Your Truth or Mine? Read online

  ‘You really think anyone will believe you?’ I smirked. I snatched the phone easily out of her hands. ‘Wake up, Emily. You’re a slutty, irresponsible girl who chased after a married man. You practically begged me—’

  ‘How dare you?’

  ‘—to screw you. Who the fuck knows how many others there were? You’re lucky I agreed to pay for—’

  ‘You’re evil.’

  ‘—an abortion. I don’t even know if the thing is mine. You tell anyone, you’ll be ruined.’

  ‘No wonder your parents hate you,’ she spat out.

  The fucking cunt. I slapped her across her face and she shut up, the silence ringing through the car.

  I was about to apologize when she struck back. Before I knew it, she was clawing at me, screaming. She grabbed my neck, her nails digging into my flesh. I felt a sharp burn and realized I was bleeding, just behind my ear.

  I grabbed her wrists and twisted them behind her seat, pinning her down with one knee.

  ‘You’re hurting me,’ she wailed.

  I held on. I pushed my knee in further. I told her I wouldn’t let her go until she stopped screaming. Gradually, her screams turned to sobs and I eased off of her. I handed her the box of tissues and told her to clean herself up. Then I drove her to the hotel and watched her go inside. That was the last I saw of her.

  MIA

  Friday, 18th December

  Hot tea seeps through my T-shirt. I put the cup down, grab some kitchen roll and dab furiously at my chest while straining to hear the voice coming through my phone. Roy was arrested on suspicion of murder last night, my father-in-law is telling me. They haven’t charged him, but he’s being interviewed in custody. They searched the hotel and his car last night. His laptop and phone have been seized. My questions, though logical, sound overdramatic in contrast to his matter-of-fact tone. Yes, he has a lawyer with him. Yes, a good one. No, we don’t know how long they’ll hold him. I’m still on the phone when the doorbell rings. I tuck the phone between my shoulder and my ear, unlock the door and head back towards the kitchen for some more kitchen roll. George can let himself in.

  I stop when I hear the deep voice behind me.

  ‘Mrs Kapoor, we’re here from the Metropolitan Police.’

  I tell Roy’s father I’ll ring him back and spin around to face the officers.

  There are four of them. I stare at them, speechless, scanning their faces. Neither of the two detectives I know is here. Even as the thought crosses my mind, it seems ridiculous and I want to laugh out loud. Since when do I know detectives? I take a deep breath and focus on what the officer in charge is saying.

  He reminds me that my husband, the man I thought was the love of my life, is under arrest on suspicion of the murder of the woman I invited into our lives. Then he tells me they need to search our home for evidence and that I am required to stay in the living room, where a female officer will babysit me, for the duration of the search.

  I step aside. I let them in and watch them ransack what is left of my life.

  In the two and a half hours that follow, they take special care to upturn everything they come across. Midway through, I tell the female officer that I want to use the toilet and get up. She gets up too and I frown. I sit back down, cross my legs and turn on the TV. Oprah’s on; Christmas special. I lose myself in someone else’s drama.

  Through it all, I’m thinking about the slip of paper I found in Roy’s car. It’s still sitting in the dresser upstairs. I wonder if they’ll find it. I find myself hoping that they don’t and instantly hate myself for it. Someone died and I’m still protecting him?

  As soon as they leave, I run upstairs to check. They found it. They found the receipt.

  ROY

  Friday, 18th December

  Robins marches in with an officer I haven’t met before and sits down across from Alistair and me. She places a hefty file on the table and flicks through it, while the man introduces himself as DCI Patrick Dunmore, of the Homicide and Serious Crime Command. Wilson has been discarded for someone higher up.

  ‘My client has prepared a statement,’ Alistair says, pulling out a piece of paper from his folder, before they can begin questioning me.

  ‘Sure,’ Robins replies.

