The Devil's Feather - Minette Walters [107]
“Were the dogs with her?”
“No. She left them in the bedroom…she was worried they’d start sniffing around Bertie.”
“What was she wearing?”
“My dressing-gown. It was too long for her and trailed across the floor. She knelt down to stroke the dog, and—” I sighed. “It all got very messy.”
“What was on her feet?”
“Nothing. None of my shoes fit her. Which is why she asked me to find her boots.”
“But you weren’t wearing shoes either.”
“No, I took them off before I went into the hall. I didn’t want MacKenzie to hear me coming.”
Bagley nodded. “What made you look for Ms. Derbyshire’s clothes outside the office window?”
“Because they weren’t in the office. MacKenzie had kept her knickers—he’d put them in the bag—but there was no sign of anything else. Then Jess told me she’d heard the window open and close after he put her on the footstool…so I raised the sash and spotted them immediately.”
“And you went through the kitchen to retrieve them?”
“You know I did. You found my bloody footprints.”
“Mmm. And during the time it took for you to go outside and return, Ms. Derbyshire was alone with Mr. MacKenzie?”
“Yes,” I said wearily. “We’ve been over this twice already. I ran—you can measure my strides—and when I returned, the only thing that was different was that Jess was sitting in the armchair under the stairs. If you spray it with Luminol I’m sure you’ll get a reaction from the bloodstains on my dressing-gown.”
“You’re very knowledgable about crime scenes, Ms. Burns.”
“I’ve covered a fair number of trials over the years. It’s amazing how much information you pick up from hours of police evidence. You should try it yourself some time.”
It was impossible to provoke him to anything other than displays of polite scepticism, except when it came to MacKenzie’s disappearance. On that subject, his disbelief was total. Yet again, he took me through the sequence of events.
“You say MacKenzie was lying on his side and you could see the duct tape was still firmly in place.”
“Yes.”
“You then handed Ms. Derbyshire her clothes and suggested she have a bath to wash off Bertie’s blood because it was clearly distressing her. She went directly upstairs, and shortly afterwards you heard the water running.”
“Right.”
“You were also distressed by the dog’s blood, so you chose to wash in the kitchen sink before changing into a skirt and T-shirt that were waiting to be ironed in the scullery. And to avoid the blood setting on your stained clothes, you left them soaking in a bleach solution in the sink…because they were ‘whiteish’ and made out of cotton.”
“Yes.”
“Did you expect it to work?”
“Not really, but it seemed worth a try. My wardrobe’s hardly bursting, and it was only dog’s blood. The pathologists will prove me right. I’m sure I’ve read somewhere that DNA is still recoverable after a garment’s been washed.”
“Except we’re not talking about washing, Ms. Burns, we’re talking about bleaching…and all the literature says bleach destroys DNA.”
“Really?” I murmured. “I didn’t know that.”
“Why did Ms. Derbyshire do the same thing? Why did she leave your dressing-gown in a bleach solution in the bath? Was it your suggestion? Did you take the bleach to her after you’d finished in the kitchen?”
I dropped my chin onto my clasped hands. “It’s ‘No’ to the last two questions, and ‘That’s what women do’ to the first two. Every woman in the world has a problem with bloodstains on her clothes. You should watch African girls spending hours at the rivers, hammering away with stones to get rid of them. We’re all programmed to do the same thing…never mind our cultures. Do you have a wife? Ask her.”
“Did you take the bleach upstairs, Ms. Burns?” he repeated.
“I’ve already said I didn’t. There was a bottle of Domestos beside the lavatory in the bathroom. Look”—I paused, wondering if it was wise to continue—“you must see how ridiculous this line of questioning is.” What the hell! I was exhausted. “Peter wasn’t away more than twenty minutes…and the police