When You Are Mine(101)
Finally, he turns to the murder itself.
‘Did you know the victim?’
‘He ran me off the road and vandalised my car.’
‘Do you have proof? Witnesses? Photographs?’
‘Finbar saw the car.’
‘Did Goodall ever threaten you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you ever threaten him?’
‘Yes.’
Helgarde brushes a speck of fluff off his suit sleeve.
‘The police are going to try to break down your alibi. They have arrested Tempe Brown. She is your friend, am I right?’
‘She’s not my friend,’ I say, surprised by the vitriol in my voice.
‘But you were with her that night.’
‘She followed me to a nightclub.’
‘And you went home with her.’
‘I was drunk. Possibly drugged.’
‘Did you report the incident to the police?’
‘No.’
‘Go to the hospital?’
I shake my head.
The barrister gives me the weary look of a schoolteacher who can’t see a single correct answer amid a forest of raised hands.
‘Could Tempe Brown have killed Darren Goodall?’
‘Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. He was sending her threatening messages. Stalking her.’
Helgarde screws the top onto his fountain pen and holds it between his hands.
‘Will the police find anything that links you to the crime scene?’
I hesitate and nod. Helgarde slips the pen into his pocket and stands abruptly, knocking twice on the door to signal that he’s finished.
‘Don’t you want to know why?’
‘No.’
‘I didn’t kill anyone.’
‘Save your plea for the jury.’
‘Will it get that far?’
‘It will if your alibi doesn’t hold up.’
Fairbairn is waiting in the interview room, picking at his fingernails with a straightened paperclip. The recording starts again and he names everyone present. Helgarde is sitting beside me and a little behind.
‘Let’s pick things up, shall we,’ says Fairbairn with a calm, impassive gaze. ‘I asked you earlier if you have ever been inside Darren Goodall’s house in Kempe Road.’
‘No comment.’
‘What about his car, a blue Saab?’
‘No comment.’
My heart is playing a military drumbeat. Fairbairn’s eyes hold mine, devoid of any sentiment, indifferent to whatever discomfort he’s causing.
‘On Wednesday the eighteenth of August, Darren Goodall reported to police that someone had broken into his house and disabled his alarm system by unhooking the power supply. His neighbours remember hearing the alarm trigger that night. They say it went off a few minutes later.’
He waits. I don’t respond.
‘Detective Goodall found no evidence of forced entry and nothing appeared to have been stolen. He did, however, keep a spare set of house keys in his car, which could have been used to obtain access.’
‘No comment.’
‘Are you denying taking the keys?’
‘No comment.’
‘Another neighbour, walking her dog, bumped into a woman that evening at around ten o’clock. She said the woman was driving a VW Beetle.’
Fairbairn produces a photograph taken by a traffic camera. The date and time are coded into the image.
‘We believe this is the vehicle she saw.’ He quotes a number plate. ‘Do you recognise this car?’
‘No comment.’
‘Were you driving this vehicle on that night?’
‘No comment.’
He produces a second document, a signed statement.
‘Alison Goodall told you that her husband kept a spare set of house keys in his blue Saab, which was parked outside the house that evening.’
‘No comment.’
‘You stole the keys. You entered the house. You disabled the alarm. You lay in wait for Darren Goodall, intending to kill him, but he wasn’t alone when he arrived home, so you aborted the plan.’
‘No, that’s not what happened.’
‘Which part?’
Helgarde touches my shoulder, wanting me to be quiet.
Fairbairn continues. ‘You returned to the house two nights later. You drugged him. You handcuffed him to the bed. You doused him with lighter fluid. You set him on fire and watched him die.’
‘No.’
‘We have found your fingerprints and traces of your DNA at two locations within the house. We have also matched fibres found on your clothing with those from an Afghan rug in a bedroom at Goodall’s house. There is a partial thumbprint on a chisel in the utility room.’
‘I have an alibi.’
‘Really?’ He gives me a sad smile. ‘Tempe Brown is giving us a statement now, but I don’t know how much good it will do you.’
Fairbairn takes out a new photograph from the folder. He slides it across the table.
‘How long have you and Tempe Brown been lovers?’
56
I am back in my holding cell, lying on one of the narrow benches with a thin blanket covering me. I haven’t been charged yet, but it’s only a matter of time. The photograph was not doctored, or faked. Perfectly framed and lit, it looked like a work of art – a Helmut Newton nude, provocative but not obscene, alluring but not salacious. It showed me lying in Tempe’s arms, with my head on her shoulder and my leg draped over her body. Both of us were naked, but nothing explicit was on display.