The next day we went to the police station.
My interview was not the big fancy interrogation I certainly was expecting, just a couple of usual questions, and then a couple about the day of the explosion. I answered all without fail for, in my fury last night, I had planned a response for every possible question.
“Why did you go to Rose Cottage yesterday afternoon?”
“Caroline is a friend, I was just ‘popping in’, but we got talking about recent events.”
“About which recent events?” The sergeant eyed me with distrust.
“About the death of Joshua Craig…”
“Her late husband?”
Without sympathy the sergeant filed on routinely, “Can you describe the explosion?”
Here I used the TV news report and lied, but only a little bit.
“We weren’t in the room so I can’t really. But we heard a loud bang and the smashing of glass and something (I don’t know what, but it was made of wood or something) crashing to the floor. Nobody was hurt, and then we called the police.”
There. Word perfect! Take that dumb police officers.
As I was leaving the police station a young policeman in a white coat bustled through the door.
“’ere are the autopsy results, you wan’ed to see, sir,” he addressed to one of the more important looking policemen on duty. I glanced across at the two of them, then did a double take; the Detective there was working on Mr. Craig’s case. I would recognise his toothbrush moustache anywhere!
“And was it as we suspected?” Detective Leonard replied.
“Killed by strangulation, knocked unconscious previously, and with traces of yoghurt undigested in ‘is stomach. As far as we can tell ‘e ‘adn’t ea’en anything else the day ‘e died.”
The cucumber yoghurt? I turned to listen now; something wasn’t right.
“Just yoghurt for lunch? What do you think of it, sir?”
“It was nowhere near lunchtime. Could he have possibly been force fed yoghurt…?”
“Maybe it were poisoned…?”
“No trace of poisons. And why? It just doesn’t add up!”
“Come on Aggie,” my mother called from the car park where she was, by then, standing, “No point staying here…”
Later, at home, I pretended to engross myself in homework, locked myself in my room, and asked, as politely as I could, to be left alone all afternoon. Then, when I was sure I was alone, I pulled a crumpled piece of paper out the handy back pocket of my jeans. The ‘bleep’ of my phone echoed around the enclosed space I called my bedroom.
“Hey Caroline,” I half whispered into the handset.
“Agnetha? Hi, how are you?” She said, to which I, somewhat guiltily, replied, “In trouble! Listen, the police and news report called you Mrs. Craig’s daughter-in-law. At first I thought it was a mistake, but… Well, I dunno. I thought nothing happened? Caroline what’s this about?”
For a moment the phone was silent except for my soft breathing and Caroline’s slightly more rugged one. Talk about fishy.
“Caroline?” I said to the growing pause, “Tell me about you and Joshua; trust me.” Great! Now I’m calling my late IT teacher by his first name .I complained to myself, That is seriously not an improvement into my investigations.