by Pip Drysdale
‘What?’ I said, my shock genuine. ‘What evidence?’
‘We think someone was there,’ he continued.
‘Oh my God,’ I said, putting down my cup. ‘That’s awful.’ My hand had found its way to my mouth.
Do not put your hand over your mouth or touch your nose. Those things make people think you are lying: body language 101.
Detective Rouhani was watching me. Her eyes were on my hand.
‘We just have to rule things out,’ offered Detective Stowe.
‘So, what were you doing when he fell, on the night of Thursday, February twenty-third?’ Detective Rouhani stepped in. No warning. Bam. Like fireworks at midday.
I felt saliva pooling in my mouth.
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ she added with kindness. But the kindness was in her voice, not in her eyes. They had changed in the past twenty-four hours – now they suspected me. I could feel it. ‘This is just standard protocol.’
Bullshit. That was what she said about the DNA swabs. What have they found?
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Angus and I had just broken up again, I was upset and staying with a friend – two friends, actually, Ben and Charlotte – and so I went to yoga. It’s supposed to calm you down,’ I said, taking a sip of my tea.
‘Right,’ she said, eyes to her pad. She wasn’t holding a pen. Not yet. She was just reading from it.
‘And that was at what time?’
‘The class started at 6.45,’ I said.
‘And then you left the class at what time?’ she asked, her eyes burning into me. Like they could see the truth I was hiding.
‘Well,’ I said, steadying my gaze on hers, ‘they last around an hour and fifteen and then there’s about ten minutes fiddling around in the change room afterwards, so around 8.10 I guess.’ Then I attempted a smile. I took a sip of tea and Detective Stowe smiled back at me.
It was a struggle but I was controlling my breath.
‘And then where did you go?’
‘Home – to Charlotte and Ben,’ I said. ‘Like I said, I was staying with them. I still am. I don’t really want to be alone – I just came back this morning to grab more clothes.’
‘We’re lucky to have caught you, then,’ said Detective Stowe, trying to be merry.
‘Yes.’ I smiled back at him, shifting my weight. The chair wobbled.
‘It’s just that, like we said, we’ve found new evidence. A button. There was a button found on his balcony,’ said Detective Rouhani, ‘between the wooden slats.’
‘I don’t follow, what does a button have to do with anything?’ I asked.
‘It appears that the button came from the shirt he was wearing when he died.’
‘Okay, so …?’ I asked. I didn’t have to fake confusion: I really didn’t understand.
‘We initially thought that his shirt tore loose with the impact. But if a button was on the balcony, then it implies a struggle of some sort before he fell, something that would have ripped the shirt open.’
‘Oh, God,’ I said. ‘That’s really terrible.’
‘Yes,’ Detective Stowe replied.
‘Do you have any leads?’ I asked.
‘A few,’ Detective Rouhani said.
‘So, how can I help? Do you want me to look at the button?’
Detective Stowe smiled. He believed me.
‘No,’ he said, ‘we’re just covering all our bases.’
‘Because the button isn’t the only thing,’ Detective Rouhani added.
‘Oh?’ I asked.
‘No, there is also the CCTV footage.’
She’s bluffing. I avoided that entirely. I know I did.
‘Oh, well, that should provide a good clue as to who you are looking for then, shouldn’t it?’ I said.
She looked at me with narrowed eyes.
‘Well, can’t you ID them from the tapes?’ I added.
‘No,’ she said, ‘that isn’t what was on the footage.’
Swallow.
‘Oh?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘One of the doormen pointed it out. We missed it when we watched the tapes the first time.’
Fucking Jake.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘If not a person, then what?’ My blood turned electric.
‘Light,’ she said. ‘The doorman pointed out a shard of light, cast from a streetlight. Once at 6.59pm and again at 7.38pm – it shines across an otherwise dark frame. It would have come in from the side door of the garage – it was the garage tape that picked it up. Which means someone exited the building that way. Most people would either drive out or leave via the front door. Why leave that way? And if it was murder, 7.38pm is precisely around the time the perpetrator would be leaving. He fell at 7.27pm. Almost hit someone on the way down.’
