Bleed for Me (11 page)

The incident room is on the third floor. Most people take the stairs because the lift moves slower than a French tractor. Ronnie Cray’s office has no photographs. No certificates. No trophies. Instead there are files stacked against every wal like she’s building a child’s cubby house. Perched on the windowsil is a stuffed parrot, as forgettable as a fairground prize, yet I wonder how she got it. Who in her life gave her such a gift?

Sitting at her desk, she squints as she reads a statement. She needs glasses but won’t get her eyes checked because she refuses to succumb to any sign of diminishing faculties.

More than thirty-six hours have elapsed since Ray Hegarty was murdered. Detectives have gone door to door in the vil age, while others have tracked down family, friends and col eagues, piecing together his last movements.

Sienna is out of hospital - waiting downstairs in an interview suite.

‘How should I do this?’ Cray asks.

I look at the coffee in my hand, the cup is rattling in the saucer. I need both hands to hold it steady. Over the years I have had dozens of children in my consulting room, many of them damaged, vulnerable and emotional y traumatised, just like Sienna. Even though she may have kil ed, she has to be treated like a victim, not a perpetrator.

Cray is watching me. Waiting.

‘You talk to her careful y. Slowly. Gently. She’s stil an ordinary frightened teenager. She may deny things at first. She wil have tried to block them out. But any interview wil take her back through every detail. She’l relive what happened, and that’s going to increase her trauma.’

‘How can I avoid that?’

‘Keep the sessions short. Constantly reassure her that she’s doing wel . Be sure of your questions, know what outcome you want, but let Sienna reveal her story in her own way. You can’t treat her like an adult and hammer her with questions or you’l risk pushing her into a deep psychological breakdown.

‘Be very careful about touching her. She might be upset. You might want to comfort her, but physical contact can be very threatening to a child who has been abused.’

Cray interjects. ‘We don’t
know
that she was abused.’

‘You have Zoe’s statement.’

‘Given at her second interview - not her first.’

‘You think she’s lying?’

‘I’m just tel ing you the facts.’

The DCI doesn’t want to get bogged down in claims of sexual abuse. She’s an investigator, not a judge.

I tel her to avoid asking closed questions until later in the interviews, when the detail required is very specific. Until then, invite Sienna to explain. If she says something inconsistent, don’t focus on it. Instead go back later. Importantly, don’t ask the same question twice - she’l see it as a criticism.

‘What about the crime-scene photographs?’

‘Don’t show her. It’s too early.’

Cray goes over the strategy again until she’s satisfied.

‘I want you in there. She’s a minor. You’re an appropriate adult.’

‘What about her mother?’

‘She chose you.’

‘I won’t hesitate to terminate the interview if you browbeat her.’

Cray nods and gathers her notes. ‘Let’s do this.’

Sienna sits with her hands squeezed between her thighs and her eyes fixed on the table in front of her where a can of soft drink is beading with condensation. She’s wearing jeans and a tailored shirt with dark bal et flats on her feet. The shadows beneath her eyes appear permanent.

When Ronnie Cray enters the interview room, Sienna looks at the detective’s Oxford brogues, polished to a shine. I can see her wondering what sort of woman would wear men’s shoes, ignore make-up and shear her hair to bristle.

Cray pul s up a chair and sits directly opposite, unbuttoning her jacket. Sienna eyes her nervously.

‘I’m going to turn on the tape recorder, Sienna. You can answer al of my questions, some of them or none of them, it’s up to you. But if this ends up in court and you then come up with a perfectly reasonable explanation of what has real y happened, the court can choose not to believe what you say, because they wil want to know why you didn’t give that version of events here and now in this interview.

‘This is your opportunity to explain what happened. The interview is being tape-recorded and any notes I take wil be kept and this information can be given to the court if needs be, whether it goes against you or in your favour. Do you understand?’

Sienna looks at me.

‘You just have to say what you remember,’ I tel her.

‘What if I don’t remember?’

‘Do your best.’

‘OK,’ she says, reaching shakily for her drink.

‘Do you know why you’re here?’ asks Cray.

She nods.

‘You have to speak, Sienna, otherwise we can’t record your answers.’

‘Daddy’s dead.’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you tel us about that night?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Just remember what you can.’

