When You Are Mine(100)

‘Did you go to the hospital?’

‘No.’

‘Undergo a drug test?’

‘No.’

‘What is the last thing you remember?’

‘I was sitting at a bus shelter.’

‘How did you get back to Tempe Brown’s flat?’

‘We caught an Uber.’

‘You remember that?’

‘I was told about it afterwards. I vomited. Tempe had to wash my dress.’

The DC is making notes. Each of these details will be checked.

‘Did you leave her flat again?’

‘No.’

‘Where was Tempe Brown?’

I hesitate. ‘We were together.’

‘You shared a bed.’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s cosy,’ says Briggs, smirking.

‘Your mobile phone stopped transmitting just after midnight,’ says Fairbairn. ‘Why was that?’

‘I must have turned it off. I don’t remember doing it.’

‘You told me the phone had been lost.’

‘I left it somewhere. Tempe found it.’

‘And today, when we arrested you, we discovered the contents had been wiped – every address, photograph, text message, email and app.’

‘I had a virus.’

‘Your laptop and iPad were also wiped clean.’

‘The technician told me to do that. He said the virus might have infected every device on our home Wi-Fi network.’

I expect Fairbairn to follow up, but instead, he opens a file and takes out a new sheet of paper.

‘Do you own a pair of white women’s training shoes, size six?’

‘You have asked me that already.’

‘Where do you normally keep them?’

‘I told you – in my karate bag.’

‘Which we can’t find. Do you own a pair of black leggings?’

‘Several pairs. Most women do.’

‘A hooded sweatshirt?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you ever been inside Darren Goodall’s house?’

This is the question that I’ve been waiting for. He could be fishing, or he might know the answer already.

‘I’d like to take a break,’ I say.

‘How long do you need?’

‘Until my lawyer arrives.’

‘You haven’t asked for one.’

‘I’ve changed my mind.’

Fairbairn looks at me like a disappointed father as he announces the time and turns off the recording machine. A different uniformed officer escorts me back to my holding cell. He whispers to me as we walk, calling me the c-word, knowing it can’t be heard by the overhead cameras that are filming us. He digs his thumb and forefinger into the flesh of my upper arm.

‘Let me go, or I’ll break it,’ I mutter. ‘You know I can.’

‘You’re in enough trouble,’ he whispers.

‘In for a penny …’

We’re in a staring contest. He loosens his grip.

The holding cell has been cleaned. The floor is still wet and reeks of disinfectant.

I take a tissue from my pocket and wipe down the bench seat before lying on my side, staring at the window where a small spider is trying to rebuild a web across one of the right angles. It’s a clumsy metaphor, but it makes me think of Tempe.

Our friendship had seemed so natural and organic – one thing leading to another. She was like a puppy abandoned by the side of the road, who wanted to be loved and to love someone back.

Only she’s not a puppy, or a stray dog. She is like the Old Man of the Sea in Greek mythology, who tricks travellers into letting him ride on their shoulders to cross a stream, but never releases his grip. His victims are forced to carry him forever, allowed no rest until they die crushed under his weight.





55


David Helgarde is dressed like a barrister today in a Savile Row suit, polished brogues and neatly combed hair that shines under the halogen lights. He ducks as he enters the cell.

‘What have you told them? Nothing, I hope.’

‘I’m innocent,’ I say, hollowly, wondering how often he’s heard those words.

‘But you’ve said nothing.’

‘I want to help solve a murder.’

He sighs and shakes his head. ‘Fashioning the gallows and putting one’s head in the noose is rather counter-productive.’

‘I’m innocent,’ I say again, but sound even less convincing.

Helgarde is right. I know how this works. The truth isn’t absolute. Innocence isn’t a guarantee. Fairbairn wants to solve a murder. One of their own, a detective, is dead. I am now their prime suspect and everything I’ve told them will be checked, rechecked, and reframed in a light that will undermine my credibility and point to my guilt.

Opening a briefcase, Helgarde produces a yellow legal notebook and a Mont Blanc pen that is fatter than a Cuban cigar. ‘My first priority is to get you out of here.’

He begins asking me questions about my domestic circumstances and employment, gathering evidence for a bail application. He will need to convince a judge or magistrate that I’m not a flight risk or likely to interfere with witnesses.