Page 47 of Nothing Left

Then, he began to struggle hard, kicking out and thrashing so that Juliette had to rush forward and grab him. They forced him down into one of the threadbare armchairs in the living room.

"Let go of me," Sanchez snarled, still struggling, his face red with fury. But from a sitting position, being pushed down onto the squashy, yielding cushions, he was at least no longer a threat.

"Your movements the day before yesterday?" Juliette asked him, keeping the pressure on both mentally and physically.

"I'm not telling you!"

Behind him, the sound of the washing machine intensified to a spin. He was washing the clothes he'd worn, Juliette knew it, and it was a sign of guilt.

"We're going to bring you in," she decided.

***

An hour later, it was getting dark, and Sanchez was sitting opposite them in the interview room at the Condilla police station. Juliette was conducting this interview on her own because Wyatt, together with the Condilla station commander, was on an urgent conference call with the Barcelona station commander, Delgado, who was so hell-bent on pushing the case against Heather to its conclusion.

Juliette knew that the interview with this suspect would be critical. If Wyatt could convince Delgado to delay the charges, and she succeeded in getting even a partial confession, then they had a chance.

If Wyatt failed, this was all over.

But what if Juliette failed?

That was something she didn't dare think about. She had to get this right. This clearly guilty man needed to admit to his actions or else put on the record that he refused to say where he was. Then the evidence would speak for him.

But as she went ahead with her questioning, Juliette was starting to feel more and more troubled by his answers.

"Where were you the night before yesterday?" she pressured Sanchez.

"I was at home! Where do you think I was?" he shot back at her, still looking irate at being questioned but now also seeming frustrated by having to repeat himself. “I have answered you three times. How many times do you want?"

"Can you account for your whereabouts this morning?"

"I live alone!" Anger and defensiveness thrummed in his voice.

“And the night before last?”

“I was asleep. Are you stupid? Are you not listening to me?” His voice rose in a crescendo. Yet again, he clasped his fists tightly.

“Did you make any calls? Speak to anyone?”

“Why would I? It was the middle of the night, and I was asleep! I sleep nights, and I farm during the day. That's how I make my living after the system spat me out and gave me a criminal record that the whole town knows about," he added bitterly.

It was time to produce the evidence that she hoped would bury him.

"This knife. Take a good look at it. It has your fingerprints on it," she said. "It was found at the crime scene earlier today. Do you acknowledge that it's yours?"

She produced the evidence bag from the tray, keeping it well out of reach of his handcuffed hands.

Sanchez stared at it, and now, for the first time, to her surprise, he looked vaguely cooperative and not as if he was resisting her every step of the way.

"That's my knife," he agreed.

Finally, she had progress. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing the murder weapon in police custody that had finally pierced his shell of resistance.

“When did you last see this knife?” she asked.

"It's a custom piece. I had it made when I was hunting. But it went missing a week ago.”

“A week ago?” Juliette frowned. “Can you prove that? Do you know the circumstances?”

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