‘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.
‘It’s quite beautiful,’ Fairbairn said, running his fingers over the image, making my skin crawl.
I have no memory of it being taken. There were other images, but only one showed us together. The rest were of me lying on Tempe’s bed, arranged in different poses, with a sheet moving up and down my body. I remember Dr Coyle’s story about the drawings found in Tempe’s room. She had drawn Mallory Hopper as she slept, spending hours at her bedside. Is that what Tempe did to me, or was it worse? Is it rape if you don’t remember? Is it murder if you don’t remember?
Fairbairn believes that Tempe and I are lovers, which means our alibis will be dismissed or discredited or ignored. We are co-conspirators, or willing accomplices, or are lying to save each other.
I have told Helgarde about breaking into Goodall’s house and finding the ring that belonged to Imogen Croker. I laid out the story, hoping it might aid my defence, but each new revelation exposed my impulsive, witless stupidity. Some stories sound more plausible when uttered aloud and delivered with certainty, but this one seemed to grow more frayed and tattered even as I stitched it together.
‘You found the ring?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you left it there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘It was an accident. It slipped from my fingers. I was searching the suitcase when Goodall arrived home. I couldn’t keep looking. I had to get away.’
‘Perhaps you should forget about the ring,’ said Helgarde.
‘But it can explain my fingerprints and my DNA.’
‘Admitting one crime doesn’t exonerate you from another. It will lessen you in the eyes of a jury. They will see a woman who was so mad with hatred that she risked her career and her liberty to smear a decorated police officer.’
‘That’s not why I was there.’
‘Regardless, I can’t put it in front of a jury because it confirms too much of the case against you. The police claim you were obsessed with Darren Goodall and blamed him for ruining your career. You saw him as a bent copper. A traitor to his uniform. A wife-beater. His very existence seemed to goad you, so much so that you stalked his family, befriended his wife and encouraged her to leave him. Still not satisfied, you snuck into his house, seduced him or drugged him, and set him on fire. They have the motive and evidence of premeditation but cannot put you at the house on the night of the murder.’
That was twelve hours ago, give or take. I don’t know the exact time because I have no phone, or watch, or anyone I can ask. I wonder if Tempe is also in custody and where she’s being held, or what she’s told the police. If they track her movements; if they study the cameras; if they talk to Dr Coyle, surely they’ll realise it wasn’t me.
I haven’t been able to call Henry since I was arrested. Under the law, I’m allowed legal advice and medical help and regular breaks for food and to use the bathroom, but the idea of being allowed one phone call is a myth. All the police are required to do is to contact whoever I name and tell them that I’ve been arrested.
I hear a commotion outside the cell. A drunken woman is yelling, calling someone a ‘pig’ and telling them to ‘keep yer fuckin’ hands off me’。
The lock disengages and the door opens.
‘You got company,’ says a sergeant. ‘The place is full tonight.’
The same drunken woman stumbles, or falls into the cell. Along with a second woman, her friend, who spins back and spits. The ball of phlegm hits the closing door and slides down the paintwork.
I sit up, hugging my knees. Both my cellmates are dressed for a night out in tight-fitting clothes, but their make-up is smeared, and one has broken skin on her knuckles.
‘What are you lookin’ at?’ she asks accusingly.
‘Nothing,’ I reply.
She holds up her fist. ‘Nobody gives me the stink-eye.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter, looking at the floor. She slumps on the bench seat opposite me. Her friend, who is the drunker of the two, immediately curls up on the floor and falls asleep, snoring softly.
‘Does she want to lie down?’ I ask, offering her my bench.
‘How would I fuckin’ know?’ says the other woman, who has unbuckled her sandals and is rubbing her feet. She is swearing under her breath, still abusing the police. I stay as quiet as possible, looking at the floor.
Eventually she asks, ‘What’s your story?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Why are you here?’
‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
She repeats the phrase, mimicking my accent. ‘You sound like a fuckin’ princess. Are you too good to talk to me?’
‘No. I want to sleep.’
‘Yeah, sure.’
She launches into a rambling account of driving home and being only two minutes away from her house when the police pulled her over. She tried to reverse, but hit another car, which wasn’t her fault, because she ‘wasn’t pissed’ and they shouldn’t have pulled her over in the first place.
She adjusts her knickers. ‘I’d kill for a smoke.’
‘They don’t allow that.’
‘I’m not a fuckin’ idiot. Do I look like an idiot?’