Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [138]
‘Do you recognize this?’
It was ridiculous. The poor boy hadn’t even had a chance to take his coat off. Like me, he had zero recollection of it. Sensing the futility of their errand, the lead policeman said, ‘What if I told you we found it at your father’s house in Margate?’
Daniel shrugged. ‘I was three when he lived there. What do you remember from when you were three?’
On another occasion, a couple of detectives arrived clutching a photo album. When they opened it up, I couldn’t believe it. Each page just had pictures of black sacks.
‘This has got to be a joke,’ I said.
‘It’s no joke, Cathy. We need to know if you recognize any of these sacks.’
I managed to keep a straight face long enough to get through it. Then Daniel was summoned yet again.
‘Do you recognize this?’ they asked, pointing to a particular photo.
‘It’s a black sack.’
‘Have you ever seen it before?’
‘I’ve no idea – it’s a black sack.’
‘Where do you think you would find one of these?’
I think they wanted him to say something like ‘In Dad’s shed in Margate.’ But Daniel answered how he saw it.
‘Where would I find one? Underneath the sink probably.’
I had to laugh. It was all so preposterous, I had no choice.
By 2008 I seemed to be always either playing host to a houseful of plods from various stations all over the country or being chauffeured down to Cosham twice a week.
I’m sure if I’d had a proper 9–5 job I’d have put a stop to it earlier, but because I was self-employed, I could always make time, even though it was really taking its toll. I’d always gone out of my way to downplay my links to Peter Tobin, but eventually I’d had enough. I was out with a group of girlfriends one night and I just flipped and told them everything. It was such a relief to get it off my chest and we shared a lot of tears that night. At the end of it, though, one of my friends remembered what had triggered my meltdown.
‘You need to see a solicitor about the number of these interviews,’ she advised. ‘I bet it’s not right.’
I took her advice, and I’m so glad I did. ‘You don’t have to put up with this,’ the solicitor said right at the start.
‘But they’re the police – you can’t not answer their questions.’
‘That’s absolutely true. But you’re under no obligation to keep answering them.’
Not answering had never even occurred to me. It must have been my grandparents’ respect for authority rubbing off.
‘From now on,’ the solicitor said, ‘if they ask you any question more than twice, I want you to say this: “I’ve answered that question already. If you ask me again, I will consider it harassment and I’ll take appropriate action.”’
‘What appropriate action?’
He laughed. ‘Hopefully it won’t come to that.’
So, beginning the very next day, that’s what I did. It wasn’t easy and I shook like a nervous child delivering her only line in the Christmas play. But I got my point across and that made me happy. I wasn’t going to be a pushover anymore.
I thought that would be the end of my involvement with the police, or at least the start of them winding down their interest in me. But it didn’t work like that. As soon as I revealed I’d been speaking to a solicitor, their attitude towards me changed. Without anyone telling me, I was upgraded from special witness. To suspect.
‘You’ve admitted you were a battered wife,’ one policeman explained. ‘You’ve admitted there were threats made against your child.’
‘Only once – and that was just to control me.’
‘So you’re saying you would do anything to protect your child?’
‘Yes, of course. But not that. I’d never hurt anyone.’
‘Not even if it meant saving your son?’
‘Stop it! You’re twisting my words!’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. They think I’m another Rose West.
Honestly, the things they were intimating were evil. Aiding and abetting a murderer, abusing prostitutes with my husband, taking part in the violence against those girls, grooming Peter’s victims, luring them into his clutches.
After everything I’d been through, this was a real low, low point. And the worst thing was, I couldn