‘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.
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?’