Human Remains

  And of course the smile died on my face when I opened the door.

  “Colin Friedland? My name is DC Keith Topping; this is my colleague DC Simon Lewis. Can we come in, please?”

  “It’s not convenient,” I said, eyeing them up and down. The younger one—Lewis?—was taller than me and twice as wide—a rugby player if ever I’d seen one. I wanted to ask him if he was front row or back but thought better of it.

  “Oh?” said Lewis. “Why’s that?”

  “I was just preparing dinner,” I said.

  “I’m afraid it’s rather urgent,” Topping said.

  What a name. Keith Topping? I’ll bet he was bullied at school; what would they have called him? Dream Topping? Tip-Top?

  After a brief discussion in the house they arrested me and took me out to the police car that was parked just out of sight at the end of the drive. It’s funny that my first thought on their introduction was not that something must have happened to my mother, in her nursing home. I knew immediately why they were there. And it felt like the start of an exciting new chapter. A new game for me to play, with new rules. In the back of the car, my hands uncomfortably cuffed behind me, I was smiling with a delicious anticipation of what was going to happen next.

  Dumb and dumber, these two. The same two who arrested me. The skinny one is now sitting on a comfy chair in the corner and the one built like a rugby player is sitting on a plastic chair, too small for his fat ass, across the table from where I’m sitting, awaiting the best they can do.

  “Colin Friedland, you’re aware that you are still under arrest for the murders of Rachelle Hudson, Robin Downley, Shelley Burton, Edward Langton, Dana Viliscevina, and Eileen Forbes. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  I say nothing.

  “You have the right to legal representation, as I mentioned before. You’ve said you don’t want a solicitor to be present but I just want to remind you here that you can change your mind about that at any stage. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I don’t need a solicitor.”

  “This interview is being recorded on DVD, Colin. Do you understand everything I’ve said to you so far?”

  “Yes, of course,” I say.

  “Right, then. Let’s get started, shall we? Can you tell me when you first met Rachelle Hudson?”

  I genuinely have to think about that one. They think I’m going to be difficult. I can tell. They’re settled in for the long haul, braced for it like fishermen heading for the North Atlantic. “I think it was just after the beginning of February. I don’t recall the exact date.”

  I was expecting them to exchange glances; I can almost feel the surprise like an electric shock between them. They didn’t think it was going to be this easy, did they? And yet they still have no idea of any of it, not really.

  “How did you meet?”

  “In the country park in Baysbury. She was running. No, actually, she was sitting on a bench—but she had been running. We fell into conversation.”

  “What about?”

  “I could tell she was unhappy. I was trying to make her feel better about herself.”

  “Did you ever visit Rachelle Hudson’s home?”

  “Yes,” I say. “She invited me in.”

  “Just that time, or did you go back there again?”

  “I visited her once she had died.”

  There is a brief silence broken only by the electric hum of the DVD recorder. Both of them are staring at me.

  “Colin, did you kill Rachelle Hudson?”

  I smile at them. “No, of course not. She did that all by herself. I was just there to comfort her, to ensure that she was happy with the decisions she made.”

  There’s another pause while they digest this information and clearly thrash about in their collective tiny minds for a new type of interview strategy, since the direction this one is taking evidently wasn’t in their plan.

  “Did you help her to take her own life?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Did you touch her in any way?”

  I think about this for a moment, trying to remember. “No, I don’t think so. I might have touched her arm or something. I was never violent or anything like that.”

  “Did she talk to you about wanting to take her own life?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “What did she say?”

  “I think she said she felt sometimes that she would be happier if she ceased to exist.”

  “Did you suggest she seek help? Talk to someone about how she felt?”

  “She was talking to me about how she felt.”

  “But you didn’t think you should try and stop her from ending her life?”

  “No. That was her decision. She was a grown adult.”

  “And you didn’t report her death?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Surely that sort of thing should be up to one’s next of kin, shouldn’t it?” I give Lewis a cheerful smile that he does not return.

  “Did you say anything to try to dissuade Rachelle from taking her own life?”

  “Not at all. Once she had made the decision to die, she was much happier. That was a good thing. Don’t you think?”

  Lewis does not answer the question. Instead, he looks across at Topping for the first time since the interview started. He’s way out of his depth already and we’ve only been talking for five minutes or so. I almost feel sorry for him.

  After that brief wobble, he comes back from another angle. “Did you give Rachelle a cell phone?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “So I could keep in touch with her.”

  “Did she ever call you using the phone?”

  “No. I called her on that number a few times.”

  “And did you take Rachelle’s own cell phone away from her?”

  “Yes, I did. She wanted to cease all contact with her family. She didn’t need the phone anymore.”

  “You took it without her permission?”

  “No, she gave me permission to take the phone away.”

  “What did you do with the phone?”

