by Simon Lelic
I expel a breath—shocked, relieved, I don’t know. I only vaguely register the inspector’s tone, the fact that she’s watching me now more closely than ever.
“So Syd’s father . . . he confessed? Is that why I’m being released?”
The inspector repositions herself so she’s leaning against her chair back. “At the moment he’s not saying anything. Mainly, I think, because there’s not a lot he can say. But the CPS are all over him. No one over there seems to be in any doubt. The knife he used on Syd tallies with the wounds inflicted on Sean Payne. And forensics did a sweep at the place Syd’s father was staying. Her mother’s flat. They found blood traces on the sole of one of his shoes that on initial examination correspond with Mr. Payne’s. We’re still waiting to confirm the DNA results, but no one’s expecting any surprises. Also, his ex-wife retracted the alibi she gave him. Said she’d only offered it in the first place because she’d been coerced.”
It takes a moment for it all to sink in. “So that’s . . . I mean, that’s everything. Right? You’ve got him, regardless of whatever story he eventually comes up with.”
“Basically. Yeah. We’ve got him.”
I puff my cheeks and focus on breathing. After a second or two I get to my feet.
“So what are we waiting for?” I say. “Let’s go. Can we? To the hospital, I mean.”
“Slow down, Jack. I told you, we need to wait for the paperwork to come through.”
And I don’t know if it’s just the way she’s looking at me when she says it, or the echo of some of the phrases she used before, but all of a sudden I get a whiff of bullshit. I mean, we just need to wait for the paperwork to come through. I’ve used that very line myself, when I was being badgered by a particularly impatient client, or harassed by an overzealous landlord. It’s a stalling tactic. Not even a particularly veiled one.
“This ‘paperwork,’” I say, pronouncing the quotation marks. “How long is it going to take?”
“We’re just waiting for a final signature.”
“One signature? So why don’t you just . . .” I stop myself. “Whose signature?”
“Well. Mine.”
When she answers, it’s all I can do to stand and stare.
The inspector links her hands together in her lap. “Please, Jack. Sit back down. I just want to have a little chat with you, that’s all. Give me . . . half an hour. Maximum. By that time your solicitor should have arrived and we can get you on your way to visit Syd.”
There’s no way I can sit. “My solicitor knows what’s going on? He knows I’m supposed to be released?”
“I believe someone’s telephoned him, yes.”
Translation: my solicitor’s being stalled as well. Even in the circumstances, I have to laugh.
“We can wait for him, of course. If you prefer. It’s your right to refuse to speak to me at all. But I was hoping we could take this time to talk. Off the record—which means anything we discuss will remain strictly between us.”
Somehow I doubt that. But the message she’s giving me is clear: the sooner I agree to what she’s asking, the sooner I’ll get to see Syd.
“The charges against me. They’re being dropped no matter what?”
“No matter what,” Inspector Leigh repeats. “You have my word. Nothing we talk about here will alter that.”
“And you’ll take me to see Syd? Today. That’s definite?”
The inspector gives a single nod.
I don’t know why I’m even contemplating trusting her. But two days Syd’s been lying in that hospital bed. And the fact that I haven’t been to see her . . . I mean, I realize the circumstances are somewhat different, but she must feel the way I did after she failed to come and visit me.
“Thirty minutes. To talk about what?”
“To talk about the truth, Jack. About what you and I think really happened.”
At first I don’t offer a response. I’m thinking again about the phrases the inspector used earlier. So it would seem, she said. That’s the way it’s looking right now. As though even as she was recounting her version of events to me, Inspector Leigh didn’t actually believe a word.
“You know what happened,” I say. “You’re the one who’s just been telling me.”
Inspector Leigh studies me for a moment, then appears to come to a decision.
“Before we get into this, Jack, I just want to make clear: I never believed you murdered Sean Payne. And I don’t believe you’ve been involved in anything else that’s been going on either.”
“Anything else that’s been going on? What are you talking about? And if you didn’t think I was guilty, why the bloody hell did you arrest me in the first place?”
“I didn’t. Remember? For a long time I didn’t, even though we found your driver’s license at the scene. Because of that, actually. It was as you said: it just seemed too obviously like a plant. But you wouldn’t believe the grief I got for fighting your corner.”
“Is this the point I’m supposed to say thank you?”
“Of course not. I’m just trying to explain, that’s all. Even if I hadn’t witnessed your reaction when I came in here—when I told you what happened to Syd—I would never have believed you were part of this. That’s all I’m trying to make clear.”
“But part of what?”
Inspector Leigh leans forward in her seat. The only time she takes her eyes off me is when she blinks.
“Part of Syd’s plan, Jack. Part of her scheme to frame her father for Sean Payne’s murder.”
I don’t respond. And then, for a second time, I splutter out a laugh. Neither reaction appears to take the inspector by surprise.
“Let’s go back to what you told me,” she says, reclining. “You and Syd. The events you recounted in your . . . statement, let’s call it. Everything you told us, it checks out. We even found that cat you buried in your back garden.”
“You dug up the cat? When? Why?”
