“Can I try for you?”
Bulman noticed that the policeman had dropped the “sir.” He handed the keys over and watched as the policeman tried them in the lock—also without success. The policeman examined the keys, then the lock. He straightened up. “You’re not going to open this door with these keys,” he said. “The lock is Banham. These keys are Yale.”
“But that’s not possible . . .”
“What’s your name?” the second policeman asked.
“It’s Harry Bulman. I’m a journalist.”
“And you say you live here?”
“I don’t just say I live here. I do live here. But I’m locked out.”
“Just one moment, sir.”
The first policeman was talking on his radio. Bulman passed his briefcase from one hand to the other. It was suddenly feeling very heavy. Considering it was only January, the weather was far too hot. The second policeman was looking at him suspiciously. He was only about nineteen years old, with light brown hair and stick-out ears. He still had a schoolboy face.
“Are you sure this is where you live?” the first policeman asked. He had finished his radio conversation.
“Yes. Apartment thirty-seven. On the top floor.”
“There was a Harold Bulman, a journalist, registered to this address, but he was killed two nights ago.”
“No. That was in the newspapers. I just read it. But it’s a mistake. I’m Harry Bulman.”
“Would you have any identification on you?”
“Of course I have.” Bulman took out his wallet. But two of his credit cards had been taken by the cash machines, and he had left the third in the bank. His driver’s license was in the apartment. His fingers were shaking as he fumbled through his wallet. “I can give you ID once I get into my home,” he said.
The two policemen looked at each other. The younger one seemed to notice Bulman’s briefcase for the first time. “What are you carrying?” he asked.
The question took Bulman by surprise. “Why do you want to know?” he snapped.
Before he could stop him, the first policeman had picked up the briefcase. “Do you mind if we look i nside?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I do.”
It was already too late. The policeman opened the briefcase and was looking at the contents, his face full of horror. With a sense that his whole life was draining away from him, Bulman leaned forward. He knew what was inside: a notepad, a couple of magazines, pens and pencils.
He was wrong. The policeman was holding the case open, and Bulman could clearly see a kitchen knife, about fifteen inches long, the blade covered in dried blood.
“Wait . . . ,” he began.
The two policemen acted incredibly quickly. Without even knowing quite what had happened, Bulman found himself facedown on the sidewalk with his arms gripped behind his back. He felt the metal edges of the handcuffs bite into his flesh as they clicked shut. The first policeman was back on his radio, talking rapidly. Seconds later, there was a screech of tires and another police car drew up. More uniformed officers surrounded him.
“You have the right to remain silent . . .”
Bulman realized that he was being told his rights, but the words didn’t quite register. They were booming in his ears. He felt himself being picked up and propelled toward the car. A hand was placed on his head to stop him from banging against the door frame. And then he was inside, being driven away at speed. They had even turned the sirens on.
An hour later, Bulman found himself alone in a bare brick interrogation room with a window set so high up, it showed only a small square of sky. They had taken his fingerprints and a swab from the inside of his mouth, which he knew would be used to check his DNA. There were two new officers sitting opposite him. They were older and more experienced than the men who had made the arrest, heavyset and serious. They had introduced themselves as Bennett and Ainsworth. Ainsworth seemed to be the senior of the two, bald, with small, hard eyes and a mouth that could have been drawn with a single pencil line. Bennett was slightly younger and looked as if he had recently been in a fistfight. He was holding a file.
Bulman had been given a little time to collect his thoughts. He had worked out what he was going to say. “Listen to me,” he began. “This is all a stupid mistake. The way you’ve treated me is outrageous. I am a well-known journalist, and I’m warning you—”
“It’s good to see you, Jeremy,” Bennett interrupted.
“That’s not my name.”
“Jeremy Harwood. Did you really think we wouldn’t find you?” Ainsworth laid the file on the table and opened it. Bulman saw a black-and-white police photograph. Once again he recognized himself.
But it had this other name underneath it.
He drew a breath. “My name is not Jeremy Harwood. My name is Harold Bulman.”
“Harold Bulman is dead.”
“No.”
“We’ve already analyzed the blood we found on the knife in your briefcase. It’s Bulman’s. You killed him.”
“No. You’re making a mistake. This is all wrong.” Bulman fought for control. How could this nightmare be happening?
