could prop the door open with a chair?’ suggested the portly female PC who’d accompanied us to the interview room.
The detective glanced at his watch and sighed again. ‘Fine. Let’s just get this done.’
I insisted, all the way through my interview, that the drugs weren’t mine, that I didn’t know how they got into the toilet cistern and that no, I did not take drugs for personal use. After grilling me for several minutes, DS Merriott then asked about Max and whether the drugs could be his. I told him, as calmly as I could, that Max’s dad had died from a heroin overdose when Max was a child and there wasn’t anyone more anti-drugs than he was. The drugs had been planted in our house by Paula. They had nothing to do with either of us.
He asked me to tell him again what had happened with Paula, and made a few notes on his pad of paper. Then he asked me whether I’d noticed any sign of forced entry when I’d returned home with Elise today. I told him that I hadn’t noticed any issues with the front and back doors but I couldn’t say whether anyone had tampered with the windows because I hadn’t checked them.
At that point we were interrupted by a ginger-haired police officer who stuck his head around the door and announced, ‘The husband is here.’ I slumped back in my seat. Finally! Max would corroborate everything I’d said and I’d be let go. But DS Merriott wasn’t done with me. He dismissed the ginger-haired police officer with a nod, then continued questioning me for another five or ten minutes. Only then did he conclude the interview. I was asked to remain in the room for a couple of seconds while the two officers left. I could hear them talking in low voices in the corridor but couldn’t make out what they were saying. The female PC returned to the interview room and sat down opposite me.
‘We’re just going to sit here for a while,’ she said, ‘while DS Merriott talks to your husband. Normally we’d return you to a cell but,’ – she raised a hand when I gasped – ‘given your medical condition I think it’s for the best if we remain here. If you feel unwell at any point I will call for the Duty Doctor. OK?’
I feel faint with fear. My husband is on a plastic-backed chair on the other side of the custody suite with our daughter fast asleep in his arms, and I’m back in front of the Duty Sergeant with DS Merriott standing beside me. I have no idea whether I’m about to be charged or not.
‘Mrs Joanne Blackmore?’ the Duty Sergeant says. He is a tall, thin man with a long nose and a prominent Adam’s apple that juts over the collar of his shirt.
‘Yes.’
A clear plastic bag containing my purse, mobile phone and jewellery is pushed towards me, along with some kind of iPad and a stylus.
‘Sign where indicated, please.’
I pick up the stylus. It quivers across the screen as I write my signature.
‘Mrs Joanne Blackmore,’ the Duty Sergeant says as he takes it from me, ‘I’m going to release you on police bail for the officers to carry out further enquiries. You must return to this police station at 2 p.m. on the first of March unless you are informed in writing that the date or time has been changed or the bail cancelled. If you don’t turn up to answer your bail you’ll commit a further offence which could result in you being fined, imprisoned or both. Do you understand? If so,’ – he hands me the tablet again – ‘sign here.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘For offering to sleep on the sofa tonight.’
Max shrugs. ‘I couldn’t let you two stay here alone, could I?’
We are sitting side by side on the sofa. The television is off, the curtains are closed and the house is silent, save the occasional crackle from the baby monitor on the windowsill whenever Elise coughs or grunts in her sleep as she turns over. Naija told me she stopped using one for her boys when they turned one but I’m not ready to give up ours yet. I used to think that I’d be a chilled, laid-back parent, but when you’ve lost one child, that innocence is gone for ever. You can never truly relax. Not when you know how fragile life is, how a strong heartbeat can stop, almost overnight.
My fingers twitch against the rough wool of my work skirt. Work. It feels like a hundred years ago since I was sitting at my desk, answering emails from students, keeping one eye on the clock so I wasn’t a second late to collect Elise from nursery. But it was only four hours ago. I still can’t process what’s happened. I tried to talk to Max about it on the way home but he shushed me, telling me to wait until we’d got Elise home and in bed. I want to get a glass of wine so I can dull the sharp edges of my nerves but I’m worried that Max will judge me if I do.
‘You do believe me, don’t you? That the drugs weren’t mine.’
He crosses his arms over his chest and tips his head back, resting it on the top of the sofa.
‘Yes,’ he says to the ceiling. ‘That’s why I came to collect you.’
We both fall silent again. I can tell Max doesn’t want to discuss what happened but I have to. It’s the only way I can make sense of it.
‘I checked all the windows when you were getting Elise ready for bed. They were all locked.’
Max doesn’t respond. Instead he continues to stare at the ceiling.
‘So if all the doors and windows were locked while I was at work how did Paula get in?’
Max shakes his head wearily. ‘I don’t know, Jo.’
‘Aren’t you worried?’ I can hear the tight whine in my voice but his lack of reaction is niggling at me. He’s an investigative journalist. Why isn’t he ringing round all his contacts to find out who Paula is? Why isn’t he trying to protect us from anything else happening?
‘It’s because you don’t believe me, isn’t it? You think they’re my drugs?’
‘No, Jo.’ He turns to look at me. ‘I don’t think they’re your drugs.’
‘But you lost it when I told you about Dad’s muscle relaxants. Why aren’t you freaking out about this?’
‘Because one of us needs to stay rational. We can’t both lose our shit.’
‘I’m losing my shit? Max, someone broke into our house and planted drugs in our toilet. Possibly the same woman who threatened Elise! Of course I’m losing my shit. I’m scared! What’s she going to do next?’
‘Jesus!’ Max lurches forward and rests his face in his hands and inhales deeply through his nose. His shoulders and upper arms shake as he tries to steady his breathing.
‘Look.’ He sits back again but his hands remain on his knees as though he is readying himself to jump to his feet at any second. ‘The police are dealing with it, OK? I gave them a list of all the cases I’ve covered recently and all the people who might hold a grudge against me. They’re going to look into it.’
‘Shouldn’t they give us police protection while they do that?’
‘Not if they don’t think we’re in any immediate danger.’
‘But we are in danger! Paula knows where we live. She was on the corner of Brecknock the other day.’
‘Christ!’ His eyes widen with shock. ‘Was Elise with you?’
‘She was with Naija. I talked to Paula alone but I … I did something stupid.’
Max goes very still. ‘Go on.’
‘I …’ I rub my palms back and forth on my skirt. ‘I pushed her.’
‘What?’
‘I pushed Paula. She was standing too close to me and I panicked. We were on the corner, next to the bus stop, and there was a small