“And we found Evan Cohen, too. The estate agent? And you were right. He was up to his eyeballs in debt, some of which he managed to pay off recently with a large chunk of cash. Turns out he’s built up another juicy pile of debit slips in the time since then, but that’s a whole different story. The point is, he confessed to all the things you accused him of. He accepted money from Syd’s father. He engineered it so you and Syd got the house.”
“So we told you the truth. Right? That’s what you seem to be saying.”
“That’s not what I’m saying, Jack. I said your story—everything in your statement, that is—checks out. But it’s from the point your statement ends that the evidence becomes thinner.”
“Thinner?”
To Inspector Leigh it must appear as though she’s losing me. “Let me spell it out for you, Jack. I believe Syd’s father was trying to hurt you both in the way you claimed. The house, what happened to you at work, all the things that came between you and Syd. I believe he was responsible, and for what it’s worth I think the man’s a scumbag who should never have been released on parole.”
“But?” I prompt.
“But,” the inspector concedes, “I don’t believe he murdered Sean Payne. That scene Syd described when she went to her mother’s house, when she saw her father standing there in the hallway? I believe that’s the point your girlfriend took over. Took control, if you prefer.”
There’s a pause as Inspector Leigh allows me to take this in.
“You’re saying . . . What are you saying? Are you saying that Syd . . . that she was the one who . . . that she committed murder, for Christ’s sake?”
Inspector Leigh doesn’t try to sweeten it. “That’s right, Jack. That’s exactly what I’m saying. And afterward—and after she’d acted to make sure you were well out of the way—she lured her father to the house so she could make it look like he tried to kill her. Using the very knife
she used on Sean Payne.”
Again she watches closely for my reaction. Seventeen stab wounds, I’m thinking. So much anger. So much hurt.
I say, “First off, a, that’s bloody ridiculous. And, b, what possible reason could you have for suspecting Syd? You just told me you believed us about everything her father’s been doing, and you heard all the things he used to do to Syd when she was young. If you accept that he was capable of all that, then why is it suddenly so hard to believe that he’s capable of murder?”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t capable, Jack. What I’m saying is that Syd got there first. And that’s the beauty of her plan, that it fits in so neatly with all the rest of it. Syd felt trapped. Terrified. Her father’s back and he intends to hurt her, so she needs a way of turning the tables. Of entrapping him. And let’s not forget Elsie. In Syd’s mind Elsie was in as much danger as she was, and this way she got to save Elsie, too. Because that’s how Syd would have seen it, Jack. Like as much as for herself she was doing it for Elsie. It’s all there in her statement. Maybe not in quite so many words, but her motive, her rationalization, it’s all right there.”
“Her motive? Jesus Christ.” I’m shaking my head now. It’s possible I might even be smiling.
“That was half the problem when Syd was younger, right? There was never enough evidence of what her father did to her. No one helped her, no one intervened. But this time the evidence was already established. All Syd had to do was come up with a way of using it.”
“But where’s this coming from? What is it that’s got you thinking like this in the first place?”
The inspector adjusts the way she’s sitting, hooks one suited leg across the other. “The thing that finally convinced me was the knife wound. The position of it, for one. Also, the doctors refusing to rule out the possibility that Syd’s wound was self-inflicted.”
“Wait. They said it was self-inflicted? Or that it could have been?”
“They said they couldn’t be certain either way.”
“But that’s . . . I mean, that doesn’t prove anything. Did you check it for prints? The knife handle.”
The inspector shows her amusement, presumably at the fact I’m trying to tell her how to do her job.
“There were no prints on the knife whatsoever. But she could have wiped them off, or wrapped her sleeve over the handle before she used it, and even if her prints were on the knife, she could have claimed she’d grabbed it when her father came at her.”
“What about her father’s prints? Did you check for those?”
“There were no prints whatsoever, Jack. Although . . .”
I frown at the inspector’s hesitation. “Although what?”
“Although we found some leather gloves in the alleyway behind the house, near where Syd’s father was apprehended.”
“So he tried to ditch them. Right? So there you go, then! He was in the house, running away from it, and the whole time he was wearing gloves. I don’t know about you, but it doesn’t sound to me like he’d stopped by for a cup of coffee.”
“He was there, yes. But in my opinion only because Syd wanted him there. Because that’s another thing, there was no sign of forced entry. There was a set of keys on the floor in the bedroom, but none fit any of the doors. They match another set we found in the house, so maybe they were the keys Syd’s father used before you installed new locks, but this time if he wanted to come in, Syd must have let him.”
“Or maybe she just forgot to lock up. Did it occur to you she might just have forgotten to lock up?”
Inspector Leigh looks at me like we both know the likelihood of that. “Frankly, Jack, I’ve had my doubts about that girlfriend of yours for quite some time now. Don’t get me wrong. I think she’s played her role brilliantly. Like when the two of you came to see me with that statement. She was just the right amount of angry. Afraid, but not so afraid that we would offer her protection, because that would have ballsed things up for her nicely. And the tone she used in what she wrote, the fact that she wrote everything down in the first place . . .”
