The Girl Who Stole the Apple

‘Load of bollocks, I’d call it, sir.’ The sergeant laughed. They both laughed, like two drinking mates in a pub. But when they turned to look at Maggie, the laughter was nowhere to be seen. You’re a lying bitch, their faces said.

Maggie shivered involuntarily. Forget Ashcroft’s bulldog face, it was more like being in a room with a Rottweiler and a Doberman. She knew her rights, of course, and for a moment she was tempted to demand a solicitor, but she wasn’t someone who liked to cave in. Life had taught her that if you lay down on the ground and said sorry, all that happened was that someone stamped on you harder. It was better to play the dumb innocent until she knew a bit more.

So she leant back and smiled at both of them. ‘I don’t recall making a statement.’

‘You spoke to Detective Constable West last night.’

‘That’s not what I would call a statement.’

Reid leant forward. His right hand began to beat an erratic tattoo on the table. ‘Did you speak to Mrs Gupta after the explosion? Yes or no?’

The vehemence of the question took her by surprise. ‘Sort of,’ she said eventually.

‘Sort of? What do you mean by that?’

‘She was in shock. Not exactly in a mood to chat.’

‘Have you spoken to her today?’

Immediately, Maggie felt guilty. She ought to have rung the hospital at least. She ought to have popped in to see how Mrs Gupta was. She really should have. But what with oversleeping and the detective constable turning up without warning, she hadn’t had a chance to do so.

‘I’ll go and visit her when I’m finished here,’ she said as breezily as she could.

‘No you won’t,’ said the Doberman. She turned. Ashcroft’s shaven bullet head was thrust forward towards her. She could almost see the slobber dripping from his teeth. ‘Didn’t you know, darling? Mrs Gupta is dead.’

Maggie’s stomach turned a somersault. She thought for a moment that she was going to be sick, but the wave of nausea swept through her and then was gone.

‘You mean she died in hospital?’ Neither of the men replied. Maggie blundered on. ‘She seemed to be all right, apart from a few cuts. The paramedic said she was in shock. That was all.’

‘Actually, she died at home.’ It was Reid’s turn. His voice was softer than Ashcroft’s. Perhaps he was more of a bloodhound. He had that drooping face and lugubrious eyes. Maggie wanted to ask about it. She wanted to know how on earth it was that Mrs Gupta had been released from hospital and yet died soon after. How could the doctors have sent her home? What was it she had died of? But even as she was framing these questions in her head, Reid was pushing on. The problem, he was saying, was that Mrs Gupta had died before they’d had a chance to question her. ‘So what we need to know, if you don’t mind, Ms Rogers, is everything that Mrs Gupta told you.’

‘She didn’t really tell me anything. I was just comforting her as we waited for the paramedics.’

But Reid seemed unimpressed. He cut in. ‘To return to your statement to Detective Constable West, you specifically referred to having had a conversation with Mrs Gupta just after the incident. A conversation. DC West was very clear about that. You must have asked her questions. She must have given you answers.’

Maggie shivered. The bloodhound wasn’t as dopey as he looked. She took another sip of tea while she considered what to say. Silence was one option, but she didn’t think that would work with Reid. She needed to say something that would satisfy him and yet keep him off the scent. ‘It was more a monologue than a conversation.’ She spoke slowly, weighing her words with care. ‘Like I said, Mrs Gupta was in shock. I tried to keep talking to her until the paramedics came. I knew I had to keep her awake, like you’re meant to do. I thought maybe she’d banged her head when she fell. You see, I had popped out for a short while—’

‘Why was that?’ Reid interrupted. ‘When I read your statement, my first thought was this: does Maggie Rogers normally “pop out” during working hours, leaving a pensioner in charge of the shop?’

Maggie flinched. She was tempted to give him a lecture on ageism, but she knew that wouldn’t help. But she wasn’t prepared to back off. She leant forward so that her face and his were uncomfortably close. He smelled of stale sweat and instant coffee.

‘I have a friend,’ she lied. Not entirely a lie, but enough of one. ‘He is much older than me. In his sixties. Just a friend. He used to come to the café sometimes. He took a shine to me. Chatted me up. Brought me flowers. It seemed harmless. He asked me out to the cinema, for a meal. He even took me up to London for a matinee.’

‘What did you see?’ Reid asked the question casually, as you might when catching up with a friend, but she didn’t think he was a casual sort of detective.

‘War Horse.’

‘Expensive.’

‘He paid.’

‘So you went to see this guy because . . . ?’

‘He has dementia. It’s been getting worse for a while, so I try to ring him every evening. But yesterday he didn’t answer, so I thought I’d just nip round and see if he was OK and remind him to take his medicine. It was very quiet in the shop. Mrs Gupta is perfectly competent. He’s only a five-minute walk away, so there didn’t seem a reason not to.’ She paused, but only to get her breath. ‘His mobile was out of battery, so I plugged it in to recharge it and then I headed straight back. I was just about to cross the road when I saw Mrs Gupta come out of the shop. She looked agitated. When she saw me she started to hurry across the road towards me. And that was when the shop exploded. She fell over, so I helped her up and tried to calm her down.’

She said much of this while staring at her hands. When she raised her eyes, she saw that both detectives were studying her. ‘What did she say to you, exactly?’ Reid was like a dog with a bone, asking the same question in endless different ways until he got an answer that satisfied him.

Maggie shrugged. ‘She wasn’t very coherent. It was hard to know what she was saying.’