the ink had washed away. The scene-of-crime boys had to dry it very carefully and pull the pages apart. Then they used an electron microscope to find the faint traces of ink. It’s amazing what they can do nowadays.”
Ruiz has squared up to me, his eyes just inches from mine. This is his Agatha Christie moment: his drawing- room soliloquy.
“Catherine had a note in her diary under November thirteenth. She wrote down the name of the Grand Union Hotel. Do you know it?”
I nod.
“It’s only about a mile along the canal, near that tennis club of yours.” Ruiz motions with a sway of his head. “At the bottom of the same page she wrote a name. I think she planned to meet that person. Do you know whose name it was?”
I shake my head.
“Care to hazard a guess?”
I feel a tightness in my chest. “Mine?”
Ruiz doesn’t allow himself a final flourish or triumphant gesture. This is just the beginning. I see the glint of handcuffs as they emerge from his pocket. My first impulse is to laugh, but then the coldness reaches inside me and I want to vomit.
“I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You have the right to remain silent, but it is my duty to warn you that anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you…”
The steel bracelets close around my wrists. Ruiz forces my legs apart and searches me, starting at my ankles and working his way up.
“Have you anything to say?”
It’s strange the things that occur to you at times like this. I suddenly remember a line my father used to quote to me whenever I was in trouble: “Don’t say anything unless you can improve on the silence.”
Book 2
1
I have been staring at the same square of light for so long that when I close my eyes it’s still there, shining inside my eyelids. The window is high up on the wall, above the door. Occasionally, I hear footsteps in the corridor. The hinged observation flap opens and eyes peer at me. After several seconds, the hatch shuts and I go back to staring at the window.
I don’t know what time it is. I was forced to trade my wristwatch, belt and shoelaces for a gray blanket that feels more like sandpaper than wool. The only sound I can hear is the leaking cistern in the adjacent cell.
It has been quiet since the last of the drunks arrived. That must have been after closing time— just long enough for someone to fall asleep on the night bus, get into a fight with a taxi driver and finish up in the back of a police van. I can still hear him kicking at the cell door and shouting, “I didn’t fucking touch him.”
My cell is six paces long and four paces wide. It has a toilet, a sink and a bunk bed. Graffiti has been drawn, scratched, gouged and smeared on every wall, although valiant attempts have been made to paint over it.
Above the heavy metal door, chipped into brickwork, is the message: Hey, I just saw someone from the Village People!
I don’t know where Ruiz has gone. He’s probably tucked up in bed, dreaming of making the world a safer place. Our first interview session lasted a few minutes. When I told him that I wanted a lawyer he advised me to “Get a bloody good one.”
Most of the lawyers I know don’t make house calls at that time of night. I called Jock and woke him instead. I could hear a female voice complaining in the background.
“Where are you?”
“Harrow Road Police Station.”
“What are you doing there?”
“I’ve been arrested.”
“Wow!” Only Jock could sound impressed at this piece of news.
“I need you to do me a favor. I want you to call Julianne and tell her I’m OK. Tell her I’m helping the police with an investigation. She’ll know the one.”
“Why don’t you tell her the truth?”
“Please, Jock, don’t ask. I need time to work this through.”
Since then I’ve been pacing the cell. I stand. I sit. I walk.
I sit on the toilet. My nerves have made me constipated or maybe it’s the medication. Ruiz thinks I’ve been holding things back or being economical with the truth. Hindsight is an exact science. Right now my mistakes keep dividing inside my head, fighting for space with all the questions.
People talk about the sins of omission. What does that mean? Who decides if something is a sin? I know that I’m being semantic, but judging by the way people moralize and jump to conclusions, anyone would think that the truth is real and solid, that it’s something that can be picked up and passed around, weighed and measured, before being agreed upon.
But the truth isn’t like that. If I were to tell you this story tomorrow it would be different than today. I would have filtered the details through my defenses and rationalized my actions. Truth
I hadn’t recognized Catherine from the drawing. And the body I saw in the morgue seemed more like a vandalized shop-front mannequin than a real human being. It had been five years. I told Ruiz as soon as I was sure. Yes, it could have been sooner, but he already knew her name.
Nobody likes admitting mistakes. And we all hate acknowledging the large gap between what we should do and what we actually do. So we alter either our actions or our beliefs. We make excuses, or redefine our conduct in a more flattering light. In my business it’s called “cognitive dissonance.” It hasn’t worked for me. My inner voice— call it my conscience or soul or guardian angel— keeps whispering “Liar, liar, pants on fire…”
Ruiz is right. I am in a shitload of trouble.
I lie on the narrow cot, feeling the springs press into my back.
Summoning my sister’s new boyfriend to a police station at six thirty in the morning is an odd way to make somebody feel like part of the family. I don’t know many criminal barristers. Usually I deal with Crown solicitors who treat me like their new best friend or something nasty they stepped in, depending on what opinion I offer in court.
Simon arrives an hour later. There’s no small talk about Patricia or appreciation for Sunday’s lunch. Instead he motions for me to sit down and pulls up a chair. This is business.
The holding cells are on the floor below us. The charge room must be nearby. I can smell coffee and hear the tapping of computer keyboards. There are venetian blinds at the windows of the interview room. The strips of sky are beginning to grow light.
Simon opens his briefcase and takes out a blue folder and a large legal notebook. I’m amazed at how he combines a Santa Claus physique with the demeanor of a lawyer.
“We need to make some decisions. They want to start the interviews as soon as possible. Is there anything you want to tell me?”
I feel myself blinking rapidly. What does he mean? Does he expect me to confess?
“I want you to get me out of here,” I say, a little too abruptly.
He begins by explaining that the Police and Criminal Evidence Act gives the police forty-eight hours in which to either charge a suspect or let them go, unless they’ve been granted leave by the courts.
“So I could be here for two days?”