“But that was my idea! To write things down.”
“Maybe it was. Maybe you only think it was. But either way it doesn’t matter. It suited Syd in the end either way. And besides, think about why writing things down felt so important to you. Because you didn’t believe Syd’s father was responsible. That’s the impression I got. Was I wrong?”
“No, but just because I had my doubts at first doesn’t mean I have them now. And what about the fact he doesn’t have an alibi? You said Syd’s mother retracted her statement. Right? So that just proves it. She was lying before because Syd’s father made her, and now that she’s safe she feels free to tell the truth.”
“I agree that’s how it looks,” the inspector says. “On the other hand, put yourself for a moment in Syd’s mother’s shoes. If you’d failed to protect your daughter the way she failed, wouldn’t you do anything you could to make amends? Offer anything your daughter needed. Do anything—everything—she asked?”
“You’re claiming Syd told her to change her story?”
“I am. Probably she wouldn’t have even needed to explain why. A promise would have been enough, that afterward her ex-husband would be out of both their lives forever. As for the evidence we found in Syd’s father’s belongings, the blood traces on his shoe, Syd could have planted it without her mother even knowing.”
I open my mouth, but there’s nothing I can say. I’ve been standing all this time, and all of a sudden I’ve never felt so exhausted. I move the chair I was in before and drop into it.
“Jack . . .”
“Look, I . . . I don’t know what you expect me to say. I don’t know what it is you expect me to do.”
“Just what’s right, Jack. That’s all.”
“What do you mean, what’s right? Nothing about what you’re saying is right!”
“Listen, Jack. Syd’s father, he’s likely to go to prison for a very long time. He’s fifty-seven now, which means it’s unlikely if he’s convicted that he’ll ever get out. And I’m not expecting your sympathy. As I said to you, I agree the man’s a scumbag. But he didn’t do this, Jack. He didn’t kill anyone.”
“But even if that’s true—and I’m not saying it is—but even if it’s true, what I’m asking is what you expect me to do about it?”
“You’re the person best placed to refute Syd’s story, possibly even to convince her to come clean. Maybe we can put some pressure on her mother, but even if she cooperates, I doubt very much her testimony will be enough. But you . . . you’ve seen it all, witnessed it all. And you’ve got a chance to do what’s right. To put things right. That’s what I need from you, Jack. That’s why I’m here.”
Inspector Leigh gives me time to think. Time to recall all the doubts I’ve ever had about this person she’s convinced is responsible for the death of another human being.
“She gave you up, Jack,” the inspector says. “Syd’s the one who planted your driver’s license. She’s the reason you got sent to prison. And let’s not forget, if things hadn’t worked out the way she wanted them to, you would have been the one to take the fall. She’s dangerous, Jack. And I’m sorry to be blunt, but she doesn’t love you. If she did, she wouldn’t have put you through this.”
Again she lets that hang in the air between us. And I can see that. I can see how it must look to Inspector Leigh. In fact, she isn’t saying anything I haven’t already told myself.
“I spoke to your parents,” she tells me, changing tack.
I look up. Until she spoke again I’d been staring at the carpet.
“Not about this,” the inspector goes on. “Just to try to get a sense of who you are. Of your values. And I can tell your parents mean the world to you.” She allows a pause. “I’m right, aren’t I, Jack? That your parents mean the world to you?”
Slowly, lik
e a reflex, I nod.
“So think about them. Think about what your helping me will mean to them. After this. After seeing you in here. Think about how proud they’d be of you for finally doing the right thing.”
It’s true what I’ve often thought about Inspector Leigh. She can read people better than anyone I’ve ever met. The way she’s speaking to me now, for example; there’s nothing in the world she could say or offer that would be more likely to persuade me to agree.
I take a moment to check around the room. Not an interview room, I remind myself. Not a cell. And the inspector, she’s sitting there across the table from me without any of her usual props. No notepad, no tape recorder, nothing. And there’s no one else on her side of the table. Like me, she’s in here all alone.
“You’re the only one who thinks this way,” I say to her, “aren’t you?”
The inspector, at that, can only frown.
“None of your colleagues believe you. Even DC Granger. He’s not on board with this either, is he? Would you get in trouble if your bosses knew you were even speaking to me?”
Inspector Leigh, for the first time since I met her, appears suddenly unsure of herself. “I don’t see—”
But she doesn’t get the chance to finish her sentence. There’s a commotion in the corridor and then a knock, which is cut short when the door swings wide.
“. . . an outrage,” the man who enters is saying, whether to the guard behind him or the room ahead of him is unclear. “I should have been informed about this hours ago, the moment it was authorized.” The man looks at me. “Up you get, young man. We’re leaving.”
Inspector Leigh inserts herself between us. “Who the hell are you?”
The man straightens his shoulders. Appears to anyway, because his tie is crooked and his overcoat is crooked, so it’s hard to tell whether any part of him is actually level. Even so, he manages to grow another inch, so that his crown reaches the height of Inspector Leigh’s scowl.
