by Mike Shevdon
"Can we slip past them? Get away before they realise I'm awake?"
"Well we could, but I think your daughter might be upset if you did."
"Alex?"
"The police called Katherine and told her you were in hospital. They returned yesterday morning and came to see you while you were still unconscious. Alex was very grown up about it, but you could see she was worried. I don't think you can just vanish without seeing her. "
"But what about the police?"
"If you run now, they'll never leave you in peace." She stood slowly and left me with that thought while she went to tell the officer I was awake and to try and rustle up some food for me. As soon as she'd gone, the officer came into the room, nodded once to me and then stood by the door, looking blank and impersonal. "Am I under arrest?" I asked him.
"Not at the moment, sir. But the senior officer would like to speak with you regarding our enquiries. "
"So I can leave if I want to?"
"I think it would be better if you stayed, sir. There's a doctor coming to check you over and the investigating officer is on his way."
I rested back against the pillow, trying to organise my thoughts ahead of the interview I knew was coming. The doctor arrived before either Blackbird returned or the police arrived. She was a well-groomed, middleaged Asian lady who spoke with a light Birmingham accent.
"I'm Dr Agraval. I've looked after you since you were brought here on Sunday. How are you feeling?" She held a torch up to look into my eyes. "Not bad considering."
She took my hands in hers and turned them over, looking at the palms of my hands which were crisscrossed with a lattice of newly formed scar tissue. "Do you always heal this quickly? "
"Not usually," I answered truthfully.
"Hmm. Any headache or disturbed vision? Do you feel nauseous?"
"If I turn my head too quickly, my head thumps a bit, but apart from that, no."
She felt under my chin and around my neck. "Your glands are swollen."
"Is that bad?"
"Not necessarily. With the amount of water you took in, your immune system has gone into overdrive." She put a temperature probe into my ear and read off the digital display. "Your temperature's within the bounds of normal. Can you open your shirt please?" She held the metal end of her stethoscope in her hand to warm it while I struggled with the unfamiliar buttons of the pyjamas they had provided for me, just as Blackbird returned with a plate of sandwiches.
"I leave you for a moment and you're taking your clothes off for another woman," she remarked casually. The doctor ignored her. I guess she'd heard it all before. We went through the routine of breathing in and out while the doctor pressed the stethoscope to various parts of my chest and then my back. I eyed the plate of sandwiches, my stomach making alarming noises. "There's nothing wrong with your appetite, then?" she said. I shook my head.
"You can have those after I've taken your blood pressure. Eating will affect the result."
She slipped the armband up around my arm and began inflating it while Blackbird removed the cling film and put the cheese sandwiches on the table by my bed. After a few moments the doctor released the arm band and declared open season on the sandwiches. They were plain white bread and plastic cheese, but I wolfed them down. They tasted wonderful.
"Anything else bothering you? There are no broken bones, but sometimes a ligament strain can be just as painful."
"I feel a bit bruised," I told her around a mouthful of sandwich.
"Remarkable. I have patients who take months to make this much progress and you've only been here a couple of days."
"I guess I'm just fortunate I didn't take in much water."
"When they brought you in you were unconscious. Your lungs were full of foul muddy water and you were a hair's breadth from dead. We had to drain your lungs and give you oxygen to keep you alive."
"I'm just lucky, I guess." I exchanged a look with Blackbird.
"Beats me," she stood up and tucked the stethoscope into a pocket of her white coat. "Maybe it's something in the water. Maybe we should be bottling it and selling it as a treatment."
"That might not work," I said, chewing sandwich.
"I've seen stranger things, but not many," she said. "Are you up to talking with the law? They're hopping from foot to foot outside waiting for a shot at you. I told them I would see you first, but frankly there's nothing wrong with you that rest won't cure. I'm more worried about them than you. They look like death warmed up. "
"I suppose I had better see them."
She nodded and stood up. "If you get any dizziness or nausea I want to know immediately. I've written you a prescription for painkillers, so ask the nurse if you need them." She turned to leave. "Can I go home?"
The doctor turned back. "I would prefer to keep you in for observation, but I can't keep you here. See how you feel after you've spoken to the police. You may find you tire pretty quickly. Your system's repairing the damage and you may not have much energy for anything else."
She went to the door and opened it. "You can come in now." She nodded to me and left the door open. Two men entered. The first was short for a policemen, but wide with it. He stepped into the room sideways, more out of habit than need. His mid-brown hair was cut short and his dark jacket looked as if he might have slept in it. The second man looked innocuous next to the forcefulness of his colleague. He regarded the room with a passive expression taking in the bed, the chair, Blackbird and me in one sweep. I suspected that if you asked him in a month's time what was in that room, he would be able to describe it all.
