Page 19 of The Tapes
On arrival, Detective Sergeant Cox – call me Zoe – took me through to a small canteen area. There’s a large tub of instant coffee on top of a humming fridge, plus a microwave that doesn’t look as if it’s been cleaned since the millennium bug was a thing. A page of A4 has been taped to the fridge with, STOP STEALING MY MILK, YA THIEVING SHITES written in large capital letters.
Zoe asks if I want a tea, then sets a kettle boiling as we sit around a small table. The chairs have a school staffroom vibe, with metal frames and soft padding poking through holes in the fabric.
‘I didn’t want to do this in an interview room,’ Zoe says as she stands next to the kettle. ‘It can feel a bit formal in there.’
She waits as if to see whether I have any objections. She must know I spent the drive here wondering what this could all mean.
‘Obviously I know this is a shock for you,’ Zoe says. ‘We were stunned, too, if that’s any consolation. The sarge actually called to double-check there hadn’t been a mistake.’
‘It’s definitely Mum’s fingerprints on the gun?’
‘We’re as sure as can be. Do you know if your mother ever owned a gun?’
‘I don’t think so. She never mentioned it if she did.’
Even as I say such a thing, it’s impossible not to think of her tapes. Mum’s idea of ownership was… fluid, at best.
‘Was she ever interested in shooting?’
‘Maybe when the Olympics was on? I’ve been trying to think but I can’t remember a time she ever talked about guns. It wasn’t part of our life.’
Zoe nods along as the kettle clicks off. She raids the cupboard for a pair of teabags from a giant PG Tips box, then drops one in each of two mugs, before filling. Milk comes from the fridge, although it’s unclear if this is of the ‘thieving shites’ variety, and then Zoe sits across from me.
‘Are yousurethey’re her fingerprints?’ I ask again.
‘We had them on file after one of her arrests. I think she got a conditional discharge – but everything was kept.’
That must be the other reason Mum never called the police when she realised what she had found with that jewellery box. She and the police have history.
Hadhistory.
Of course, so do I.
Detective Sergeant Cox has no notepad, no recording device. To all intents, we’re having a cosy chat over a cup of tea – except it’s never been quite so simple to shake off the vision of police given to me by my mother. She said they could, and should, never be trusted. That they were an instrument of the state,there to put down the working man – and I only had to look at the miners’ strike to see proof. I didn’t know what any of that meant for a long time, but the suspicion stuck.
Zoe sips her tea and then puts down the mug. One of her colleagues has entered the canteen. He strides to the fridge and removes a yoghurt, before making brief small talk with Zoe about one of the cars being on the blink. A couple of minutes pass and then he heads back the way he came, leaving us alone again.
‘I’ve been reading the files this morning,’ Zoe says. ‘Your mother was reported missing thirteen years ago – so this is going to sound like an odd question – but have you heard anything from her in that time?’
It’s impossible not to think of the tapes. Does that count?
‘No,’ I say, and then: ‘You?’
She shakes her head. ‘We’d have been in touch. Her file is open but inactive. Sometimes people come back and it’s never reported to us. That’s why I asked.’
Zoe is staring now and I have the sense that there’s been a long conversation in which I was mentioned.
‘I’ve not heard anything new in thirteen years,’ I repeat.
Zoe pauses with the mug part-way to her mouth, before she sips and nods. My tea remains untouched.
‘There are ballistic tests ongoing but nothing available yet,’ she says.
‘What does that mean?’
‘We’re trying to find out whether the gun’s ever been fired. Whenever we recover bullets from a crime scene there’s a sort of signature that allows us to trace it back to the weapon that fired it. It’s standard when we recover a firearm.’ There’s a pause and then she adds. ‘I can count on one hand the number of times this has happened since I started working here. We don’t really get guns around here.’
I think for a few moments, unable to explain why Mum’s fingerprints are on a gun. I can’t imagine her ever holding one, let alone firing.
