‘Were you ever hospitalised?’
‘I had a bit of an episode when I was at college.’ She tried to speak casually. ‘I dropped out.’
‘And you were hospitalised?’
‘Briefly. But not in a hospital. It was a kind of clinic.’ She heard the scratching of his pen once more. ‘It was years ago,’ she added.
‘Of course. Did you go back to college?’
‘No.’
‘What were you studying?’
‘Architecture.’
‘And now you’re a copy-editor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘I’m my own boss.’
‘You like being your own boss?’
‘I don’t like not being my own boss,’ she said, and he looked at her searchingly. She wanted to poke him in the eye.
‘How have you been recently?’ he asked after a pause.
Tabitha shrugged. ‘I’m like everyone. I have good days and bad days. The village can be a bit grim in winter. You know, when it gets dark at four.’
Hartson smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I know exactly what you mean. Why did you move back to the village?’
‘I got an inheritance when my mum died. I bought this wreck of a house. It was a kind of dream I had.’
‘Interesting. How was the dream turning out in reality?’
‘I like the house. I like making it whole again. I like using my hands, making things.’
‘How was your mood in the weeks before the murder?’
‘It wasn’t really any different from usual.’
‘Up and down?’
‘Yes. Probably more up than down.’ That was a lie.
‘And on the day of the murder?’
‘What?’
‘How was your mood that day?’
Tabitha looked at his pen poised above the paper; she looked at his small, wet mouth. She didn’t want to tell this man anything at all.
‘So-so,’ she said.
‘Do you have a clear memory of it?’
‘Nope.’
‘You don’t remember the events of the day?’
‘It’s a bit of a blur.’
‘I see,’ he said. ‘I see.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I doubt that you see,’ said Tabitha. She knew she should curb herself. ‘It was just one of those days. One of those days to get through. Most people have days like that. Don’t you?’
‘This isn’t about me, it’s about you and your mental state.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m just saying I don’t remember much and that doesn’t mean anything. Right?’
Dr Hartson waited before replying. ‘Right,’ he said neutrally. He turned back to the form. ‘Do you have friends in the village? People you talk to about your troubles?’
‘I don’t really talk about my troubles.’
‘Did you feel that returning was a mistake?’
For a moment Tabitha found it difficult to speak. ‘Just at this moment it feels pretty much like a fucking mistake.’
He raised his eyes and looked at her. ‘I meant in the days before the murder.’
‘It was early days. I was doing up the house. I was thinking about things.’
‘What were you thinking about?’
‘What to do with my life. I think that problem has been settled for me for the time being.’
Tabitha meant that as a sour sort of joke but Dr Hartson didn’t react. He stopped writing and looked reflective.
‘I think that’s everything.’ He moved the form. There was another one underneath. ‘Would it be all right to access your medical records?’
‘Can’t you just go ahead?’
‘I need a signature.’ He rotated the form and pushed it towards her.
Tabitha took the pen he was offering and signed.
‘Does everything seem all right?’ she said.
‘It all seems straightforward enough.’
‘What are you going to say?’
‘What would you like me to say?’
‘That I couldn’t possibly have done something like this.’
He didn’t reply. He just gave the sort of smile that people give at the end of a social occasion before they say: I think I’d better be heading off. But in this case it was Tabitha who ought to be heading off. She looked around. She didn’t want to leave this room and go back into the real prison.
‘It doesn’t seem real,’ she said.
‘That’s natural.’ They both stood up. ‘Goodbye, Miss Hardy.’
‘Nobody calls me Miss Hardy. It’s Ms. Not that it matters. By the way, if I’d said that I was suicidal, what would you have done?’
Dr Hartson looked surprised by the question. ‘I would have recommended that you talk to the prison doctor.’
Tabitha was tempted to make an angry response, to say, wasn’t he a doctor? Wasn’t he supposed to help people in distress? But she knew that she needed this man on her side. She walked out from her brief encounter and met Mary Guy and saw the heavy bunch of keys dangling from her belt.
FIVE
Tabitha was in the library. It was still cold, but better than in her cell. It didn’t feel quite so much like being in prison, although through the window she could see a peeling white wall topped with barbed wire. The librarian, tall with bony hands, pale brown hair, welcomed her with a smile.
‘I haven’t seen you before.’
Tabitha nodded, suddenly unable to speak.
‘I’m Galia. I’m glad you found your way here.’
‘Tabitha.’ Her voice came out gruff.
‘And you like reading?’
‘Yes. I’ve none of my own books yet. A friend’s bringing them soon.’
Galia nodded. ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place. I wish more people would use the library.’
Tabitha looked round. Apart from a woman sitting at the table reading, the room was empty.
‘Can I take whatever I want?’
‘If you’re reading in here, of course. If you take books back to your cell you have to sign them out. And if there are particular titles you want, I can order them for you.’
‘Like in a real library?’
‘This is a real library.’
Tabitha looked along the shelves. It was mainly fiction but there was also a true crime section and another devoted to erotica of different kinds and tastes. She turned to the librarian.
‘Is there anything that’s not allowed?’
‘Not really. Except for true crime books about crimes committed by people who are actually in the prison at the moment.’
‘I get that,’ said Tabitha.
‘And books with maps of the local area. But I don’t suppose you want books of that kind.’
Tabitha looked back at the barred window, at the walls topped with spikes and barbed wire. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I won’t try to escape. Anyway, I won’t be here long.’
Galia nodded. ‘I’ll leave you to have a browse.’
Alongside the novels and the pornography, there were a few classics, a large foreign language section. There was a small area devoted to gardening and to DIY, another to well-being. There were books of crosswords and Sudoku, many of which had been filled in. Tabitha found a book about Iceland, a country where she had always wanted to go. She took it over to the central table and sat opposite the other woman. She was middle-aged, with dark hair, streaked with grey and neatly cut, and she wore a skirt and a flecked turtleneck jumper. Tabitha wondered if she was another librarian. She looked at the book she was reading and the woman, noticing, held it up. It was a recipe book.