Page 69 of Close to You
‘I don’t know.’
‘I ran into his son in the pub last night,’ I say.
‘How do you mean “ran into”?’
‘My boyfriend and I were playing pool out at the Kingfisher. I had no idea who he was – but he came over and called me a murderer.’
This brings the merest of frowns and, perhaps worse, Mr Patrick rubs the bridge of his nose. ‘You should have called me,’ he says.
‘I didn’t think. It was all a bit of a shock.’
‘What happened?’
‘Not a lot. He shouted and then my boyfriend talked him down. He left and then we left.’
Mr Patrick notes something on a pad in writing that might as well be hieroglyphics given the state of it.
‘I can mention it to ensure it’s on file,’ he says.
‘I don’t want any trouble.’
He taps his pen on the pad and nods along. When he looks up, it’s obvious we’ve moved on. ‘So, we’re clear about what happens when we go back in?’
‘I am… but I don’t get it. I haven’t done anything. My car was stolen. What’s wrong with saying that?’
Mr Patrick removes his glasses and uses the handkerchief from his pocket to wipe them clean. ‘Perhaps in an ideal world,’ he says. ‘Let’s remember that it’s innocent until proven guilty. You don’t have to prove you were in bed: they have to prove you were driving. The more you talk, the greater the risk of accidentally saying the wrong thing.’
‘Like what? I know what happened.’
‘Perhaps you say you left the hotel at 2.30 – except they have camera footage of you leaving at 2.25 because you weren’t paying perfect attention. Then you say you were home at five – but they’ve got footage from a motorway camera of you being nearby fifteen minutes earlier than you thought. Say you gave one time when you last spoke to them, but, today, it’s slightly different.’ There’s an edge of annoyance to this, like being scolded by a teacher. Disappointment, not anger. ‘You’ve not lied,’ he adds. ‘It’s just that humans are imperfect. We round up and down. We don’t pay complete attention. Everyone does it – except that, in cases such as this, timings matter. The more you talk, the more chance there is of getting the small things mixed up. Put together a few things like that and it suddenly looks like you’re trying to hide something. They’re after inconsistencies – even unintentional ones.’
‘I always thought guilty people said nothing…’
It’s the same interview room as the last time I was here. Constable Robinson is back – the one who barely said anything – but, this time, he’s alongside someone called Inspector Bainbridge. I wonder if it’s a bad sign that a sergeant has been swapped for an inspector. Whether this means it’s more serious. Bainbridge is of the same mould as my solicitor – a similar age, build and level of charismatic distinguishment. I suspect they’ve each been doing their respective jobs long enough that they could swap places and argue equally as passionately for the opposite side.
The room still feels brown and encompassing. In a kidnap movie, the victim would be chained to a wall in here.
Bainbridge sets the interview up by introducing everyone and then he gets to business: ‘Where were you at five-oh-five hours on Monday morning, Mrs Persephone?’
I want to answer, to make it clear I was in bed, but Mr Patrick steps in and speaks for me: ‘My client has already made it clear where she was at that time, Inspector. If you want the answer, I suggest you check the transcript from the last time you spoke to her.’
I expect Bainbridge to be annoyed, but his lack of reaction makes it seem like he expected something along these lines. The interview – if it can be called that – goes on in much the same fashion.
‘My client left the hotel in search of a more comfortable sleep.’
‘My client is avictimhere, Inspector.’
‘You already have the answer to this.’
It reminds me of the few times I’ve caught Parliamentary footage on the news channel. Someone will ask a question and the MP will say: ‘I refer the honourable gentlemen to the reply I gave some moments ago.’
It’s clearly a giant middle finger, although we all continue as if it’s perfectly fine. Bainbridge asks me a question, I say nothing; and my solicitor – in not so many words – tells him to do one.
Everything he says on my behalf is correct, but it still feels wrong in his mouth.
It feels like frustration is finally starting to kick in as Constable Robinson sets up something that looks like an iPad on the desk. There’s a video that must have come from the hotel’s reception area that shows me entering through the main doors with Jane.
‘Is this you, Mrs Persephone?’ he asks.