‘Oh, God,’ I said. ‘I see what you mean.’
I was speechless. I hadn’t counted on the light. I hadn’t thought of that.
‘And then there is the neighbour,’ said Detective Stowe.
‘Felicia?’ I asked.
They looked at each other.
‘No,’ said Detective Stowe, ‘the one across the way. He wasn’t close enough to be able to provide a real description, but he saw somebody in the flat at around 7.30pm.’
‘Maybe it was Angus and he got the time a bit wrong?’ Shit.
‘No, Angus was 6’2”. The person he saw wasn’t nearly that tall,’ he said.
‘Well, could they give you any description at all?’ I asked.
I was getting dizzy but needed to stay calm.
‘Not really, it was quite a distance,’ said Stowe.
‘But someone else was definitely there?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ said Detective Stowe. ‘We’re hoping someone else comes forward with more information.’
‘God. Poor Angus,’ I said.
‘You had a key, right?’ Rouhani asked.
My eyes moved to hers. ‘Yes, I still had a key, why?’
‘It’s just that there was no sign of forced entry.’
‘Oh,’ I said, my eyes opened just a fraction too wide for genuine shock. ‘God, you don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you?’
‘We aren’t saying that,’ Detective Stowe interjected, ‘we’re just trying to look at it from all angles. Cover our bases.’ That seemed to be his catchphrase.
‘Other people could have got a key too,’ I said. ‘He had a cleaning lady; she’s sweet, though, I can’t see her doing anything like this … The tenants’ board has a key … And who knows who else does.’
Detective Rouhani had taken out a pen and was making notes. She looked up. ‘It’s just that in the text messages found on his phone, he said something about you breaking into his apartment? About you stealing from him?’
I forced my breath to stabilise. ‘I didn’t steal from him,’ I said. ‘He asked me to draw that money for the cleaning lady, that was him messing with my head. But I did go to his apartment when he wasn’t there.’ Tears began to form and their timing couldn’t have been better. ‘But I didn’t know he wasn’t there. We’d just broken up. I went there to apologise and surprise him. I never guessed for a moment that he would’ve gone on our holiday without me,’ I said. The remembered pain of that incident struck my heart anew, and I hoped the blow registered on my face.
They were exchanging looks.
‘Did you manage to speak to his work? To Candice?’ I asked, shifting focus.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I called her right after you left yesterday. Apparently he was in trouble for ordering prostitutes on a work credit card.’ Rouhani looked like she wanted to say something else but stopped herself.
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘but he said he didn’t do that … he wouldn’t do that.’ False allegiance. ‘Did she tell you what the Nicolai Stepanovich stuff was?’
‘They said he shouldn’t have had all of that information. But we’ve sent it over to them to verify that Angus collected it on his own. That it wasn’t part of his pitch,’ Rouhani said.<
br />
‘What do you mean not a part of his pitch?’ I asked. ‘Why else would he have – Oh. You think it was Angus who leaked it?’ My voice cracked like it was the first time the thought had occurred to me.
‘We’re not sure,’ she replied. ‘But at this stage we just needed to clarify your whereabouts.’
‘Oh, okay. Well, I told you. Yoga.’ I took a sip of tea.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘it would be understandable.’
My eyebrows raised involuntarily and I willed them still.
‘If you hurt him,’ she said. ‘You were clearly having problems.’
‘Everyone has problems. We’d broken up,’ I said.
‘Yes, but when you came in to chat to me the other day, both the policeman at the front desk and one of my colleagues recognised you. They asked me about you, were worried. They said you’d been in there a few days before, inquiring about how to report domestic violence?’
‘Angus had quite a temper,’ I said, looking down. I was trying to avoid bringing up the violence – yes, it would provide an excuse but it also gave me a reason to harm him.
