I shrug. ‘I don’t know.’
He leans forward suddenly. ‘That’s not good enough. You say you thought about it. You have surely some explanation.’
‘I thought she was dramatising – just speaking for dramatic effect. After all, we came here to do a play. They are all actors of a sort, these students.’
‘But not you. You are not a good actress, I think.’
I’m about to say something flippant in reply but I’m disconcerted by the distinctly chilly look he’s giving me. I feel the beginnings of a sort of panic. I felt quite comfortable in my first interview with him, felt that he quite respected me and my views, felt that we were speaking as one adult to another in a crowd of overgrown children, but that’s gone now. And just when I need my mind to be at its sharpest, it has gone sluggish and distracted. I can’t work out where he’s going. He suspects me of something, but what? Playing for time, I reach for my coffee cup and drink down the cold, bitter dregs. Then as it usually does in a tight spot, anger comes to my aid.
‘No, I’m not an actor,’ I say, putting the cup down and giving it a shove across the table, ‘and I’m not trying to deceive you. I have nothing to hide and I resent the implication that I have. Like everybody else involved in this, I’m just trying to keep my head above water.’ (This is a bad metaphor in the circumstances and realising this nearly derails me, but I’m gathering momentum and I speed on.) ’I am perfectly willing to answer any questions you like but it’s been a difficult day so far and I’m not up to coping with hints and suggestions and sneers and nudges and all the rest of it. I’m sure you think you’re being very clever but you’re just taking us round in circles. I’m not a suspect, I’m a witness. I can’t be a suspect. If any crimes have been committed at all – and I’m not sure they have – I was accompanied by a three-year-old child at all the relevant times. So why don’t you just ask me your bloody questions and I’ll answer them.’
‘Why was Wagner blackmailing Asquith?’ He shoots the question straight at me without a moment’s pause.
‘I don’t think he was and if he was I don’t know why.’
‘Did you ask Sophie Forrester why?’
‘Yes, but she refused to answer.’
‘Did you press her for an answer?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘My granddaughter was asleep in the room and I didn’t want to wake her.’
‘Did you ask her again this morning?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘We talked about other things.’
‘What other things?’
‘I asked her why she was up so early.’
‘What did she say?’
‘That she was going for a bike ride.’
‘Why didn’t you ask her about her blackmail story?’
‘I told you, she –’
‘Why didn’t you ask her?’
‘Because she didn’t give me a chance.’
‘Why didn’t you ask her?’
‘Because I didn’t!’ I yell.
‘That’s a child’s answer. Why didn’t you ask her?’
I take a deep breath. ‘Because I thought I might have worked out what she meant.’
‘And what was it you thought you had worked out?’
He is speaking softly and I try to moderate my voice to match.
‘I thought,’ I say slowly, conscious that the story I told myself in the turmoil of my nighttime reflections will probably look lame and ill-formed in the light of day, ‘that she was using blackmail loosely. We all knew that Conrad was furious that James had been cast as Hamlet and he was doing everything he could to undermine him. I thought maybe Conrad knew something, something not criminal but embarrassing about James and was using it to try to get James to give up the part.’
‘Something embarrassing?’
‘Yes.’ I’m sweating now with my own embarrassment as he starts to pick away at my threadbare story. ‘Conrad and Sophie were seeing a lot of each other and I knew Sophie was very angry with James. I thought maybe she’d told Conrad something embarrassing – something private – that James wouldn’t want spread around. He has quite a sense of his own dignity, James.’
He gets up from his chair and takes a turn round the room. ‘And that would mean, of course,‘ he says from somewhere behind me, ‘that Asquith would have no real motive for killing Wagner.’
‘No.’
‘You are very anxious to be helpful to Asquith, aren’t you?’
Ingrid Larsen, who has been slumped in her seat, taking no obvious interest in the proceedings, looks up sharply. So we’re on to this again. I resolve not to rise to the bait.