‘I’ve been trying, but it’s like something wiped my memory, you know, like on those TV programmes where people say they were abducted by aliens and given anal probes, which is pretty gross. I’m not saying I was abducted by aliens. I don’t actual y believe in little green men from outer space, although one of the doctors at the hospital looked pretty weird. He was fat and had a goatee. You never see fat doctors on
Grey’s Anatomy
or
ER
and you don’t see goatees. I think goatees look like women’s lady parts, don’t you?’

Cray looks total y perplexed. Sienna flicks her gaze from the detective’s face to mine, stil waiting for an answer.

‘I’ve never thought about it,’ I say.

‘I think about stuff like that al the time.’

‘Can we get back to what happened that night?’ asks Cray.

‘It’s like I said: I can’t remember. My mind doesn’t want to go there. There’s a door that I’m not supposed to open, because I’m not supposed to look. Mum used to hide my Christmas presents on the top of her wardrobe. I wasn’t al owed to look there, but that was good stuff. This is bad.’

‘Bad?’

‘Real y bad.’

DCI Cray pul s her chair forward and it makes a screeching sound. Sienna jumps as though someone has slammed a door.

‘Let’s talk about Tuesday, Sienna. Do you remember going to school?’

‘Yes.’

‘You had rehearsals.’

Sienna’s eyes pop open. ‘I need to talk to Mr El is.’

‘Mr El is?’

‘We have a rehearsal today. And I need to get my dress cleaned.’

‘You don’t have to worry about that.’

‘If something happens to Erin Lewis, I’m her understudy. It should have been the other way around. Erin walks like a giraffe.’ Sienna frowns. ‘That sounds bitchy, doesn’t it? I’m trying to stop that.’

‘They’ve postponed the musical,’ I tel her.

She looks relieved.

‘What happened after the rehearsal?’

Sienna glances at me but doesn’t answer.

‘You met up with your boyfriend.’

‘Yes.’

‘Danny Gardiner.’

She nods.

‘How long have you known Danny?’

‘A while.’

‘Where did you meet him?’

‘He was in Lance’s year at school.’

‘Lance is your brother?’

‘Yeah, Danny used to hang out with Lance. Fol ow him around. They were both into cars and motorbikes.’

‘Where did you and Danny go on Tuesday?’

‘For a drive.’

‘Anywhere in particular?’

‘I can’t remember.’

Now she’s lying.

Cray asks the question again, approaching it from a different angle. Sienna obfuscates and becomes deliberately vague, either covering her tracks or protecting someone.

‘Do these belong to you?’ Cray pul s a plastic bag from beneath the table. It contains a pair of muddy jazz shoes.

Sienna nods.

‘I didn’t hear you,’ says Cray.

‘Yes,’ she answers.

‘Do you own a Stanley knife?’

Sienna shakes her head, but instinctively covers her forearms.

‘We found your box of bandages,’ I say gently. ‘You don’t have to be embarrassed. What sort of blade do you use?’

‘It was one of Daddy’s tools. I found it in the garage.’

‘Where is it now?’

‘It should be in the box.’

‘It’s not there,’ says Cray. ‘Do you know where it is?’

She shakes her head and digs her right thumbnail into the back of her left hand, threatening to break the skin.

‘What time did you get home on Tuesday night?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Did you see your father?’

Sienna shakes her head.

‘But he was there?’

She nods.

‘Where?’

‘In my room.’

I can almost see Sienna’s mind begin to wander. ‘I used to share a bedroom with Zoe, but then she got paralysed and Daddy moved her downstairs. I used to dream about having my own room, but now I wish Zoe were stil at home and we shared a room. I’d even put up with her mess and having to share a bunk-bed. When she moved out Daddy bought me a proper bed. He said we didn’t need a bunk-bed any more because Zoe couldn’t climb the stairs.

‘Zoe and Lance hardly ever come home any more. Zoe lives in Leeds with her boyfriend. I’m not supposed to tel anyone that because she doesn’t want Daddy finding out, but I guess that doesn’t matter any more.

‘When Zoe left home she gave me her favourite pair of ear-muffs and her Winnie the Pooh bear, which is humungous.’ She holds her palm out to indicate how high. ‘She won him at a funfair. I can’t remember what she had to do, but she’s pretty good at shooting baskets. She played netbal when she was at school - until the you-know-what happened. When she left home she told me I should leave too, as soon as I could. Sooner even.’