‘Yes, we know that. The escort agency told Candice that Angus had been violent with one of the girls for not saying the right thing. They were threatening to press charges – so, he was clearly quite a volatile character. It would be understandable if you defended yourself. What with the cheating, the prostitutes, and the videos we found on his computer, uploading one of you to the internet … It just feels like you might have had motive.’
‘Motive for what?’ I asked.
‘You must have been angry,’ said Detective Rouhani.
I looked at her, feigning shock.
‘All we’re saying is we understand what a bad situation you were in,’ said Detective Stowe. ‘We’ve read through his text messages to you. They sounded threatening. It was clearly a tumultuous relationship. We’re just trying to get to the bottom of all this.’
‘Motive for what?’ I repeated.
‘To harm him. To try to escape,’ she jumped in. ‘I mean, you must have been angry about those tapes. About the violence. About the cheating. I’d be angry.’
‘Do we need to keep repeating it all? I know how horrible it all was,’ I said. ‘I was living it.’ Strong. ‘And yes, I was upset. And angry. That was why I left. I probably should never have gone back to him in the first place. But I sure as hell didn’t kill him. I would have been too freaking scared to even try!’ My voice was rising. Then I stopped talking and we sat in loaded silence.
‘Do you have a phone?’ Rouhani asked after a few moments.
‘Of course,’ I said.
‘Great, would you mind if we take it – run some tests on it? You can have it back on Monday.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That’s a long time.’ My mind tried to run through everything on it but it was impossible. I had no idea what they might find, but I needed to look compliant.
‘It would be so helpful,’ Stowe said.
‘Sure, I suppose so,’ I said. Then I walked over to the bed, picked it up off the bedside table, returned to the sofa and handed it to him. ‘Here you go.’ At least I’d have a valid excuse for not calling his mother back for a few days.
‘Thanks,’ he said, handing it to Rouhani.
My eyes landed on my handbag, still on the floor by Detective Stowe’s feet, and my pulse thumped. I imagined him catching sight of my gun, the shape of the handle, then the barrel, as he slowly unzipped it. The expression on his face as he registered what it was …
I was hot. My mouth dry. I needed them to leave. Immediately. So I remained standing, as a cue for them to go.
‘Speaking of phones, have you spoken to his sponsor?’ I asked as I led them to the door. ‘Maybe he can shed some light on what was going on with Angus?’ I suggested.
Please just find the other phone.
‘It’s on the list,’ Detective Stowe said, smiling.
I opened the door for them and they left.
And so once again I was alone, in silence, with just Chiara, three half-drunk cups of tea, and a gun. I took it from my bag and rushed through to the bedroom, burying it beneath layers of mismatched socks and G-strings. But I needed to find a safer place to keep it. Or better yet, a way to dispose of it. And soon.
sunday
Master Sun said: ‘If I do not wish to engage, I distract him in a different direction.’
26 FEBRUARY
I’d cocooned myself in dirty sheets, my regrets gathering in their creases. Around me lay screwed-up tissues and a half-eaten sheet of paracetamol. The heavy blue curtains had remained drawn since the detectives left the day before, but morning was announcing itself through a bright crack in the centre. I hadn’t gone back to Charlotte’s house after my ‘chat’ with the law. I couldn’t face it: the Tube ride, fluorescent lights and my shaky pretence of sanity.
So instead I had put myself to bed beneath the ashen cloud that hung just below my ceiling. I’d hoped it might dissipate in the night, but it hadn’t. It had swollen further: it was Sunday and if Angus were still alive we’d be going to his parents’ house for lunch that day. His mother’s delicate face flashed before me. Her unanswered calls. My phone.
I let out a small moan and rolled over, the guilt pressing down on my chest.
My eyes were focused on my chest of drawers: I needed to dispose of my gun. It was still nestled beneath my bras and panties. I ran through the options in my head: river, dumpster, grave. At least I never used it. Never pulled that cold trigger. So it couldn’t link me to anything solid – but given the cellophane nature of my façade of innocence, I couldn’t risk anyone finding it.
