Free Mummy's Favourite by Sarah Flint Page A

head. Even the smart suit was wasted as the tie and belt were gone and his shirt had been unbuttoned several buttons too low, allowing dark tufts of chest hair to stick out. His arms were folded in front of his body and his legs splayed wide. He was clearly trying to dominate the space. Charlie would have found it funny if it hadn’t been Hubbard. As it was she eyed him with a mixture of pure hate and amusement at his bravado.
    â€˜You have been arrested today for the suspected GBH of your son Richard Hubbard who is still reported missing. Do you know where he is?’
    â€˜If I knew that I wouldn’t be here.’
    Ms Leigh-Matthews put her hand on his arm and shook her head.
    â€˜Sorry, no comment,’ He corrected.
    He looked up at Hunter and grinned, his eyes taking on an almost manic quality.
    â€˜No comment, no comment, no comment. There, that’s your next three questions answered.’
    Hunter wasn’t perturbed, after all they’d been expecting it. He just continued with the same line of questioning, pausing after each enquiry to wait for the same answer. When had he last seen Richard? Had he heard from them at all? Was he aware of them spending any money, or using a credit card? What clothes had they taken?
    The same old, same old. Hubbard made it clear he wasn’t impressed at being asked the same questions as before, but Hunter pressed on irrespective, determined to get any answer, positive, negative or neutral on tape. It didn’t matter that Hubbard wasn’t giving anything away. Despite being instructed otherwise, they both knew that members of a jury would subconsciously infer guilt. Surely if he was innocent he would tell the police everything he knew so that they could find his wife and son?
    And then Hunter started getting down to the details. Was he aware of Richard having any illnesses, being hospitalized? Did he play sport, do any dangerous activities that could cause injury? If he had injured himself where, when, how? Was he aware of Richard bleeding recently? Some of his blood had been found. Did he know where that could have come from? Had he seen him with any cuts? If he had cut himself, where in the house could the blood have been? Who had cleared it up and when? Had he cleared it up, scrubbed it clean at the time? Or had he cleared it up when he’d scrubbed the house from top to bottom the weekend his wife and son had gone missing? Had he caused the blood, hit him, cut him, hurt him? Maybe it was an accident? Maybe it wasn’t? Had Richard been winding him up? Maybe Julie had been goading him and he’d taken it out on Richard? Because he had a history of snapping, didn’t he? Hitting Julie? And others?
    She was staring at Hubbard intently now, watching for every twitch of his face, every slight flicker of guilt. His practised nonchalance couldn’t hide his true emotions. And Hunter was winding him up. There was no doubt about it. His cheeks were taking on a redness that hadn’t been there at the beginning of the interview. His hands were twitching, balling into fists randomly as he tried to relax, breathe slowly, keep control. Hunter’s craft was stunning. It was like watching the heat gradually being increased under a kettle on a hob, tiny bubbles at first, then larger, still rising in the same place, then increasing in number, size, until the whole surface of the water was alive with frothing, raging water, rising up the sides, ready to explode into the air, a living boiling geyser of hate.
    Hadn’t he been the one to snap, lash out at Richard? Well hadn’t he?
    He was twisting and turning now, looking from Hunter to her then back to Hunter. Ms Leigh-Matthews wriggled uncomfortably too, but what could she say? Hunter’s voice remained quiet, probing, almost offering him excuses. He could never be accused of bullying him, not when he was so calm and reasoned. She allowed a tiny smile to play on her lips at how good he