‘Why did she say that?’

Sienna reaches towards the table and runs her finger through the ring of condensation left by her soft drink.

‘She was looking out for me.’

‘In what way?’

‘She told me the places that were safe and weren’t safe.’

‘What places weren’t safe?’

‘In the bathroom unless the door was locked, in the car at night, in the shed, on the sofa and even in my new room if I found myself alone.’

Cray straightens, steeling herself, knowing she has to ask the obvious question.

‘Why weren’t they safe?’

Sienna lays her forehead on her arms and closes her eyes. ‘What did Zoe say?’

‘I’m asking you. Did your father ever touch you inappropriately?’

Her voice is muffled. ‘Not for a long time.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It doesn’t matter any more.’

The DCI looks at her silently, her face tired and poached-looking under the halogen lights.

‘Why did you stab your father?’

Sienna’s forehead rol s back and forth on her forearms. Her eyes are closed.

‘He looked like he was asleep. I thought he was trying to scare me by pretending.’

‘Pretending?’

‘To be dead.’

‘Why did you think he was dead?’

‘He was lying on the floor.’

‘Did he try to attack you?’

‘No.’

‘So why did you hit him?’

Sienna’s mind suddenly switches.

‘I should be sad. I’ve tried to cry. I rubbed my eyes real y hard to make them go red. I poked them to make them water. I want to be able to cry, but I can’t feel anything.’

‘Tel me about the knife,’ continues Cray.

Sienna doesn’t seem to be listening.

‘Do you think Daddy is in Heaven? I used to talk to Reverend Malouf. He told me God had al the answers, but I couldn’t get my head around Jesus rising from the dead. If he came back, why didn’t he hang around and take his show on the road? Instead he went back to Heaven and let people forget.

‘Daddy used to tel people he was an agnostic, which isn’t the same thing as an atheist but I don’t understand the difference. Reverend Malouf tried to explain it to me once. He said an agnostic is someone who can’t make up his mind and get off the fence.’

‘You’l have to talk to us eventual y. It’s for your own good,’ says Cray.

‘Why do people say things are for my own good?’ answers Sienna, fixing her gaze on the detective. There is something in her voice, so old and so tired, that takes Cray by surprise.

Sienna continues, ‘Mum is crying, Lance is angry, Zoe isn’t here and Daddy is dead. What I do or say doesn’t matter.’

‘Yes it does. We’re giving you a chance to explain.’

‘No you’re not.’

‘You’re avoiding my questions.’

‘I’m avoiding the answers. There’s a difference. You want me to remember things, but I can’t.’

Sienna pul s her knees up towards her, holding her shins tightly. She lets her hair tumble over her face. After a long silence, she finds a voice, smal and haunted, belonging to a younger child.

‘Do you know something? When Zoe got crippled she said she was lucky because Daddy stopped trying to touch her. She was his favourite, you know. The sporty one. He was proud of her.’

A groan gets trapped in her throat. Her chest convulses in a flutter of short breaths.

‘I sometimes think that if Daddy’d had a choice, he would have wished it was me in the wheelchair and not Zoe.’

Tears hover and her mouth opens and closes wordlessly. Suddenly she raises her hands and presses them hard against her ears.

‘Can you hear something, Sienna?’ I ask.

‘The rushing sound.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I can’t make it go away.’

She rocks back and forth, digging her nails into her scalp. She’s thinking about the blade. Bleeding. Clearing her mind. Final y she whispers something. I have to lean close to hear the words. It’s a rhyme that she repeats over and over.

‘
When I was a little girl about so high,

Momma took a big stick and made me cry.

Now I’m a big girl and Momma can’t do it,

Daddy takes a big stick and gets right to it.
’

11

The team of detectives has gathered upstairs. Jackets hang on chairs and shirtsleeves are rol ed to half-mast. It’s not a big task force - a dozen at most - mostly men, mid-thirties, ageing rapidly.

‘Twelve is a Biblical number,’ Cray tel s me, when I comment on the number. ‘The twelve days of Christmas, the twelve tribes of Israel.’