I need to change the sheets. They’d watched him grab me by the hair and find his lucky socks. They spoke of tears. Vomit. And deafening grief.
But my head was heavy and the pillow soft. I needed to rest. To churn and process in silence. And so my plan was to stay there, amid the dirty sheets, until the bright crack of light between the curtains faded once more and the dark of the night sky finally matched my internal landscape.
So there I was, lying in bed with my eyes and my fists squeezed tight. That’s when I heard it: a gentle tap.
I knew exactly what it was that time. I was no longer a stranger to people knocking on my door. But I was tired, so tired, so I just lay there for a little while, my eyes finally open, listening to it: tap, tap, tap.
What if it’s the police again?
I forced myself to sit up. To get out of bed. And to walk the long walk to the front door, dragging my heavy limbs.
‘I can hear you on the other side of the door,’ came his voice, ‘so at least I know you’re not dead. That’s a positive.’
I looked through the peephole.
It was David.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I’m really not well, David.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Actually I’m quite grateful for that. Because it was so odd just not turning up like that and then disappearing. I was really worried.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said through the door. My voice was husky.
‘Are you going to open the door?’ he asked.
Shit.
I took the chain off and opened it.
‘Sorry I’m such a mess,’ I said, ‘but I’ve been really ill.’
‘That’s totally fine,’ he said. He was dressed in jeans and a navy blue V-necked jumper that brought out his eyes. ‘I’m just glad you’re okay.’
He stood there looking at me.
‘Would you like to come in?’ I asked.
‘Sure,’ he said as he moved inside, holding up a brown paper bag as he passed. ‘I brought pastries.’
The air was stale, I hadn’t noticed till opening the door and breathing in fresh air, so I moved to open a window.
I need to brush my teeth.
David placed the bag on the coffee table and sat on my sofa – the same sofa Angus had sat on not long before. He was staring at me with those navy eyes of his, their little g
reen middles made all the more apparent by the light coming in through the window.
His eyes were scanning mine for answers; scanning me in the way Detective Rouhani had done the day before, but the answers he was looking for were gentler. Kinder. And not going to place me behind iron bars. David’s unspoken questions pertained to the state of my heart. Not my whereabouts.
The air between us was thick, and that night in that restaurant when he’d said, ‘Let’s escape’ felt like it had happened in another lifetime. To another girl. The anger in his voice when I’d called him after the Stepanovich story broke was gone, but the memory of it cast a dark shadow by his feet. Yet his body language – wrists facing up in the most open and vulnerable of stances, body and eyes to me – suggested that he came in peace.
‘So …’ I said. I remained standing, unsure what to do with my hands. The smell of croissants or something similar wafted up from the bag lying on the coffee table between us, oil slowly staining the paper.
‘So,’ he said, ‘what’s going on?’ His face was serious. ‘First you call me and hang up before I can answer, then you all but run away from me in the office and then you stand me up on Friday night.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I should’ve called to cancel.’ I let out a sigh. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
His eyes were darting between my face, my grey-and-pink pyjamas and the dirty floor.
‘Um, yes, that would be lovely, thanks,’ he said.
I walked through to the kitchen and flicked on the kettle, resting my hand on its side to assess its trajectory towards warmth. My fingers grew hot, then my palm as the kettle began to purr. I pulled two mugs down from the cupboard, and I could feel him there, in the other room, sitting on the sofa. Waiting for me. This man who had no idea what I had done.
Tears were rolling down my cheeks but I swallowed hard, trying not to make a noise.
‘Do you take milk?’ I called through a forced smile. But it didn’t fool him.
‘Yes,’ he said, appearing at the door. He moved towards me, took the mugs from my hands and wrapped me in his arms. ‘Whatever it is, it isn’t that bad,’ he said, his seriousness softening. ‘Why don’t you go sit down? I’ll make tea.’
