Page 7 of The Stranger in Room Six
Someone is putting their arms under mine and helping me up. They’re lifting Gerald onto a stretcher. ‘I’m sorry, madam, but we have to take the body away now.’
‘It’s not a body,’ I sob. ‘It’s my husband. Please don’t separate us. I need to ask him the truth. Find out what happened.’
‘This woman needs to be arrested,’ screams Karen. ‘I saw the whole thing.’ She looks around wildly, her eyes like a madwoman’s. ‘Who else did?’
‘Me,’ says a man with a ponytail, cautiously raising his hand.
‘Me too,’ calls out an elderly man leaning on his shopping trolley.
I watch, horrified, as a policeman starts to take evidence. ‘I saw her pushing him really hard,’ I hear the younger man saying. ‘There was this horrible thump as his head hit the pavement.’ He clutches his stomach. ‘Makes me feel sick to think of it.’
‘I didn’t do anything wrong,’ I say shakily. ‘And if I did, I didn’t mean to. It was the shock, you see. I found this photograph … It looked like my husband was having an affair … but he just isn’t like that.’
‘Come with us, please. We need to ask you some questions at the station.’
The station? I can’t move. My legs won’t work.
‘Let me help you.’
The words are kinder than the tone of voice.
‘My daughters. What am I going to tell my girls? I’ve got to ring them now.’
‘You can make a call from the station.’
I have no choice. I lean against the policewoman as she helps me into the car. I feel everyone looking at me, as if the word ‘criminal’ is branded on my forehead.
Any minute now, I’ll wake up. But as we drive through the leafy town, where no one murders anyone, I feel a cold calm descend on me as the truth sinks in. This morning, our lives had been normal. Now, my husband is dead. I am under suspicion, and everything has changed for ever.
6
At the police station, I’m taken into a room, empty aside from a table and two chairs. There’s a plastic jug of water in front of me. My mouth is dry, but my shaky hands can’t pick it up and I’m too nervous to ask for help.
On the other side is an unsmiling woman who says she is a detective inspector. She gives me her name but I’m too stressed to take it in.
‘Do I need a lawyer?’ I ask quietly.
‘That’s up to you,’ she replies coldly.
The vice-chair of the tennis club is a lawyer. But if I call, the news will spread in seconds.
It will anyway, reasons a small voice inside me.
No. I need someone who really knows me.
Fortunately, I’ve always had a good memory. I’ve read that letter enough times to recall the number at the bottom.
‘I’d like to make a phone call,’ I say.
This time, he picks up immediately.
‘Imran Raj speaking.’
A bolt shoots through me. I’d forgotten how chocolatey-rich his voice sounded. The voice that whispered in my ear while he held me tight beneath the sheets nearly thirty years ago.
‘It’s me, Belinda,’ I whisper.
‘You called!’ The joy in his voice rings out around the room. The policewoman visibly twitches.