  ‘On Friday, the fourth of December, my client, Siddhant Roy Kapoor, left his house in southeast London around four p.m. Emily Barnett called him at approximately five p.m. asking him to meet her. Roy suggested they meet on Monday but she sounded distressed and, therefore, he agreed to meet her that same evening. Roy drove to Seaford, arriving at approximately seven p.m. He picked Emily up from outside the Co-op on Seaford High Street and, subsequently, they drove to the beach. They stayed in the car throughout, talking. Roy dropped Emily off at the Seaford Head Hotel at about nine p.m. and then my client drove to the Grand Albion in Brighton. He checked in at approximately nine forty-five p.m. and went straight to his room, where Celia Brown joined him at approximately ten thirty p.m. Celia left around eight a.m. on Saturday, the fifth. My client checked out at midday and drove back to his house in Crystal Palace, London, arriving at approximately four p.m.’

  I keep my eyes glued to the table while Alistair reads. When I look up both Robins and Dunmore are staring at me.

  ‘Okay. Let’s get this started, shall we?’ Dunmore says. ‘Why did Emily want to meet you that day?’

  ‘To discuss the pregnancy. She said she was going to her parents’ place on Saturday morning, and I didn’t want to leave it till the next week . . .’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I was worried about her, I didn’t want her to do something rash,’ I improvise, thinking of all the reports that had been dominating newspapers last week.

  ‘Something rash like tell her family? Were you trying to force her to terminate the pregnancy, Mr Kapoor?’

  ‘No! I would never . . . Look, we discussed it. She wasn’t keen on it to begin with, but after we spoke about it, she realized it was the most logical way forward.’

  ‘By “it” you mean an abortion? She wasn’t keen to kill her own baby?’

  Alistair interrupts. ‘That’s a bit severe, DCI Dunmore. Need I remind you that abortion is legal in the UK?’

  Dunmore smiles and moves on. ‘Were you aware, Mr Kapoor, that Emily was Catholic? She went to church every Sunday. I find it hard to believe that she would want an abortion.’

  ‘A Catholic would also be unlikely to go after a married man, but that didn’t stop her, did it?’ I say. Alistair shoots me a look and I reel myself in. Robins remains quiet. ‘I didn’t say she was without guilt or confusion. But she felt it was the best option.’

  ‘The best option,’ Dunmore repeats slowly. He leans forward, elbows on the table, and looks me right in the eye.

  I shift in my chair. Her face flashes in front of my eyes. She was a fighter, right till the end.

  ‘Well, it was the only option, though, wasn’t it?’ he says. ‘I mean, it’s understandable: it wasn’t just her life that would change if she had the kid. Having a child with another woman . . . it would destroy your marriage. So when she told you she wasn’t sure, it must have made you very angry. She was going to be with family the next day and you couldn’t risk them finding out. Your best shot was convincing Emily when she was alone. It’s one hell of a situation to have to deal with,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘So the way I see it, the logical thing to do, what anyone in that situation would do, is to ask Emily to meet you immediately, somewhere familiar, so she feels safe, but also remote, just in case, you know, things get out of hand. You try to talk some sense into her but she doesn’t listen. We already know Miss Barnett was strong-headed, a real personality. You argue, maybe get into a physical fight.’ He looks at Robins and she nods. I feel my breathing change. Alistair puts a hand on my knee. Dunmore continues. ‘When things calm down, you drop her off at her hotel and then you drive back to Brighton, check in. You order room service for two, tip the waiter, make sure you’re seen there. And then you go back
and deal with Emily. You couldn’t convince her so you killed her. Isn’t that what happened, Roy? Isn’t that why you killed Emily?’

  ‘The hotel waiter said he brought the food up at eleven thirty p.m. But instead of having him bring it in, you went out of your room to pick up the tray yourself,’ Robins says.

  I just look at her. Is there a question here? I want to ask, but I keep quiet.

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Celia and I, we were in bed, and she wasn’t . . . um . . . dressed. I didn’t want a waiter coming in.’

  ‘I see. Were you dressed?’

  ‘No, but I threw some clothes on.’

  ‘What clothes?’

  ‘I don’t remember . . . the dressing gown, I suppose.’

  ‘How long after the knock did you go outside?’