"We would like to talk to you about an incident at your flat last Thursday night," the second man said, without preamble.
"Sure. Come in." They were already in, but I wanted to make the point that this was my room, at least for now. "We would like to speak with you alone, please. Constable, would you take the young lady for a coffee or something. You can take a break. We'll come and find you if we need you."
"Sir." The constable held the door open for Blackbird and they filed out, closing the door quietly after them. The stocky man went to the side table and put down a small handheld tape recorder. He pressed Record. "Recording, one, two, three." He stopped the recorder and rewound it, then pressed play. His voice repeated itself from the machine. He rewound it again and pressed record.
"This is Detective Sergeant Bob Vincent with Detective Inspector Brian Tindall." He looked at his watch and then timed and dated the interview, naming the hospital and the ward. "DI Tindall leading."
He turned and sat in the chair by my bed and took out a notepad. The chair was too reclined for him. He perched on the edge of it, looking uncomfortable. DI Tindall walked up and down in the meagre space at the end of my bed. He stopped and looked at me. "Would you state your name, please, sir, just for the record. "
"Petersen. Niall Petersen. "
"Age? "
"Forty-two. "
"Residence."
"I live at one hundred and forty-five Cromwell Road, South Ealing." DS Vincent noted this in his book. "Mr Petersen, we would like to know what you can tell us about the events of last Thursday night. "
"Very little, I'm afraid." I needed to keep this to a minimum. I knew I would find it hard to lie and that they would probably be able to tell if I did.
"You were discovered running down the street in tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt at oh-four-seventeen. You were carrying a rucksack."
"As I told your colleagues, I was going away."
"One of my colleagues is dead. He was attacked by a virulent biological agent in your back garden. His face was eaten away to the point where if we didn't know who he was, forensics would have a hard time identifying him. "
"I'm so sorry."
"Sorry? You hear that, Bob? He's sorry." He strode around and leaned over the bed, grabbing a handful of pyjama and hauling me within inches of his face. "He had a wife and a four month-old baby. She isn't even allowed to see the body. Shall I let her know ho
w sorry you are?" He shoved me backwards onto the pillow and stared down at me. He was breathing hard, trying to control his anger.
"There was nothing I could do. I wasn't even in the garden."
"You didn't see what happened."
"No."
"Or hear?"
"Well, I could hear some of it. They were on the radio. But I didn't know–"
"I quote: 'Tell them not to touch it. Tell them!' That was you, wasn't it?" He leaned over me. "Why did you say that if you couldn't see?"
"I didn't know. I was guessing."
"Guessing!" His face was inches from mine and spots of spittle landed on my face. I daren't raise my hand to wipe it away.
"Is that your usual technique for interviewing key witnesses, DI Tindall?"
The voice was new and came from the doorway. Tindall stood slowly, fighting to regain his dignity as the colour in his face faded slowly. He wiped his hands down the front of his jacket and turned to the door. DS Vincent stood up.
"Only I don't remember reading any of that in the procedures manual and I wondered if I had somehow missed that part."
"No, sir," said Tindall.
I registered the uniform of the man standing in the doorway holding an A4-sized white manila envelope and wondered why Tindall was addressing him as "sir". Then I noticed that the uniform was immaculate. The buttons shone, and the shoulders and collar were covered in gold braid. It wasn't a regular constable's uniform.
"I think," said the man, entering the room, "they can hear you in the entrance hall, two floors down. "
"Sorry, sir."
"And it may be that you need some emotional distance from this case."
"I'm fine, sir. Really."
"Nevertheless, I think you should withdraw. "
"Sir? We were just getting somewhere."
"Really? Was that the part where you were leading the witness or the part where you were compromising the integrity of the evidence?"
There was silence. Tindall looked to Vincent for support, but Vincent wouldn't meet his eyes.
The new officer spoke calmly and reasonably. "I think it would be a good idea if you took a long step back from this case and regained some objectivity. I would like your report on my desk at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow. "
"But, sir–"
"I've just come from seeing our dead colleague's family, detective inspector, and I am not in the mood to debate it." DI Tindall's shoulders slumped. "Yes, sir."
"Get moving. DS Vincent will stay to assist me with the interview."
"You, sir?" said Tindall.
"What?"
"It's just that you don't usually take such a direct interest in a case, sir."
"I have a man in the morgue and another on extended leave for compassionate reasons. Two others are in shock and barely holding it together. That makes me four men down. Can you think of a more appropriate time for me to take a direct interest in a case, inspector? "
"No, sir."
