by Keith Dixon
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
'HELLO, SAM,’ HOWARD said. He’d been watching his American cop shows. When you have a suspect you can call him by his first name because you don’t have to respect him. ‘I wondered if I’d meet you in these environs at some point.’
‘Not my choice.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that, eh?’
My call to the emergency services had summoned five blue-and-yellow checked police Volvos, an ambulance, three other unmarked cars and an hour later, a square forensics van. I was fingerprinted immediately ‘for elimination purposes’, and eventually a couple of sullen plainclothes drove me to Accident and Emergency in Macclesfield for my head to be stitched. Then I was bundled into the back of another police van and driven the short distance to this station, where I was put in a room until Howard turned up with a pair of his colleagues and began re-arranging the chairs before finally sitting to face me. He was a man in his early forties with neatly-cropped hair the colour and texture of patent leather black shoes, and an unsmiling, sarcastic manner. Laura had told me he was thorough and already I knew that he was shrewd and experienced.
‘Ask your questions,’ I said.
‘Oh, thanks,’ he said sarcastically.
He nodded to someone outside of the room and then began to speak formally, introducing himself and me and describing the two other men who were slumped in the corner of the room with their sleeves rolled up. Something was said about an absence of legal counsel under the Superintendent’s instructions. He had the right to deny me counsel because of the nature of the crime. I knew that somewhere two tape-recorders had been switched on, and possibly a video camera as well.
And he did ask his questions. We went through my day. Where had I been and what had I done. Who had I talked to, where had I talked to them, what had I said. When did I go to Tara’s house, what had we talked about, how did the conversation end, what had happened when I left.
‘Good first attempt,’ he said. ‘Now have another cup of tea and let’s go at it again. Oh, and this time, try to mention that you’d been married to the victim.’
I stared at him. ‘You won’t believe this, but it’s irrelevant.’
‘You’re right. I don’t believe it. Convince me.’
We went through it again. I remembered that the sandwich I’d bought had a cheese filling. I remembered the blue Gap tee-shirt of the boy who’d served me, and the number of zits on his chin. I had a better estimate of the time I’d arrived at Tara’s. I remembered more of what we’d said to each other. And actually wished I could take some of it back. The more private parts of the conversation I kept to myself.
His two colleagues, who didn’t seem particularly interested, asked the occasional question but largely deferred to Howard.
They kept it up for three hours or so. Eventually he pushed back his chair and stood. He rotated his neck.
‘What do you make of the note?’ he asked. ‘Mean anything to you?’
He meant the writing on the bathroom mirror—“Where’s the little girl?” I said, ‘I can’t help you. I suppose you’ve checked on the family.’
‘You know anything about her parents?’
‘Do I get a fee for doing your job?’
‘Do yourself a favour, Sam.’
‘I’ve not seen them since we split up. Her dad was something in the Army. Her mother was just someone who stood around looking worried. Have you tracked them down?’
‘Not yet. We think he’s out of the country.’ He yawned loudly and stretched his arms. ‘Take him down,’ he told his silent partners. ‘I’m supposed to be at the golf club tonight. The missus is going to kill me. We’ll talk again, Sam.’
‘I’ll look forward to it. It’s a good way to waste a couple of days of my life.’
I was taken to a cell with a thick black door and a complicated locking device and asked whether I had any food allergies. Ten minutes later a beefburger and chips were delivered to me, which I ate with a plastic knife and fork and a raging headache.
