‘Alright, then, I don’t
want
to talk about it. Is that better?’
He went quiet and I felt bad. It wasn’t his fault; none of it was his fault. The car windscreen 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 a takeaway 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 towards 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 any more, 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 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.
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 colour 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 straight 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, and they will find me a duty solicitor if I do not have one of my own. I told them – again – that I wasn’t bothered.
I’m not bothered 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 offence 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 of 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 have a go at 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 odour, 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 mobile phones.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘You provided a mobile 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 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 mobile phones from their properties?’
‘Sometimes. Usually I just left them behind.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘I had no need of them. They were cheap phones anyway.’
‘And how did you make contact with these people, while they were alive? Using your own personal mobile phone?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘We have data showing that each of the mobile 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 mobile 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 cards 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 care homes, at even higher cost, where they no longer have the option to end things for themselves. We are treating our neighbours 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 alright – 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.
‘Finished?’ said Lewis.
I didn’t answer. The anger was still there.
‘This is an interview, Colin. While we appreciate your contribution, it would be very helpful if you could stick to the questions we’re asking. Do you think you could do that?’
‘If I must.’
Lewis took a deep breath in, leaned forward slightly across the table towards me.
‘How do you do it?’
I stared at him.
‘Come on, Colin, you’ve developed what must be a genius technique for getting people to kill themselves. How do you do it?’
I raised my chin in defiance. ‘It has taken me a number of years of detailed study, Detective Constable Lewis. Explaining it would take longer than either of us has.’
‘Maybe you could give us a summary,’ he said.
‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Indulge me.’
I breathed in, a long, deep breath through my nose, wondering how to start, wondering if I could phrase it in words the plod could understand.
‘They all wanted to end their lives. You must understand that: if they weren’t ready for death, whatever my “technique”, as you call it, it would not have worked.’
‘So you’re not responsible for their deaths?’
‘Absolutely not. They took their own lives, every one of them.’
‘But you… helped them?’
‘I helped them with their resolve. My “technique” is something I tailor to meet individual needs. Some of them were afraid of pain, so my discussions with them concentrated on pain relief, or the blocking-out of those feelings, and also on the removal of fear. Because, as I’m sure you are aware, fear makes pain more acute. If we have no fear, pain is easier to bear. So I helped each of them with their specific requirements.’
‘Doesn’t hunger override all of this?’ Topping said abruptly. ‘I mean, surely the human body needs food and water…’
‘Voluntary Refusal of Food and Fluid is surprisingly common, you know,’ I said. ‘I suggest you research it on the internet. It’s also called Voluntary Death by Dehydration, or VDD. Or I’ve seen it referred to as Terminal Dehydration. Once you pass a certain point, the body starts to shut down, and from then on it’s quite a simple matter. It doesn’t take long, and if you’ve dealt with fear, and the limited amount of pain, it’s quite a pleasant way to die. Depending on how fit you are, and whether there is any underlying medical condition, five to seven days is the average length of time, for most of which the subject is asleep, resting. It’s not at all violent; in fact it’s very peaceful. You just slip away in your sleep.’
They were both staring at me.
‘If any of them had changed their minds about dying, they could have got themselves a drink of water. They were in their own homes. Some of them still had food in the fridge, in the cupboards. They could have changed their minds at any point. But they had chosen their path. All I did was make it easier for them to continue.’
‘Were you there when they all died?’
‘No. It was a private moment for them. Usually once they lost consciousness I left them alone.’
‘But you went back?’
‘I went back to make sure they had achieved their goals.’
They looked at each other. I waited for them to ask if I went back again after that, because if they had asked that question I would probably have responded with an untruth. But, fortunately for me and my dedication to the truth, the notion of someone voluntarily spending time with decomposing human flesh was one that was beyond their comprehension.
‘Let’s go back to the phones you used, Colin. You have admitted that you used different SIM cards for each of the – er – people you met.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You suppose so?’
‘Alright, then, yes.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘It was a way of keeping track of everyone I’d met.’
‘Seems a complicated way to go about it. Why didn’t you just save their numbers in the contact list on your phone?’
‘I don’t keep contacts in my phone. You may have noticed.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I just prefer to keep things separate, that’s all.’
Lewis sighed, something I recognised as heralding an imminent change of direction.
‘Your phone has also been linked with – ’ he consulted his notes ‘ – a further twenty-seven SIM cards, in addition to the ones we have already discussed. What can you tell us about that?’
‘I have no comment.’
‘Come on, Colin. Another twenty-seven SIM cards! It must be a right pain, having to fish them out and change them all the time, isn’t that the case?’
‘Not really. I used the different SIM cards over a long period of time.’
‘And were they all used for the same purpose?’
‘To keep in contact with people, yes.’
‘Am I right in thinking there are another twenty-seven people out there who have yet to be located?’