‘I’m anxious to prevent an injustice,’ I say.
‘You don’t think that is our job?’
‘I think you’re not making a very good job of it,’ I retort, rudely, though I know it’s a bad idea to be rude to policemen. Sorry David.
Mortensen sits down again and pulls a sheet of paper towards him.
‘What were you doing at the castle this morning?’ he asks.
’Having breakfast, initially.’
‘Why there?’
‘I was giving my granddaughter a treat. We were going out for a bike ride afterwards.’
‘And Asquith and –’ he consults the paper in front of him ‘– Porter, were you giving them a treat too?’
‘No. Ray Porter offered me a lift into town as he was going in to pick James up from here, I said we were going to have breakfast in the café at the castle and they decided that was a good idea.’
‘And you all had a happy breakfast together, I suppose?’
‘Not at all. We sat at separate tables. We didn’t even speak to each other.’
‘Really? Wasn’t that a little unfriendly?’
‘You mean, considering that James is my special friend?’ I dart a vicious glance at evil Ingrid. ‘It does rather undermine that theory, doesn’t it?’
He makes a note. ‘We can check that,’ he says. ‘Who left the café first?’
‘Freda and I did.’
‘To go off for your cycle ride?’
‘No, I went in to the king’s wine cellar, where our costumes are being stored.’
‘And where you knew you would find Sophie Forrester?’
‘No! I didn’t expect Sophie to be there. I just found her there. She said she wanted to try her costume on and practise some lines. She’d taken my key to the cellar. I was furious.’
He gives me a long look. ‘As I hear the story from you,’ he says, ‘everyone’s actions are strange and changeable. Sophie Forrester told you she was going for a cycle ride but instead she went to the castle; you planned to go for a cycle ride but instead you went into the castle; Sophie Forrester had the key to the wine cellar but you told the gatekeeper that you had left it at home; Porter came to take Asquith home but instead they went to the castle and, even after they had eaten their breakfast, Asquith was wandering about the castle battlements; Sophie Forrester went to the castle to try her costume on and fell into the moat. Does that sound normal to you?’
‘Pretty much run of the mill, I would think,’ I say flippantly. ‘Very few of my days end up going the way I intend when I wake up in the morning. Do yours?’
He leans forward. ‘You are very quick with your jokes,’ he says. He pronounces jokes to sound like yolks and I have to press my lips together hard to stop myself from giggling stupidly. ‘But when I hear this story, I hear a quite clear set of intentions and suddenly everyone is behaving rationally.’
There is no doubt about his seriousness, nor about the malice in his tone. I am teetering on the edge of a nasty fall and the trick is not to look down. I stare back at him. ‘Do tell,’ I say.
He stays leaning forward, hitting the table with his forefinger as he lays out each piece of his story. ‘Sophie Forrester asks you for the key to the wine cellar and you give it to her. You then set out to follow her to the castle. She is an
angry young woman and she has damaging information about the relationship between Asquith and Wagner. Somebody, you think, needs to keep an eye on her. You meet Porter, who tells you that Asquith is to be released, and you persuade him to take you with him to collect Asquith. This gives you the chance to tell Asquith about the threat from Sophie and you all go to the castle on the pretext of having breakfast. Then you go to find Sophie. You fabricate an argument about the key and force her out into the grounds of the castle, where Asquith is waiting to deal with her. By chance or not, you leave the cellar and arrive at the bridge in time to see her go into the moat.’
One could almost laugh to hear one’s most innocent actions turned to conspiracy, but the look on his face takes away any thought I might have of laughing.
‘Why?’ I ask, and my voice sounds oddly croaky. ‘Why would I? Why would I be going to so much trouble to protect James? And don’t tell me that I’m harbouring some menopausal passion for him. Has anybody – anybody – suggested that there is any relationship of any kind between us, or even that we have ever said more than the most commonplace things to one another?’
