Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [137]
It made me sick to hear of the small role Daniel and I had played in this poor girl’s unpleasant death. Daniel and I were the reason Peter had been on the A3 that day.
‘If he hadn’t come to see us, Dinah McNicol would still be alive.’
The policeman across the table shook his head. ‘He might not have got Dinah, but he would have found someone. I’m sure of it.’
Discovering that my ex-husband was a vicious, sadistic ‘serial killer’, as the police were calling him, affected me every single day. I could be washing up, having a shower or driving to view a house and suddenly the realization would hit me and the familiar wave of nausea would wash over me again.
But coming to terms with the dark side of Peter’s personality was actually easier than coming to terms with some of his other secrets.
Each time I was interviewed at Cosham, the police produced new revelations. At first I just refused to believe them, like, for example, when I was told the truth about Peter’s illustrious war record.
‘Your ex-husband was never in the military, Cathy – and he certainly didn’t see service in Aden.’
‘What are you talking about? Everyone knows he did. He’s got the shrapnel to prove it.’
‘Has he really, Cathy? Have you actually seen any evidence of it?’
Of course, I hadn’t. The only time Peter’s war wounds came out was when he used them as an excuse not to do something.
‘He never worked on oil rigs,’ the copper continued. ‘He never ran supermarkets or hotels. In fact, as far as we can establish, he has never held down a proper job in his entire life.’
That wasn’t all. While Peter had admitted to being married once before when I’d asked, in actual fact he had two ex-wives. I prayed that he’d treated them better than he’d treated me, but, as my contact with the police increased, I learnt they’d suffered as well. Both Margaret Mackintosh and Sylvia Jefferies had also known the fury of his fists and the tyranny of his controlling personality, especially in the bedroom. One vile rape using a knife left Margaret close to death and unable to have children. I wonder sometimes if we should form our own support group, but really we all just want to get on with our own lives. Peter’s claimed enough of our time.
The new versions of Peter’s life came so thick and fast that, after a while, they ceased to shock and I became resigned to the fact that everything I ever knew was almost certainly wrong.
Gradually, though, as 2007 progressed, I realized the police were telling me less and asking the same questions again and again. I kept saying, ‘I’ve told you this. Can’t you check your notes?’ But then I’d turn up again the following week and a new officer would try again. The sessions went on all day – they started as soon as the patrol car arrived to pick me up and didn’t finish until I was dropped off again ten or twelve hours later.
It was so taxing, but I think I could have coped if I’d felt we were getting somewhere. In fact, so many of their questions seemed totally pointless. Once a deputation from Scotland flew down to my house just to show me a purse.
‘Do you recognize this?’
‘I can’t say. I’m thirty-nine; I’ve had plenty of purses. It could be one of mine.’
That was the wrong thing to say.
‘Well, is it or isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve lost loads over the years. I can’t remember them all.’
I thought that would be the end of it, but the policeman in charge had another idea.
‘Where’s your son?’
‘He’s at college.’
‘Can you get him back?’
‘What, now?’
‘Yes, now. If it’s not too much trouble.’
Daniel was only at Portsmouth Uni, but he still had to leave a lecture halfway through.
‘Is everything all right, Mum?’ he asked as soon as he stepped into the room.
Before I could answer, one