  ‘A minute, maybe two.’

  ‘Less than a minute by the waiter’s assumption.’

  ‘Okay,’ I shrug.

  ‘In his statement, the waiter said you were wearing a black hoodie, jeans and white trainers when you went outside. You pulled out your wallet from your back pocket to tip him.’

  ‘Like I said earlier, I don’t remember.’

  ‘Like you said earlier,’ she frowns, ‘the logical thing would be to throw on a dressing gown. I find it a bit strange that you would jump out of bed, presumably straight after sex, get fully dressed, lace up your shoes, just to go outside for thirty seconds.’

  Alistair steps in. He focuses his gaze on Dunmore. ‘Have you got a question for my client, Detective?’

  Dunmore shakes his head at Robins and she moves on, a small smile teasing her lips. I can’t imagine what she’s playing at.

  ‘Did you order breakfast in the morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Room service for two?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did the waiter bring it in?’

  ‘No, I did. Celia was in bed.’

  ‘So no one saw Celia?’

  ‘Look, we had to be careful about these things. We’re both married. We were in the city that she lives in. It would be catastrophic if anyone saw her.’

  ‘That’s understandable. But then why did you book the room under both your names? Wouldn’t it make more sense to use false names? That is what you did with Emily, right?’ she asks, looking at her notes.

  ‘Yes, I—’

  Alistair puts a hand on my knee again to stop me babbling. I close my eyes and slouch down, resting my head on the back of the chair.

  ‘Detectives, perhaps we can skip this,’ I hear Alistair say. ‘My client has already given you a statement about his whereabouts that evening. What he chose to wear or which name he booked the room in is irrelevant. Perhaps you should bring in the alibi witness for a statement if your area of interest is the motivation behind her discretion.’

  ‘Ah, see, that’s the problem. It isn’t just discretion. The woman that your client claims is his alibi, his lover, she doesn’t exist.’

  The detectives step out and Alistair turns to me, his face red.

  ‘She doesn’t exist?’ he hisses. ‘You need to start talking. Right now.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Celia told me they’d been to see her.’

  ‘Well, they clearly haven’t.’

  ‘They’re lying . . .’

  ‘Why would they lie?’

  ‘You said yourself they would try to badger me for a confession. Isn’t that what this is?’

  ‘They wouldn’t go this far.’

  I try to think of why they would do this but I draw a blank.

  ‘Have you got any proof of the relationship?’ Alistair says after a moment.

  ‘Proof?’

  ‘Emails, photos, friends who can vouch for you? Anything we can show them?’

  ‘No. There are no photos or emails. We used to text but we . . . we always deleted them afterwards. Mia can be quite nosy and Celia was worried; she didn’t want to leave a trail because of –’

  A thought occurs to me and I stop mid-sentence. Nonono.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What if he’s done something to her? He’s – he’s hurt her before. She never filed a complaint but . . . Oh my god, he must have found out. That’s why she—’

  ‘Slow down, Roy. Who are you talking about?’

  ‘Her husband, Dave. She’s terrified of him. We need to talk to the detectives, they need to find—’

  ‘Don’t panic. I’ll look into it.’

  MIA

  Friday, 18th December

  George draws me into a hug as soon as he gets in.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yes,’ I mumble even as my tears wet his shirt. I hadn’t realized how badly I needed a friend until now.

  ‘Jesus, what happened in here?’ he asks when I pull away. His eyes scan the room, taking in the upturned cushions, the littered floor, the open cabinets.

  ‘Police search,’ I say.

  ‘The man they arrested, it’s Roy?’

  I nod.

  He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. ‘Where’s your coat?’

  I don’t want to risk running into any neighbours so we drive to a cafe in Forest Hill. It’s the kind of quaint that was trendy five years ago – a wall of antique picture frames without pictures, Victorian knick-knacks and teacups masquerading as flower pots lining the shelves. I look around while we wait at the door for a table. The cafe is full of couples and young families having brunch, Christmas wishes floating in the air, mingling with the overbearing smell of bacon and eggs. I hear my stomach grumble and realize I haven’t had anything to eat since lunchtime yesterday. A little boy runs past us, his mother trailing behind, struggling to push a buggy while juggling her shopping bags. George, ever the gentleman, holds the door for her, wishing her a merry Christmas as she walks past. I have a flash of envy and tear my eyes away. That should have been me.

