trying to get into the house from the back garden, when he felt the grip around his right and then his left ankle.
He turned awkwardly, trying to look down, which only sharpened the agony in his shoulder. He let out a howl of pain, which prompted the grip around his ankles to grow tighter.
He heard a voice, instantly familiar. ‘Do not resist, Dr Zennor,’ it said. ‘You’ve reached the end of the road.’
Chapter Thirty-two
He looked down at his feet to see that they were in the firm grip of Detective Riley of the Yale Police Department. From above he could see the same white, fleshy features, slightly flushed this time, probably on account of the slight incline of the front lawn the police officer had just climbed to reach him.
‘I’m going to need you to come down, sir.’
‘Oh for God’s sake! Please, this is not what you think-’
‘Just come down, sir.’
James gestured towards his feet, indicating that he couldn’t jump until Riley let go.
Once down, he started again. ‘Detective Riley, please. I was not burgling this house. I came here to speak to the Dean. I need to speak to him urgently, I’ve-’
‘Wrists.’
In the moment James hesitated, Riley produced a pair of handcuffs. Now James understood. He felt a surge of fury and then, like a wave that breaks only to trickle back into the sea, he felt it recede. He was too exhausted for rage. Curiously, too, he felt no anger towards Riley. Instead he blamed himself and his own stupidity.
He had not been seen, he was sure of that. The side path of McAndrew’s house was not overlooked by any neighbours; he had checked left and right, up and down, before he had ventured down here. Yes, he might have been spotted by a vigilant neighbour across the street. They might have suspected a break-in. But he didn’t care how technologically advanced these Americans were, there was no way they could have telephoned the police and brought a police car here that quickly. He had arrived at the house no more than two or three minutes ago and would have struck even the most nervous neighbour as acting suspiciously only in the last minute. Until then, he was just a man ringing on a doorbell.
‘Detective Riley, can I ask a question?’ James said, as Riley and his partner frogmarched him down past the sloping lawn towards their vehicle.
‘You can ask what you like. Don’t mean I’m gonna answer.’
‘Are we still technically under the jurisdiction of the Yale Police Department?’
‘On this property, we sure are. This is the Dean’s residence, part of Yale University territory.’
‘Of course. But this area. This would fall under the New Haven Police Department, surely?’
‘Yeah, but you ain’t in this area. You’re on this property. And you’re trespassing too.’
‘I understand. But if someone was to call the police for help, someone who lived in this street, they wouldn’t get you, would they? Their call would be answered by the New Haven police force, am I right?’
Riley fell silent, pushing James’s head down as he folded him into the backseat of the car. That settled it. He had not been spotted by a neighbour or passer-by out walking their dog. He had been betrayed. Only one person knew he was coming here — and she had betrayed him.
The journey into town was brief; only minutes later they were back in the police station where his day had started yesterday morning, though it felt like weeks ago. He didn’t say anything in the car, just stared out of the window wrestling with a question that spun around him like a whirlpool, trapping him ever deeper and lower: why?
All he wanted was to regain his family. That was all. He did not want to know the truth of the death of George Lund. He did not want to know how Preston McAndrew was caught up in this, nor even why Dorothy Lake had kissed him last night and betrayed him today (though he did wonder, fleetingly, if the two events were connected, whether she had tipped off the police in revenge for his rejection of her). He did not even particularly care why he had been followed earlier. He did not want to know any of that. All he wanted to know was where he could find Florence and Harry. He wanted to find them and hold them, to stroke their hair and smell their skin. That was all he wanted.
Soon they were back, he and Riley, across that blank table in that blank interview room. Wearily, James asked, ‘Do you do everything for your police force, Detective?’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Well, one minute you’re investigating a murder, the next you just happen to be on call for what must have looked like, at worst, a minor break-in.’
‘Let’s say I like coming out on special occasions.’
‘And why exactly was this a special occasion?’
‘You’re an important man, Dr Zennor.’
‘Ah, so you knew I was involved, did you?’
‘I know now.’
‘I see. So when Dorothy Lake told you to dash over to the Dean’s house on St Ronan Street, you dropped everything and ran.’
Riley’s failure to react, his lack of surprise or puzzlement at the mention of Miss Lake confirmed it: she had made the call. ‘I see you’re not denying it.’
‘It’s not me who’s under arrest for criminal trespass, Dr Zennor. So why don’t we say that I ask the questions and you answer them, OK?’
‘Fine with me, Detective.’
Riley plodded his way through the interrogation, James responding with a simple, straight, if not complete, account of the truth. He had discovered that his post — sorry, his mail — had been intercepted and wanted to take this matter up urgently with the Dean. That was it.
‘Talk to him, eh? Do you break into the houses of all the people you wanna talk to?’
‘I wasn’t breaking in! I was looking into his garden. Just in case he was there.’
They went round and round, Riley trying to make two and two equal five, trying to get James to stumble on an inconsistency, James stubbornly offering a straight bat. Finally the detective, who seemed as weary as James, sighed heavily and said. ‘I’m going to arrest you, which means you have the right to make a telephone call. Most people call their lawyer.’
He led James out of the interview room and into a tiny cubicle which contained nothing but a plain chair and a telephone on a small shelf. ‘I’ll be right here.’
James picked up the receiver and heard his own breath. After no more than a second’s thought, he responded to the operator’s enquiry by asking to be put through to the office of the Yale Daily News. James checked his watch. It was mid-afternoon, it was summer. There was every chance there would be no one there. But the call was answered.
‘The editor, please.’
Another delay, then a second voice. ‘Can I help?’
‘Yes, I hope you can. My name is Dr James Zennor and I’ve been dealing with one of your reporters, a Miss Dorothy Lake.’
‘Yes, I know. Is there a problem?’
‘No problem at all. She’s been extremely diligent. She is keen to have my co-operation on the story she’s working on and I just wanted to check her bona fides, if you will. Do you mind if I ask how she came to you?’
‘She was an undergraduate at Vassar and on the paper there, I think. She comes very highly recommended.’
‘I’m glad to hear that. By whom?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You said she comes very highly recommended. Recommended by whom?’
‘Well, I’m not sure I should say. I don’t want people to think nepotism plays a part in these decisions.’
