Cherie stood on the path outside the police station. Several members of the press stood beside vans next to people holding cameras and boom poles. She gulped as she edged her way through. She recognised the one reporter, Lyndsey Saunders, the one who’d been writing what seemed like all the articles for the murder case. Cherie scurried past, knowing she would be hounded like mad had they all known she was being interviewed about Alex’s murder.
She pulled her hood up and slid through, no one taking any notice of her at all. Breathing a sigh of relief, she hurried through the main door and waited at the desk. ‘I have an appointment. DC Wyre called.’
‘What’s your name?’ The desk sergeant smiled and looked down from his platform of a reception.
‘Cherie.’
‘Surname?’
‘Brown.’ She croaked the word out. Her throat was already beginning to stick.
‘Take a seat, someone will be with you in a moment.’
She sat on the seat at the end of the row, as far away from the man who stank of whiskey and kept talking to himself. She prised her bag open and spotted the miniature bottle. That man could be her one day. She glanced over and smiled. He ignored her. At least she’d tried.
So this is what it was like inside a police station. Her first foray into such a building and she was being questioned about a murder. She forced her clenched hands open. Looking too tense wouldn’t do her any favours.
Pressing her temples, she tried to massage her anxiety away. In her mind, she had huge gnarly knots all over her face and the only solution was to press them out. She glanced at her reflection in the back of the shiny computer screen. She looked fine, all normal apart from being scruffier than usual.
Tapping her feet, she felt her anticipation worsening. What would they want to know? What had Marcus said? She glanced at the last message on the phone, the one from an unknown number.
The truth has to come out, you know it does. I just need some time alone, to think, but I’m okay. Keep your phone on, I’ll be in touch soon. Don’t worry about me and don’t tell anyone I’ve contacted you.
She swallowed and held onto her bubbling stomach. What was Penny playing at, not coming home and sending crazy messages?
She was entering this interview blind, not knowing what Marcus had said or if Isaac had said anything.
Alex had thrown up more questions that hung over her head. She should never have gone to see him. Her mind whirled between Marcus and Isaac as she wondered if one of them was capable of killing him. Isaac talked the talk and Joanna would back him up in anything he said if he needed an alibi and Marcus – what about Marcus? Neither of them wanted Alex to come back, and neither did she. She gulped. The thought of being buried alive was no longer a joke. It was a message and she had to work out who was sending it. Her mind briefly flitted to someone else, but she shook her head.
‘Mrs Brown?’ The woman with the bags under her eyes and slightly creased shirt called out. ‘I’m DI Harte, thank you for coming in. Follow me.’
That was a name she recognised from the papers. That explains why the woman looked as though she hadn’t slept. She headed along the corridor, into the dingy interview room, into the unknown. As she pictured her children and Christian finding out her secret, she knew she had to lie. She knew the outcome of this case was worth skewing with all she had. That couldn’t happen. Christian, she could live without. Her children – now that hurt.
Chapter Forty-Six
‘It is twelve fifty on Monday the second of November. Mrs Brown, I’m DI Harte, this is DS Driscoll. We just need to ask you a few questions about your friends Penny Burton and Alexander Swinton. The interview is being recorded and you are here voluntarily. Once again, thank you for coming in and assisting with our enquiries. Can I confirm that you are Cherie Brown?’
The woman nodded.
‘For the tape, Mrs Brown nodded. If you could speak instead of gesturing that would really help.’
‘Sorry.’ Cherie cleared her throat and pulled the hood from her head, exposing her rat-tail hair.
‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’ Gina recognised the woman, although her hair had looked different, maybe a different colour. She’d also been wearing glasses. She normally