“You’re going to kill me or electrocute me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“They do that in some countries.”
“We don’t have the death penalty in Britain, Augie.”
He nods, running his hands down his hair, flattening his fringe.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“My hands hurt.”
“Do you need painkillers?”
“The doctor gave me some pills.”
“How did you burn them?”
“There was a fire.”
I don’t ask him about how it started. Instead, I focus on getting a history. He lives with his mother in Bingham. He was born in the area, left school at sixteen and has since done odd jobs as a laborer or farmhand. The Heymans hired him to cut wood and mow their lawns. He repaired some of their fences.
“Why did you stop working for them?”
Augie fidgets, scratching at the gauze on his hands. Minutes pass. I try again.
“You were sacked. What happened?”
“Ask Mrs. H.”
“How can I do that, Augie? Mrs. Heyman is dead. The police think you killed her.”
“No, no.”
“That’s why you’re here.”
He blinks at me. “She’s with God. I’m going to pray for her.”
“Do you pray a lot?”
“Every day.”
“What do you ask God for?”
“Forgiveness.”
“Why do you need to be forgiven?”
“Not for me-for the sinners.”
“Why were you at the farmhouse?”
“Mrs. H told me to come.”
“Did she call you?”
“Yes.”
“The phone lines were down, Augie. There was a terrible storm. How did she call you?”
“She told me to come.”
“When did she call you?”
“The day before.”
He makes it sound so obvious.
I take him over the details. He borrowed his mother’s car and drove to the farmhouse, almost missing the turn because it was snowing so heavily. He couldn’t drive all the way to the house because of the snow, so he stopped and walked the rest of the way.
“The house was dark. There was no power. I saw a light in the upstairs window but it was strange, you know, not like a lamp or a candle.” He covers his ears. “I heard her screaming.”
“Mrs. Heyman?”
Augie nods. “I bashed down the door. Hurt my shoulder. I went up the stairs, but the flames pushed me back.”
He starts to hyperventilate as though breathing in smoke and holds his hands against his forehead, hitting his temple.
“How did you burn your hands?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you hit Mr. Heyman?”
He shakes his head.
“Did you start the fire?”
“No, no.”
Without warning, he stands and walks to the far side of the room, whispering to himself, arguing.
“Are you talking to someone, Augie?”
He shakes his head.
“Who is it?”
He crouches and peers past me as though something is creeping up behind me like a pantomime wolf.
“Tell me about your brother.”
He hesitates. “Can you see him too?”
“No. Tell me about him.”
“Sometimes he steals my memories.”
“Is that all he does?”
“He warns me about people.”
“What does he say?”
“He says they’re trying to poison me.”
“What people?”
“It’s in the air.”
“Why did you really go to the farmhouse, Augie?”
“To get my wages.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Augie puts his bandaged hands together, as though pleading with me. A flush on the back of his neck spreads to his hairline.
“God will judge me if I’m lying.”
“God can’t help you now.”
“He can. He must.”
“Why?”
“Who else is going to stop the devil?”
Drury’s office is on the second floor. No posters. Minimal furniture. I expect to see commendations and photographs on the walls, but instead he has a whiteboard with timelines, names and photographs-a murder tree as opposed to a family tree.
Condensation beads the window and tiny splinters of ice seem to be trapped within the glass. The DCI leans back in his chair and crosses his legs, brushing lint from his trousers.
“So what do you make of him?”
“He’s delusional, possibly schizophrenic.”
“You diagnosed that in an hour?”
“I diagnosed that in five minutes.”
Drury drains a plastic bottle of water, tossing it towards the bin. “How do I interview him?”
“Right now he’s locked into damage control. He’s strong physically but not psychologically. Keep the sessions short with plenty of breaks. Don’t hammer certain points-let him reveal the story in his own way. If he gets upset, let him retreat. Treat him like a victim not a perpetrator.”
“Will he confess?”
“He’s saying he didn’t do it.”
“But that’s bullshit, right?”
“He’s hiding something but I don’t know what that is.”
Fierceness fills the detective’s eyes and he looks at me with a mixture of impatience and irritation. He gets up, walks round the desk, his body humming with tension.
“It was the worst blizzard in a century yet this kid drives a mile through the storm. I think he went there for revenge. He was obsessed with the daughter. He was angry about being sacked. We can put him at the scene. He
