A Long Day in Lychford (Lychford #3)(8)

“Why do you think that?”

“Because there’s security camera footage of you two . . . continuing your altercation.”

“You got to see security camera footage this early in the morning?”

Shaun had sighed. “I do sometimes wish the public didn’t watch so many detective shows. We saw it because it was from the security camera on the front of the police station.”

Autumn had indeed watched her share of police procedurals, and had thus suddenly been very aware of what this meant. She’d been the last to see the victim . . . and she’d been arguing with him. “You’re saying I’m some sort of . . . suspect.”

Shaun had looked awkward. “A Detective Inspector’s coming up from Swindon, about both cases. The brass are wondering if they’ve somehow got anything to do with the illegal rave that’s been reported. We were told to go out and interview everyone who might be . . . involved.” A buzz had come from his phone and he’d looked at it, then looked up. “She’s here now, and I’m to ask you if you’ll come in for interview.”

Which was how Autumn now found herself inside Lychford police station, waiting to be interviewed. She’d immediately taken up the offer to have legal representation present. The solicitor in question seemed businesslike, a little remote. Autumn numbly listened as she’d filled her in on the basics of what was going to happen. She’d never been inside Lychford police station before. It was seldom open these days, a tiny adjunct to the trading estate. Now it had a cluster of police cars and vans in front of it, and there had even been a reporter from a local radio station, with a power pack, a microphone, and a look on his face which said this was the biggest thing with which he’d ever been involved.

Shaun had sighed again as they’d made their way across the car park. “More of those’ll be on the way.” He was looking at her, Autumn had realised, like she’d let him down, like she was part of his world which wasn’t behaving as he wanted it to. Most coppers knew, from long experience, she remembered reading, that the obvious suspect had usually done it.

The reporter had seen Autumn and moved quickly, had taken a picture. She’d been caught staring, she realised, wondering if trying to get a hand in the way would make the image look worse to whatever friends and relations might see it.

She’d been given a cup of black coffee, which had been welcome, and left in this interview room with the solicitor. The guilt and the anger and the hangover were now all one thing. Oh God, she should have called Lizzie. She should have called Luke. She was remembering more and more now. And it was all bad.

A female plainclothes police officer entered, with, again, that look of businesslike distance about her, and introduced herself as D.I. Pearce. She began with some legal formalities Autumn really didn’t like the sound of, telling her she was going to be recording the interview. Then she started the tape decks running. Pearce led her through the same chain of events Shaun had, referring to his notes on occasion. She kept it so by the book that Autumn’s solicitor kept nodding along. Autumn felt, horribly, like the two of them were workers in an industrial process and she was their raw material. She said the minimum, agreeing with her previous version of events. Then they got to the point to which Shaun had taken the narrative. “When you left the pub, where was Rory Holt?”

“He followed me. He was shouting at me.”

“What was he saying?”

She could remember every detail now. “He was using . . . you know . . . hate speech.”

“What exactly?”

So Autumn was forced to put those words in her mouth. They made her feel sick all over again. To voice them felt like she was being made to bully herself. She watched the face of the D.I. for any sign of sympathy, but she remained utterly neutral. Autumn talked as, moment by moment, the memory unfolded in front of her, of how Old Rory had pushed past her and so, yes, damn it, she’d followed him, up past the police station, with him turning to spit on the ground and yell back at her.

“Just past the police station, I yelled at him one last time, and I thought . . . this sounds so stupid now . . . I thought yeah, that showed him. I turned around and walked off, talking loudly so I . . . couldn’t hear what else he was saying. Like I said, stupid. I . . . must have gone back the other way, not past that camera again.”

She looked into Pearce’s eyes, hoping to see some sign that she believed what Autumn now was pretty certain was the truth. No response.

There was a knock on the door, and Pearce called to enter. A uniformed officer came in and whispered something to her. Pearce seemed to gain a certain tension across her shoulders. She excused herself, and left, leaving the recorders on. The solicitor said that some new development must have occurred, as if that wasn’t obvious. Autumn was barely listening, she was so relieved at having found this exonerating memory, so giddy with that release.

So why did she still feel guilty, somewhere at the back of her mind?

It was the hangover. It must be. And, okay, yelling in the street at a pensioner, even at a racist pensioner, perhaps not her finest hour. And she could never feel certain that the police would agree with her newfound proof of innocence.

After half an hour, Pearce returned. She asked a couple more questions of a general nature, and wrote down her contact details, at which point Autumn realised she was actually going to . . . not get away with this, where had that thought come from? To justifiably be let off the hook. Her solicitor broke into a smile that seemed to be about this taking less time than she thought it would.