Lottie had taken a step towards the vehicle, instinctively raising her placard, while the rest of the group hung back,murmuring their agreement with phrases like ‘Yes, Lottie’, ‘Preach’ and ‘Speak truth to power’.
The old woman had shaken her head with a look of contempt, muttering to herself as she started to raise the car window. Something – perhaps the frustration of the day or the knowledge that this was the estate owner, the actual perpetrator profiting from this cruelty – had made Lottie move forward again until she was standing in front of the Land Rover, positioning herself in its way. It was the desire to stop just one person from getting away with it all.
The vehicle’s horn had sounded; a long, persistent blaring noise that made the others step away or cover their ears.
‘Get out of my bloody way,’ came the shrill command from the window. ‘Move.’
‘You can’t order everyone around, you know,’ replied Lottie, raising her voice to match the engine. ‘You don’t own me. You don’t own everything.’
The Land Rover inched forward in spurts like an angry beast, its engine growling. It felt like a game of chicken – who would give way first? Until Lottie threw down her placard and reached inside her coat for the packet of fake blood. She hadn’t shown it to the others. It was against the rules, to throw things or be seen to graffiti.
Ripping it open with her teeth she leaned across and sprayed the red liquid all over the windscreen. An appalled sound emanated from inside, followed by a screech of tyres as the Land Rover burst into life. The old woman had stamped down on the accelerator in fury or perhaps confusion and the vehicle lunged forward just as Lottie dived out of the way. They could see the wipers had been deployed but this only served to smear the viscous red across the windscreen further, obliterating the view. They all stood back and watched as the car carried on, careening wildly out of the driveway and into the junction before crashing into one of the nearby trees on the opposite side of the road.
A responsive cheer had rung out amongst the group of protestors at this, the perception of a triumph swiftly followed by a shocked silence as the sound of the car horn continued to blare eerily.
‘Hey. Is she okay?’ one person asked.
‘I hope the tree isn’t harmed,’ said someone else.
Lottie, who had been momentarily stunned by the swift spiral of events, watching mesmerised as it all unfolded, slowly staggered towards the Land Rover. She found the old woman slumped forward over the steering wheel, her head twisted to the side, one dead eye staring outwards. Lottie couldn’t tell whether, in her last moments, Muriel had been frightened or angry. But she felt the accusation in her cold, hard face.
As the inquest finally heard, it wasn’t the collision that killed the driver, although she had suffered subsequent head injuries as a result. It was the heart attack that caused her to crash the vehicle. A sudden and inopportune organ failure. Indeed, the coroner’s report confirmed Muriel Hadlow had a weak heart and was in generally poor health prior to the incident. Therefore it was inconclusive whether the heart failure was brought on by agitation or fear or if this was simply circumstantial. The fact was that the victim could have dropped dead at any moment and should not, by rights, have still been driving given her age plus her many and varied ailments.
Of course, the local papers had labelled the protestors a bunch of crazed killers – an irony when they themselves had been carrying placards printed with the word MURDERERS. Finally they had the column inches they craved but the optics did not look good. And while they had all been subjected to arrest and questioning by the police, in the end no case could be brought. But not a day goes by that Lottie still doesn’t think about it: the look on Muriel Hadlow’s face.
MONDAY
54
Lottie has spent a disturbed night in police custody. She was allowed to have one phone call with Tim – an emotional conversation that ended with him saying that he loved her and that everything would be all right. She hadn’t believed him last night and she feels even less sure of herself this morning. But she knows enough from watching TV dramas that the police can’t hold you very long without eventually charging you with something. And that hasn’t happened yet.
It is impossible to tell what time it is from within this airless building with its artificial lighting, outdated air con and few windows. But she is given some breakfast and then taken from the cells back to the same meeting room for a second interview. She is offered a cup of coffee and this time she gratefully accepts, asking for it to be strong with lots of milk and sugar. The duty officer looks at her sourly as though she has just given a precise order to a barista in a hipster coffee shop.
‘Look,’ says Lottie, as soon as she is sitting face to face with Detective Price and her young male colleague again. ‘This is ridiculous. I haven’t done anything. You can’t keep holding me here without any evidence.’
Detective Price leans across the table. Lottie can clearly see each age spot, line and pore; this is a face that has seen too many early starts and late nights, not enough SPF or moisturiser, too much caffeine and probably nicotine as well if her teeth are anything to go by. Lottie sits back in her chair and tries not to appear as though she is recoiling.
‘Oh, but we do have evidence, Mrs Jenkins,’ she corrects. ‘Plenty.’
Lottie folds her arms in a stance that belies her nerves.
‘Let’s hear it then,’ she says.
Detective Price raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced at this bravado. Instead, she takes a different line.
‘Would you agree that relations between yourself and the Woolfs have not been good since you moved into your holiday rental a week ago?’
Lottie gives a hollow laugh and a shake of her head.
‘Well, it’s no secret that we weren’t happy about finding ourselves right next door to a full-blown house reno.’
‘No, indeed,’ says Detective Price. ‘In fact, we have several different eye-witness accounts that say you were seen arguing with Mr Woolf in a heated manner about the renovation project and on one occasion you took out your frustration on one of his employees from the building site. In fact, you trespassed onto private land and damaged a piece of valuable equipment by throwing it into the street.’
‘They were playing really offensive music, really loud. Don’t me and my family have any personal rights?’
‘Would you say you are a calm, rational person, Mrs Jenkins? Or is it fair to say you have a bit of a temper? Prone to flying off the handle a bit?’
‘What has this got to do with anything? Have you considered what personality traits Tobias Woolf has? Or anyone else in his family? Or in his employment? Or even in this town? Anybody could have started that fire.’
