‘Thought I might find you here,’ says Pauline, walking in with two cups of tea.
‘Just wanted to remind myself,’ says Mike. ‘That Bethany was a real person, and not just a story.’
Pauline nods. ‘I know you loved her.’
‘She could have done all sorts, couldn’t she?’ says Mike. ‘So full of ambition, full of ideas.’
‘Would have left us behind, wouldn’t she?’ says Pauline.
‘You’d hope so,’ says Mike. ‘Do you remember those notes she was getting?
Pauline shakes her head. ‘Made you a cuppa.’
‘Thanks,’ says Mike. ‘What do you think happened though? I mean really happened?’
Pauline puts her hand on his. ‘You know you might never find out, Mike? You know you have to prepare yourself for that?’
Mike looks at Bethany’s face on his screen once more. Looks into those eyes. He’ll find out all right.
Pauline opens her bag. ‘Let’s watch some more together, shall we?’
Mike nods.
Pauline pulls a Twix out of her bag and puts it next to his cup of tea.
Remand prisoners at Darwell Prison are often kept in their cells for up to twenty-three hours a day. Connie Johnson reflects on how inhumane and unproductive that is, as she walks past all the locked cell doors on her evening stroll.
One of the warders doffs his cap to her as she makes her way along the steel walkway to Heather Garbutt’s cell, the clang of her Prada loafers echoing through the cavernous building.
Connie knocks, then swings open the cell door without waiting for a response. This is exactly the Heather she thought it was. Dark hair turning grey, skin loose and pale, but nothing a bit of Botox wouldn’t fix. Connie knows someone who can come in and take a look at her if needs be.
Heather Garbutt, sitting on a plastic chair at a metal desk, gazes up at Connie with unhappy eyes. No shock or surprise. Connie knows the life of a prisoner is one of unexpected visitors and unwanted interruptions. The life of a normal prisoner, at least. Connie has got a doorbell.
‘I don’t have any money,’ says Heather. ‘I don’t have cigarettes. I don’t think I have anything you need.’
Connie sits on the lower bunk of Heather’s bed. ‘You want money? You want cigarettes? I can do that.’
Heather is weighing her up, and Connie knows that is no easy job. On first meeting, people always find Connie affable. Fun even. But Heather has been in prison long enough to smell the danger on her too. So she is wary, and Connie doesn’t blame her one bit. Connie would be terrified in Heather’s shoes.
‘I don’t need anything, thank you. A bit of peace and quiet.’
‘I’ll be gone soon enough. What were you writing?’ asks Connie, tilting her head towards the desk.
‘Nothing,’ says Heather.
‘I’m Connie Johnson,’ says Connie. She gets up, walks behind Heather and starts to knead her shoulders. ‘Good friend, terrible enemy, but you’re in luck, because you and I are going to be friends. You feel very tense, by the way.’
‘Please, I don’t have anything.’ If Heather could make herself any smaller in her chair, she would disappear altogether.
Connie stops the massage, and walks back to the centre of the cell. ‘Everyone has something, Heather. You’re in for fraud, then? Ten years. Must have been a hell of a fraud.’
‘It was,’ says Heather.
‘They make you pay back the money too?’ asks Connie. ‘Knocked a couple of years off? Proceeds of Crime Act?’
‘They asked me to,’ said Heather. ‘But there weren’t any proceeds.’
‘Sure,’ says Connie, laughing. ‘But you’ll be out soon?’
Heather nods.
‘You must be happy about that?’
‘I’m happy when they lock my door at night,’ says Heather.
Connie looks around Heather’s cell. No family photos on the wall. A few prison library books on her desk. One is called
‘What a ball of fun you are,’ Connie says. ‘I can cheer you up. What do you like? Chocolate? Men? Booze? I can get you anything.’
‘Connie, I want to be left alone,’ says Heather. ‘Can you get me that?’
‘I can definitely get you that. I’ll be out of your hair in a heartbeat. I just need you to answer a question.’
‘Where did I hide the money?’
‘No, not where did you hide the money,’ says Connie. ‘Although where did you?’
‘There is no money,’ says Heather. ‘That’s why I’m still here.’
Connie nods. ‘You stick to your story, girl, good for you. No, I need to ask you the other question, Heather.’
Heather looks down at the floor. ‘No.’
‘Chin up, come on, we’re a team. Look at me.’
Heather looks up at Connie.
‘Heather, did you kill Bethany Waites?’
‘I can’t talk to you about that.’
‘Does that mean you did or you didn’t?’
‘It means I can’t talk to you about that. And shame on you for asking.’
