and then I put some of Phil’s boots on and I went round and made it look like a break-in, and messed up the study and our room, and then Abbie was sleeping again, so I drove off to hide our clothes and the boots. I went up to Matlock and went to the petrol station, and then when I came back, you were there.’
‘If you thought there’d been an intruder, why did you fake one?’
She hesitated. ‘I thought you might not realise.’
‘Why did you do this, Rachel? What didn’t you want us to think?’
She took an audible breath. Wiped a tear from her cheek.
‘I can’t . . . ’
I waited.
‘That she did it,’ Rachel said in a tiny voice. ‘I didn’t want you to think Abbie did it.’
Craig let out his breath with a distinct puff. No finger tapping though.
I felt a coldness creeping through my stomach. ‘Did you see something else, Rachel? Why would we think Abbie did it?’
‘She didn’t do it. She must have walked in or interrupted an intruder.’
I clenched my fists together. Had I contemplated this? The possibility that Abbie killed her father? Walked in and cut his throat? I supposed I had, deep down, when we’d found the nightdress.
‘We need to know everything,’ I said gently. ‘All about Abbie’s nightmares, what she was saying about her father . . . everything. So we can try and piece together what happened.’
Rachel eased herself back in the sofa again. Her body was shaking. She whipped a hand to her face and sharply wiped away tears. ‘You know about her nightmares.’
‘We’ve been told she was scared of her father. Screaming about him.’
She took a breath. ‘I didn’t want you to think it was her. That’s why I didn’t tell you about the nightmares. She’s been screaming and sleepwalking. Screaming about . . . well, yes, she has been screaming about her daddy, but she didn’t mean Phil.’
I kept my voice soft, and hoped Craig would keep quiet. ‘When did this start?’
Rachel breathed out through her mouth. ‘It’s all since her heart transplant. Oh God, okay, I’m going to tell you. I kept saying to the psychiatrist, she’s changed. Her personality was different. She started drawing all the time – really good drawings, like she never used to do before. I mean, that was fine – the drawings. But not the rest of it. She started having these dreams. She was shouting as if someone was trying to kill her. It was terrifying. She’d run out onto the landing screaming and when we went to her, she’d go all glassy eyed and stare at something behind her. Then she’d swivel her head around and scream that her daddy was trying to kill her. It was horrendous, especially for Phil. It was her new heart. And the drugs they gave her. Oh God, I can’t . . . Everything was supposed to be okay once she had her transplant.’ She was openly crying now, breathing in big gulps, her shoulders shaking. ‘It’s not Abbie’s fault. I couldn’t bear her to go to trial and be locked up. She was asleep.’
‘So, in her sleep, Abbie thought her dad was trying to kill her?’
‘Yes! Because she was remembering what happened to her heart donor. I’ve looked it up. It happens. But they won’t tell us who the donor was. They only let you write via the transplant coordinator and you can’t say who you are. I tried writing but the family never replied after their first card, and no one would tell us anything.’ She reached over and grabbed