"Good. I'll see you in my office at nine sharp with your report."
"Yes, sir." Tindall took one last look at me and then turned away. The new officer pushed the door gently closed behind him. After a moment there was sharp noise that might have been a bark or a muttered expletive. We could all hear the anger in the footsteps gradually fading beyond the door.
The new officer spoke. "DI Tindall leaves the room. Assistant Commissioner Mark Perkins taking over the interview. Do you mind if I sit?" He indicated the edge of the bed. "No, er, help yourself."
I was unsure if this was a reprieve. Was having an assistant commissioner conduct the interview an improvement or simply a sign that things had just become a lot more serious?
He sat on the edge of my bed while DS Vincent sat uncomfortably perched on the bedside chair. "I think it would help if you took us through the events of last Thursday night. From the beginning, please."
I went back to what I had said earlier, rehearsing the events in my head. Perkins hardly spoke, letting me give my own version of the story. I missed out the bit about my glow and using magic to seal the door, but apart from that I told it as it had happened. When we got to the part where they found the thing in my garden, I paused. "Could I have some water?" I asked.
Vincent passed me the water and I took several sips. They didn't prompt me or pressure me to continue, but waited patiently.
"There was something wrong," I told them. "The power was flickering and there was this strange laughter in the garden. It was freaking me out. I told them not to touch it. I tried to warn them, but it was too late. "
"It?"
"I know this is going to sound strange, but it had a man's voice but a woman's sound. Does that make sense?"
"You're not the only one to say that. Why did you warn them not to touch it?" Perkins prompted gently. "Are you kidding? Have you seen the walls of my flat? It wasn't like that before. Whoever was in my flat did that. If they were in my garden then I was staying well away from it."
"Why didn't you warn them earlier," he asked.
"I don't know. They told me it was safe. They said it had gone."
"Does the name Gerald Fontner mean anything to you?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
He opened the envelope and extracted a photograph.
He handed it to me.
"Do you know this man?"
I studied the picture. The man was almost certainly dead. He was lying on his back amongst garden debris. He wore a suit and looked strangely peaceful. "No. I've never seen him before. "
"Are you sure? Take your time."
"I'm sure I would recognise him if I knew him. I don't."
"This is the man in your garden. His name is Gerald Fontner. He has – had – a wife and two children, lived in Hampstead. Company director for a car dealership. "
"I don't know him."
"What kind of car do you drive, Mr Petersen?"
"I don't. There's no point in having a car in London. There's nowhere to park."
"Do you know why Mr Fontner came to your house that night?"
This was dangerously close to a question I didn't want to answer.
"Maybe that stuff made him crazy."
"Can you think of any reason that Mr Fontner would want to harm you?"
"Maybe he wasn't himself?"
"Do you know what the substance is, on the walls and ceiling of your flat, Mr Petersen?"
"It smelled like some sort of mould." I was dancing around the questions.
"It's mildew. Plain ordinary mildew. We've had it analysed. We had the lab drop everything so we could get early identification of the substance."
"Mildew doesn't do that, does it?" I asked.
"We have a number of theories, Mr Petersen. None of them are very satisfactory. Did you paint your walls with anything unusual?"
"No."
"Have you had any strange substances in your flat?"
"No."
"Was there mildew in it before?"
"No. It was freshly decorated before I moved in. I've only been there a year."
"We have a forensic team looking at your flat. They will find evidence if there have been drugs in the house. Is there anything you want to tell us now? "
"No. I don't use drugs. There's nothing for them to find."
He watched me for a long moment, assessing my reaction. "They tell me that you were dragged from the river, barely alive. How did you come to be in the Thames, Mr Petersen?"
"I don't remember being in the Thames," I told him, schooling my face. The river I had almost drowned in was the Fleet, not the Thames.
"Did someone throw you in?"
"Not that I know of."
"Then what were you doing in the river? "
"Drowning?"
He smiled slightly. "People don't normally go swimming in the Thames. If there is something you have become involved in that's got out of control, then maybe we can help."
"I haven't done anything wrong,"
I told him. "I haven't broken any law."
"You don't always have to break the law to end up out of your depth, Mr Petersen. The police are here to protect the citizens from harm and to keep the Queen's peace. If you are being threatened or intimidated…? "
"No one is threatening me." They weren't. Not now. "Understand that you can talk to us if there's a problem. We may be able to help. "
"Thanks, but I think I'm OK."
He paused for a moment, thinking, then stood up and picked up the tape deck. "Interview ends at…" He checked his watch and recited the time and date. Then he handed the recorder to DS Vincent.