That feels a bit better but he is unmoved. ‘I have been finding out a little more about you, Gina Gray,’ he says. ‘I find that you are not only the director of the English Language Department at Marlbury University College, but that you have written articles for professional journals on the theory and practice of language teaching. You are an authority on cross-cultural pragmatic competence and you recently wrote an article entitled, Undiagnosed Cultural Dysfunction and the Ailing Language Learner. Your concern in this article, it seems, is mainly with Muslim students who, you argue, feel that although provision is made on university campuses for their worship and their dietary laws, their culture and social attitudes are in fact disrespected by the dominant student culture, and that this hampers their ability to learn.’
‘Well, yes,’ I say, ‘that’s it roughly. You have rather taken the nuances away but that’s the bottom line.’
‘So that takes me back to the conversation we had yesterday. You were very well-informed about the Harmony Party – others I asked have barely heard of it – and though you claimed you are not a supporter, I wonder now if that is true. If you care so much about the disrespect that your Muslim students suffer, is this not exactly the party for you? And if it is, you would be anxious, wouldn’t you, to stop any disgrace falling on its founder’s son at this delicate time?’
‘There is a difference,’ I say, and David would, I think, be impressed by the quiet reasonableness of my tone, ‘there is a difference between professional concern about anything that gets in the way of effective learning and a personal commitment to a fringe political party. As I said before, I think Islam in most of its current manifestations is deeply antagonistic to women’s rights and progress – and participation in the world, frankly. Any religion-stroke-cultural norm that allows gangs of men to go round beating up women because they don’t like their clothes doesn’t get my vote, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting my Muslim students – men and women – to do as well as they can. I am not a member of Harmony, and it should be quite easy for you to check that out. On the other hand, I was a paid-up member of the Labour Party for twenty years.’
‘Was?’
‘I left when Tony Blair invaded Iraq.’
The words are out of my mouth before I see their consequences.
‘Yes,’ he says.
‘A lot of people resigned over that. They haven’t all signed up to Harmony!’ I’m beginning to shout again. I take a breath. ‘Anyway, this fabrication of yours about what I did this morning,’ I say, hoping to change the subject, ‘point one, Sophie did steal the key from my bag and she will tell you so when she’s able to.’ I scan his face for evidence of how likely he thinks this is to happen, but it tells me nothing. ‘Ditto she did say she was going for a cycle ride – and I saw her set off on a bike. Also, how was it that I planned a murder with James when Ray and Freda were with us the whole time? And, in fact, does it seem at all likely that I would have got involved in any of this dreamed-up conspiracy when I had Freda with me? And as for your suggestion that I went down to the drawbridge in order to see Sophie go into the moat, what possible reason could I have had for taking a three-year-old to see that?’
‘Yes,’ he says, making a note, ‘your granddaughter. We may, I think, need to speak to her. We do it very carefully, we have specially trained women officers who –’
I am on my feet and incoherent with rage. ‘You will not!’ I gasp. ‘You will not talk to Freda!’ I see Ingrid Larsen get up and start to move towards me. If she’s planning to wrestle me back into my chair, then bring it on. At this moment I’d really like the opportunity to hit someone and she’s a prime candidate. Mortensen gives her a glance, though, and she stays still, so I carry on. ‘This is a pathetic attempt to get me to “confess”, isn’t it? You know no court would accept the evidence of a three-year-old. You’re just using this as a threat to bully me and I –’
I am stopped by the ringing of the phone on the table. Mortensen picks up and listens. He barks a couple of short questions which I don’t understand then puts down the receiver and looks at it for a moment. Then he looks up at me.
‘I wonder why,’ he says, ‘you did not tell me that Sophie Forrester was pregnant.’