  “I got rid of it.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “I can’t remember exactly. I might have put it in a garbage can somewhere.”

  Lewis sighs heavily and consults his notes. Then he says, “Going back to the cell phone you left at Rachelle’s house. You said you called her on it a number of times. What did you say to her when you called?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. I was calling to check if she was all right, if she needed anything.”

  “Did you know she was starving to death?”

  “Yes.”

  They look at each other again and I smile. This is such a lot of fun. I wish I’d owned up to it all months ago.

  “Did you not think, then, that she might have needed food?”

  “No. That was the way she had decided to die. If I’d brought her food I would have been going against her wishes. She’d already chosen that path. That was her right.”

  Lewis raises his voice slightly for the first time. “She’d chosen her path?”

  “Yes, indeed,” I say cheerfully. “We all choose our own paths, DC Simon Lewis. You’ve chosen your path, too, haven’t you? And you, DC Keith Topping. It’s only when we’ve chosen our path and taken steps toward it that we can realize what it means to be truly happy. Don’t you agree?”

  Annabel

  Sam’s car pulled into the side entrance to the police station parking lot and swung around so that it was facing back to the main road. I opened the passenger door and got in.

  “Everything OK?” he asked.

  He hadn’t been expecting me to finish so early, judging by the surprised tone of his voice when I’d called his cell phone. I had considered getting the bus or a
taxi back to my house and sending him a text to say I’d gone home, but he would only have turned up there. Shutting the door and leaving the world behind me was no longer an option.

  “Yes and no. I’m off the case. Apparently I shouldn’t have been allowed back in the MIR after that man made me into a victim.”

  “Is that the good news or the bad news?”

  “The good news is that they’ve made an arrest and he’ll be interviewed, probably later this afternoon.”

  “Really? Who is he?”

  “Sam, I can’t talk about it.”

  “What do you think I’m going to do? I can’t name him if he hasn’t been charged. You know that. Tomorrow’s issue’s already gone to press. There’s bound to be an official announcement about the arrest on tomorrow’s local news. By Tuesday morning everyone and his uncle will know all about it.”

  “All right, then, I don’t want to talk about it. Is that better?”

  He was quiet and I felt bad. It wasn’t his fault; none of it was his fault. The car windshield was speckled with rain and when he used the wipers they squealed across the glass. I tried to think of a way to change the subject and cheer things up a little bit. “Did you get anything nice in town?”

  “Not really,” he said.

  “You’re not sulking, are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You are.”

  He didn’t reply, which meant I was right. I couldn’t stand sulkers. “Look,” I said. “How about if I buy us all some takeout for tonight? I’d like to say thanks to you and your parents for putting up with me for so long.”

  “You’d better clear it with Irene,” he said. “You can’t go interrupting her cooking schedule. She plans it like a military operation.”

  “I’d like to say thank you anyway,” I said. “I’ll get all my stuff together later. Maybe I could stay one more night. What do you think?”

  “What do you mean?” he said. “You’re leaving?”

  He stopped at the lights and turned his body toward me. I looked at him. If I’d suggested sawing off my own leg he couldn’t have looked more horrified.

  “You don’t need to look after me anymore, Sam. He’s locked up. I’ll be safe at home.”

  “It’s not just him,” he said. “I don’t like to think of you on your own. You’ve been through a very difficult time. You need friends around you.”

  “You’ve been very kind. But really, I’m going to have to go home sooner or later. It’s better that I do it now I think.”

  He stared at me for so long that the car behind us beeped its horn. The lights had changed. He shook his head and drove off. “What about the cat? She’s just settled in.”

  “What—you want custody of my cat now?”

  “Don’t be like that.”

  “I was joking.”

  “Well, I’m not laughing. I don’t want you to be in a house on your own. It’s not good when you were just in the hospital less than two weeks ago. What if something happens?”

  We carried on like this all the way to Keats Road. In the end he was almost placated by my promising to stay in almost constant phone contact with him, to keep the door locked and not open it to anyone I didn’t know. If I wanted to go into town he was going to volunteer to drive me around, presumably for the rest of my life. It was ridiculous. The more he went on about it, the more I wanted to escape the nagging.

  I needed to go home.

  Colin

  The interviews have continued intermittently throughout the day. In between interviews I was taken back to the cell that I am already starting to think of as mine. At lunch I was given a tray containing something that might have been shepherd’s pie, peas that were khaki in color and had probably come out of a tin, and a plastic cup of water. I ate some of the shepherd’s pie and regretted it right away. The taste will be coming back to me for several hours to come.

  They have asked me again if I want a solicitor, I have a right to one, which of course I know. I told them—again—that I didn’t care.