  The host shows us to our table in the back, and we sit down to look at the menu.

  Five minutes later, he’s back to take our order.

  ‘Pancakes?’ George asks me and I smile. It’s nice to be looked after again.

  ‘They haven’t charged him yet?’ George asks when the waiter leaves.

  ‘No. I’m guessing that’s what the search was about.’

  ‘Did they take much?’

  ‘Not really. I think they were quite disappointed.’

  George runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. ‘I still can’t believe it. Roy and Emily . . . I’m so sorry, Mia, I should have noticed something. I mean, I was right there with them.’

  ‘Georgie, it’s not your fault. Even I didn’t notice anything for months. God, at the wedding I was convinced there was something going on between you and Emily.’

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  I shrug, and George looks away.

  ‘You need to tell Addi. Whether or not he’s charged, it’s only a matter of time before the press get hold of Roy’s name,’ he says after a long pause.

  ‘I know, I know. I just don’t want her to worry about all this on top of everything with Mum, you know?’

  He nods.

  ‘I feel so guilty . . . I’ve been horrible to Mum, with the house sale, and . . .’ I cover my face. I look up when the waiter reappears with our coffees. I give him a small smile.

  ‘Do you think it was a mistake?’ George asks when he’s left.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Roy . . . your marriage . . .’

  I sigh. Perhaps it was a mistake. The odds were always against us. We’re very different, we got married way too young. But I loved him. Despite everything, I think I still do. Doesn’t that count for anything?

  No. Love fades.

  And you screw everything up.

  ‘It must have been,’ I say finally, my eyes fixed downwards as I try to blink away the tears.

  I’m deep into my third pancake when I hear a shrill voice behind me.

  ‘Mia!’

  I turn around. It’
s Alanna. Chris’s tall, over-the-top, unseasonably bronzed wife, Alanna.

  ‘Alanna.’ I get up to greet her, our air kisses even more fake than our smiles. ‘I forgot you still live nearby.’

  ‘Never moved,’ she grins, her words delivered in a sing-song manner, the Liverpool accent still thick after years of living in London. ‘We just love it here.’

  We? I wonder if she’s with the Italian waiter now. I feel a pang of anger on Chris’s behalf then snap it away. Not my problem, not after what he did.

  ‘How are you holding up?’ she asks, touching my arm and cocking her head to one side. I can sense the ‘awww’ coming. I panic. I haven’t seen the news since we got here. Have they released Roy’s name?

  ‘I’m fine,’ I reply, my words slow and measured. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Oh, you know.’ She shrugs and I touch her shoulder on cue. ‘I’ve started practising Buddhism. I chant every day and we have these great discussion meetings every few weeks. It’s all about accepting your life force and forgiving yourself. You have to trust the . . .’ She chats on and I feel myself glaze over. I catch a glimpse of a small TV every time the kitchen door opens. I sneak glances at it while nodding along to Alanna. Images of Emily flash past. The text at the bottom rolls on and I strain to read it. A man is being held in custody for questioning . . . it reads. The video cuts to a weather forecast and I let out an inward sigh. No name. I turn my attention back to Alanna.

  ‘It’s been tough, you know, especially with everything that’s happened in the past few months,’ she is saying. Her face breaks into a smile, her eyes fixed to a spot behind me. I turn around just as she says, ‘But we’ll get through it, won’t we, baby?’

  ‘Of course, darling,’ Chris says, walking around me to give Alanna a peck.

  I try to mask the shock that must surely have taken over my face. Chris?

  ‘Have you paid?’ she asks and Chris nods.

  ‘All done.’

  George gets up and offers his hand to Chris and then Alanna. Introductions are made. Alanna’s Liverpool drawl all but disappears when I mention George is a TV producer.