Monica turned, distracted. ‘Oh no, I don’t drink caffeine.’ She was that nervy without coffee? Alison would have appreciated a cup of tea herself, but apparently none was on offer.
Diana nodded. ‘Please tell us, in your own words, what happened yesterday.’
‘Oh, it’s awful, just awful. I never could have imagined – in my house!’ That stirred an echo for Alison, something she had once read or seen, but she couldn’t think what. ‘And my rockery’s ruined. Five grand, that cost. Who’s going to pay for it?’
Diana’s sympathetic expression sagged a little. ‘You’ll have to take that up with your insurer.’ Diana was a small and neat woman somewhere near thirty, with shiny black hair pulled into a bun, clear olive skin and quick, dark eyes. She reminded Alison of that US congresswoman, Alexandria something. Young and vital. Alison hadn’t realised she was actually old until quite recently, when she’d seen on her medical file that she was considered geriatric in baby-making terms. Jesus wept.
‘But it’s destroyed! And it was practically brand new! We only moved in six months ago!’
That struck Alison. Was that an odd time to move, while pregnant? Or did it make sense to find a bigger place while you could? She caught sight of a wedding picture on the mantelpiece, noticed that Monica’s hair was the same as it currently was, dark with a Claudia Winkleman fringe, so it must have been taken recently. A shotgun wedding, perhaps, if those still existed. ‘How long have you been married, Mrs Dunwood?’
Was that a slight hesitation? ‘A year or so. Why does that matter? I have officers in my garden, people in white suits tracking over my upstairs landing . . .’
‘Yes, well, could we talk about the death?’ They weren’t using the word murder. Not yet. Not until they could get more of an idea who’d been where that day. Alison was getting the impression Diana also thought it was an accident, but still. She was going to ask questions for as long as she was allowed.
Finally, Monica sat down, perched on the edge of her grey sofa as if about to take flight any moment. She brushed at invisible crumbs on the cushion. Alison passed her a piece of paper. ‘Can you confirm this is everyone who was here yesterday?’
She scanned over it, biting her lip. ‘That’s right. The adults, the five couples plus Kelly and . . . the other one.’ She didn’t seem able to say the name. ‘Eleven apart from . . . you know. But no, that’s not right. Chloe was here too. Thirteen! Oh God, unlucky.’
Alison raised her eyebrows at Diana, whose face remained still. ‘Who’s Chloe?’ She was having trouble keeping track of all these people.
‘My daughter, of course. My other daughter, I mean. From my first marriage.’
The teenager, then. Why did some people have children coming out of every pore, and she had none? ‘And how old is Chloe?’
‘Fifteen. She’s at Beeches.’ Alison looked blank. ‘You don’t know Beeches? Oh, you must not have children then, you’d know otherwise.’ Alison stared very hard at an ugly ceramic lamp, thinking how easy it would be to swing it against the wall and smash it. ‘It’s very exclusive. Chloe’s doing very well there, such a shame she’s been ill, lost a whole term, but we’re making sure she doesn’t fall behind.’
Diana was taking neat notes. ‘What was she ill with?’
‘Glandular fever, poor thing.’ That used to be called the kissing disease, when Alison was young. She wondered what this Chloe was like, how it would be having a mother like Monica.
‘Is Chloe about today?’
‘No, she’s at drama club. Very important to keep up with hobbies, ahead of UCAS applications.’
‘Alright, so your family is you, Chloe, your husband . . .’
‘Ed, Ed Dunwood. He’s a very successful trader, you know.’
‘Right, Ed, and the new baby.’
‘Isabella.’ Monica smoothed her dress over her legs. She’d had a recent gel manicure, and her highlights looked fresh. Weren’t new mothers supposed to be dishevelled? ‘There were four babies here as well, if we’re being completionist about it. And the twelve adults.’
‘Thirteen if you count your daughter,’ said Alison, just to get a reaction, and Monica twitched. Weird. Was she superstitious? Alison’s mother was, of course, but she was Irish, it was to be expected. Salt flung over the shoulder, magpies counted, sign of the cross when passing a church or ambulance. Alison wouldn’t have imagined it here, in this middle-class haven.
‘Right.’
‘Could you tell us a bit about the antenatal group?’ said Diana. ‘How did you hear about it, for example?’
‘Oh. I saw a flyer somewhere, in a cafe I believe.’
‘There weren’t other groups about?’ Alison had been wondering about this. Wouldn’t someone like Monica, with all her money, want to go to a more prestigious group, an expensive, accredited one? With people more like her?
Monica smoothed her dress again. ‘Personally, I think it’s nice to meet a variety of people. It was such a lovely diverse group.’
‘What can you tell us about Chloe’s father?’ Diana was diligently writing all this down.
Monica’s mouth puckered. ‘What relevance does that have?’
‘We have to investigate any possible conflict, anyone with a motive for violence.’ With so many people present, that was going to take a while.
She sniffed. ‘He doesn’t have much motive for anything, Thomas. Lives in Hong Kong with some much younger Chinese girl. Pregnant, apparently, though I suppose they can just get a nanny out there, no need for him to even think about changing a nappy. Of course, he’s forgotten all about the child he already has. Poor Chloe.’
Alison crossed him off the list. It was pretty tenuous anyway – she imagined from this brief meeting with Monica that the man was more than happy to get away from his ex-wife, never mind being jealous enough to come here and cause trouble. ‘What was your relationship like with the victim?’ she said. Diana frowned at her; perhaps victim was not the right word, if no crime had been committed.
‘Well, it was fine, I mean we didn’t really know each other, any of us. Just through the group. That’s all.’ Alison waited a few moments, something she found to be very effective with nervous people. ‘Just a terrible accident. We’d had the balcony steam-cleaned the week before – I do hope it wasn’t slippery, or anything like that.’
Alison was about to ask another question, but she heard footsteps in the hallway and a middle-aged man came in, very red in the face to match his trousers. ‘Who’s that blocking the drive?’ Loud, entitled voice.
‘Police,’ said Alison, giving him her best Bolton stare. ‘Mr Dunwood? We’ll need to talk to you too.’
She was gratified to see his expression change. ‘Oh, er, of course, no problem. Did Monica offer you a drink? Tea, water?’
‘She didn’t,’ said Alison pointedly. ‘I’d love a tea in fact. Milk, no sugar.’
Diana was frowning again – these younger officers didn’t drink tea at the houses of suspects, thinking it compromised them in some way, but Alison was parched and hot and more than likely not pregnant, and she was going to take her small comforts where she could get them. ‘So, Mrs Dunwood. Please tell us in your own words everything you can remember.’