  I don’t really care about any of it, much, but I do object to the prospect of having to sleep on a plastic-covered mattress in a concrete cell, and I asked them politely how long they were likely to be detaining me. The custody sergeant told me it was likely to be at least another eighteen hours. Eighteen hours! Still, there’s plenty to entertain me. The cells adjacent to mine appear to be empty, but beyond that I can hear shouted expletives as the drunks start to roll in. They expect me to be worried. I can tell. But I have nothing to lose, nothing at all—whereas they are in a very tricky position. Especially with regard to the media coverage the case has gained so far.

  The only slight concern I have is their question about whether I reported Rachelle’s death to anyone. Is it an offense to fail to report a death? I have a vague memory of reading a news article about a woman who’d been found to have kept the bodies of her stillborn babies in the attic of her house—and she’d been arrested, of course. She hadn’t killed them, though. But surely reporting the death is the responsibility of the family, the next of kin—not some random stranger who happens to be there at the time.

  By the time it got dark we were on to the fourth interview. Topping and Lewis again, the comedy double act. This time they brought a cardboard box with them that Lewis stowed away under his side of the table. Maybe it contained sandwiches. I could only hope.

  We’d been through the list of names already, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that they were short quite a few. Some of mine still haven’t been found. I like that thought. No matter what happens here, my legacy is still out there, like buried jewels waiting for an archaeologist to unearth them.

  With each interview, I could feel their confidence waning and their doubt increasing. If they couldn’t charge me with failing to report a death, what else was there? I had harmed no one. Other than the odd gentle touch on an arm, maybe, I had not laid a finger on them. And if they wanted to try charging me with assisting a suicide, well—how could they prove it?

  “Colin,” Lewis said. His voice seemed to be brighter this time. Maybe he had indulged in a strong cup of coffee in the interval. I sniffed the air, but could smell only body odor, and possibly something that might have been cheese and onion.

  “Detective Constable Lewis,” I replied.

  He frowned a little but clearly was not going to let my sport spoil his surprise.

  “I’d like to ask you about the cell phones.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You provided a cell phone for each of the individuals we discussed in the last interview. That is . . .” he searched in his notes for the list we’d agreed on and then ran a finger down it as he recited the names aloud. “Rachelle Hudson, Robin Downley, Shelley Burton, Edward Langton, Dana Viliscevina, and Eileen Forbes. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “When these individuals were deceased, did you then remove the cell phones from their properties?”

  “Sometimes. Usually I just left them behind.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I had no need for them. They were cheap phones anyway.”

  “And how did you make contact with these people, while they were alive? Using your own personal cell phone?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “We have data showing that each of the cell phones you left with the victims was called by a different telephone number. What can you tell us about that?”

  “They’re not victims, Detective Constable Lewis. They are innocent members of the public who chose to end their own lives. Nothing more.”

  “You’re aware that we have seized your cell phone, Colin?”

  “Yes.”

  “We are in the process of conducting a forensic examination of that phone, which will confirm that you used a different SIM card in it for each of the victims. Is that what happened?”

  I found myself wondering briefly where they were heading with this. So what if they knew I was using different SIM c
ards for them all? Did it matter? Did any of it really make any difference at all?

  “I did, yes,” I said.

  “Why is that?”

  I didn’t answer the question, feeling as if I was being led away from the point that I needed to get across. Their stupidity and insolence, and the overpowering smell of their tired, sweaty bodies in their day-old clothes, crumpled and frayed, made me angry. At home my dinner was waiting for me, prepared but uncooked: the vegetables sitting in a pan of cold water on the stove, the neatly filleted salmon marinating in lime and white wine in the refrigerator. They had not achieved anything by their interviews yet and we had been here all day. All day!

  “To be fair, gentlemen,” I said, “I can see why you are confused. Neither of you has ever met anyone like me before, have you? I know of nobody else who is as comfortable with the concept of death as I am. All these people, so many of them out there, who are tired and ill and depressed . . . and what do we do with them? We pay for extensive, invasive courses of medical treatment at vast expense to those of us who take care of our bodies and remain fit and healthy. Or we put them into nursing homes, at even higher cost, where they no longer have the option to end things for themselves. We are treating our neighbors appallingly. We are allowing them to linger in misery for months, years even, when all they need is someone to tell them that it’s all right—that if they want to go, they can go. That it’s easy and simple and it can be pain-free. They can choose that path if they want to—and God knows many of them do, given the alternatives they face! All I have done is to show them that they can choose the path. They could have chosen a different one if they’d so desired. But they did not. They chose to die. And I did not ‘help’ them. I just spoke to them and provided comfort and reassurance when they had no one else to do it. And where were you when they needed your help? You never even knew they existed, did you? Because you’re here to force people to perform and behave and react in a certain way. Even, it seems, when no law has been broken at all.”

  They were staring at me. I took a drink from the plastic cup of water on the table in front of me.