* * *
It is another two and a half hours before I stumble down the steps of the police station into the light of day. At the end of it, after all the threats, assertions, demands and general harassment, Mortensen was forced to admit what I kept grimly insisting – that there was not as yet a single piece of evidence to link me to anything criminal at all. And what I have kept thinking – what has kept me sane, in fact – is that this is how policing works in Denmark, isn’t it? I have seen Sarah Lund work like this in The Killing haven’t I? She gets a theory and pursues a suspect until either the suspect produces a cast iron alibi or the evidence can’t be made to fit or another suspect appears in the frame. Then the first suspect is off the hook and the next one is reeled in. So, I’ve had my turn and now I’m off the hook, I tell myself as I stand blinking in the late afternoon sunlight.
They have taken my phone, though. In theory, I surrendered it voluntarily but I think they would have arrested me if I hadn’t. I mind losing the phone more than I minded losing my passport, really. The passport is symbolic, of course, but practicality trumps symbolism almost every time and being without my phone is wretchedly inconvenient. I shall have to borrow Annie’s phone to talk to Ellie. Mr Christodoulou will have to wait, though I would like to know what he wants to thank me for. Is it possible that he was being ironic?
On the bus home I’m still fizzing with adrenalin and caffeine (I got a second cup of coffee this afternoon, but I’ve had nothing to eat since the breakfast pancakes). At some point I shall feel exhausted, I suppose, but at the moment I’m busy composing my account of my interrogation to email to David later on. As I tell it to myself, it’s really quite amusing and I manage to omit any suggestion that I was, at any time, at all frightened.
* * *
Back at the villa, I find Annie and Freda on the beach. Freda is working industriously to bury her aunt in damp, gravelly sand. At the sound of my voice, Annie sits up and springs to her feet, shaking sand off herself like a wet dog. She looks at her watch and scowls at me.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’ve been in the police station all day and they’ve taken my phone, so I couldn’t let you know anything.’
‘Taken your phone?’
‘Yes. So I wondered if I could –’
‘I’m going to have a shower,’ she says, not listening, ‘and then I’m going up to the hospital.’ She moves away and then half turns back. ‘Ellie’ll be here tomorrow evening,’ she says and runs up the steps into the garden.
Freda brandishes her spade at me. ‘Shall I bury you?’ she asks.
‘Freda, my darling,’ I say, ‘that’s the best offer I’ve had all d
ay, but I am very hungry. I haven’t had anything to eat since we had our pancakes. Shall we go and find some tea?’
‘I’m not hungry,’ she says, but she takes my hand and we walk into the house.
‘Did you have yummy food with Auntie Annie?’ I ask as I scour the kitchen cupboards for something quick and comforting.
‘Yes,’ she says, but then adds, ‘but I can’t remember what I had.’ This I take to mean that I would disapprove of her day’s food intake and she has been sworn to secrecy. Sorry, Ellie, I apologise silently.
I find a stash of baked beans and make myself a plateful of beans on toast with a lot of butter on the toast. I persuade Freda to drink a glass of milk and to share an apple with me for pudding, which makes me feel a bit better. As we are finishing, Adam comes in.
‘Ah, Gina,’ he says, ‘I haven’t seen you all day.’
‘No. I’ve been at the pol –’
‘Anyway, I’ve found you now.’
Why is it that I’ve become inaudible all of a sudden?
‘The thing is,’ he says, ‘Sophie’s mother is arriving tomorrow and –’
‘Has there been any news of Sophie?’
‘What? No, nothing. But her mother rang to say she’s coming and I wondered if you could – you know – take charge of her.’
‘Take charge of her?’ I ask, busying myself with washing up my plate and glass.
‘Well, she sounded pretty anxious on the phone and she hadn’t thought about where she was going to stay or anything, and I just thought if you could –’
‘Take charge of her.’
‘Yes.’ He runs a hand over his unshaven face. ‘The thing is, Conrad’s father is arriving on Sunday.’
‘J.C. Wagner in person?’
‘Yes. I knew he wanted the – Conrad’s body taken to Oxford for the funeral. The police told me that. I assumed he would send a minion to deal with it but he’s in Europe already, apparently. It seems he had been planning to come and see the show.’
One May Smile Page 13
