Page 13 of The Tapes

NINE

It’s been a while since I was in a police station. I’ve seen the TV shows, too, with grotty corridors and solid metal tables bolted to the ground. The two-way mirrors and the whole good cop, bad cop thing. I always assumed it was a bit of a cliché – and perhaps it is.

Sedingham isn’t big enough to have its own police station, so Nicola dropped me back at the office, then I had to drive half-an-hour to the next town along.

Zoe asks if I want a tea, then sets a kettle boiling as we sit around a small table. The chairs have a school staffroom vibe, with metal frames and soft padding poking through holes in the fabric.

‘I didn’t want to do this in an interview room,’ Zoe says as she stands next to the kettle. ‘It can feel a bit formal in there.’

She waits as if to see whether I have any objections. She must know I spent the drive here wondering what this could all mean.

‘Obviously I know this is a shock for you,’ Zoe says. ‘We were stunned, too, if that’s any consolation. The sarge actually called to double-check there hadn’t been a mistake.’

‘It’s definitely Mum’s fingerprints on the gun?’

‘We’re as sure as can be. Do you know if your mother ever owned a gun?’

‘I don’t think so. She never mentioned it if she did.’

Even as I say such a thing, it’s impossible not to think of her tapes. Mum’s idea of ownership was… fluid, at best.

‘Was she ever interested in shooting?’

‘Maybe when the Olympics was on? I’ve been trying to think but I can’t remember a time she ever talked about guns. It wasn’t part of our life.’

Zoe nods along as the kettle clicks off. She raids the cupboard for a pair of teabags from a giant PG Tips box, then drops one in each of two mugs, before filling. Milk comes from the fridge, although it’s unclear if this is of the ‘thieving shites’ variety, and then Zoe sits across from me.

‘Are you sure they’re her fingerprints?’ I ask again.

‘We had them on file after one of her arrests. I think she got a conditional discharge – but everything was kept.’

That must be the other reason Mum never called the police when she realised what she had found with that jewellery box. She and the police have history.

Had history.

Of course, so do I.

Detective Sergeant Cox has no notepad, no recording device.

To all intents, we’re having a cosy chat over a cup of tea – except it’s never been quite so simple to shake off the vision of police given to me by my mother.

She said they could, and should, never be trusted.

That they were an instrument of the state, there to put down the working man – and I only had to look at the miners’ strike to see proof.

I didn’t know what any of that meant for a long time, but the suspicion stuck.

Zoe sips her tea and then puts down the mug.

One of her colleagues has entered the canteen.

He strides to the fridge and removes a yoghurt, before making brief small talk with Zoe about one of the cars being on the blink.

A couple of minutes pass and then he heads back the way he came, leaving us alone again.

‘I’ve been reading the files this morning,’ Zoe says. ‘Your mother was reported missing thirteen years ago – so this is going to sound like an odd question – but have you heard anything from her in that time?’

It’s impossible not to think of the tapes. Does that count?

‘No,’ I say, and then: ‘You?’

She shakes her head. ‘We’d have been in touch. Her file is open but inactive. Sometimes people come back and it’s never reported to us. That’s why I asked.’

Zoe is staring now and I have the sense that there’s been a long conversation in which I was mentioned.

‘I’ve not heard anything new in thirteen years,’ I repeat.

Zoe pauses with the mug part-way to her mouth, before she sips and nods. My tea remains untouched.

‘There are ballistic tests ongoing but nothing available yet,’ she says.

‘What does that mean?’

‘We’re trying to find out whether the gun’s ever been fired.

Whenever we recover bullets from a crime scene there’s a sort of signature that allows us to trace it back to the weapon that fired it.

It’s standard when we recover a firearm.

’ There’s a pause and then she adds. ‘I can count on one hand the number of times this has happened since I started working here. We don’t really get guns around here. ’

I think for a few moments, unable to explain why Mum’s fingerprints are on a gun. I can’t imagine her ever holding one, let alone firing.

‘There are other partials on the gun,’ Zoe says.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Sorry, fingerprints. Your mother’s prints are a complete match, but there are other partials on the weapon. Parts of a finger or thumb, but there’s no match to anyone in our system. It means somebody else held the gun at some point, but we don’t know who.’

Oh. I now see where this is going. The next question feels so obvious that I’m annoyed at myself for not seeing it coming.

‘Have you ever owned a gun?’ Zoe asks.

Detective Sergeant Cox asks. I remind myself she is not my friend.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

‘It’s just… with your previous issues and the record you have…?’

It’s not quite a question, but perhaps it is. When DS Cox checked my mother’s file earlier, she also had a look at mine.

‘That was a long time ago,’ I say. This is so out of the blue, it feels as if I’ve been walloped in the chest.

‘I know,’ Cox replies, although it doesn’t feel as if she does.

‘I’ve been clean for over seven years,’ I add. ‘You can ask my sponsor. You can test me.’

‘We don’t need to do any of that,’ she replies – but there’s a coldness there now and I’m furious at myself for not realising this is how things would go.

‘I needed to ask,’ she says.

I can’t stop talking, even though I know I should. ‘I’ve never even held a gun, let alone owned one,’ I’m saying. ‘I wouldn’t know where to buy one.’

Cox catches my eye, holds it for a moment, and then nods. I don’t think she believes me.

‘My fingerprints are in your system. If those partials were mine, you’d have a match.’

The officer’s lips are pressed together as I realise – again too late – that she already checked the prints against mine.

I’ve been such an idiot. Despite everything, I somehow walked right into this.

Even bringing me to the staff canteen was part of it.

Nothing’s recorded, and I’m not under caution – but that doesn’t mean a person can’t say something stupid.

Cox waits, likely expecting me to talk myself into trouble because, for some reason, I apparently lack the will to keep my gob shut. It’s closed now, though.

‘Is there anything else you want to ask?’ she says.

It feels like a loaded question now – but DS Cox doesn’t know how much I might have.

There’s a tape from my mother in which she admits she’s a serial thief, who stole a jewellery box that contains the missing earrings taken by a serial killer.

Oh, and that person might have killed her, although those murders stopped at the exact time Mum disappeared.

I’d have struggled to say all that, even if it wasn’t for the other obvious lies and brags on the tape. Mum never robbed a bank, she never stole next door’s car – and, maybe, she never found that jewellery box, either. Maybe she made up all of it.

I could say all that, except: ‘I don’t think so,’ I reply instead.

Cox waits a moment, then sips her tea. Mine remains untouched. ‘There’s no rush,’ she says, nodding to the mug. ‘I can show you out when you’re ready.’ She has another mouthful and then adds: ‘We might need to talk to your daughter at some point – and her friend.’

‘Why?’

‘We got a brief statement from them yesterday about where they found the weapon – but the fingerprints might change things. You have to admit it’s quite the coincidence that your daughter found a discarded weapon that somehow has the fingerprints of her missing grandmother.’

I’d somehow missed that but Cox is correct.

No wonder the police invited me for a face-to-face talk.

Faith is underage and would need a parent to be present for any questioning.

None of that applies to me, except it wasn’t me who found the gun, nor my prints.

They’re confused and fishing. They think I know more than I do.

If Mum was reliable and honest, this would all be so much easier.

I swing from believing she found that jewellery box, to thinking it a flight of fancy, just like the claimed bank robbery.

Except, if I can find the box, it’ll at least prove part of what she said on the tape happened.

Perhaps it’s at Dad’s house, somewhere among the rest that needs to be cleared.

Perhaps.

I don’t know where to look – but as I sit, wilting under Detective Sergeant Cox’s gaze, it occurs I might know someone who does.