He pulled a brass knob and heard an old-fashioned brass bell echoing inside. There was a long pause. Alvin bent down and pushed open the brass letter box. A black-and-white tiled marble floor was all he could see beneath the internal flap. He stood up and rang the bell again. This time there was a scurry of soft footfalls and the door swung open. A woman of indeterminate age in a grey skirt and cardigan, her hair covered with the sort of headgear he was more used to seeing worn at hen nights or fancy-dress parties. A heavy silver crucifix hung on a bosom like a solid shelf. ‘We are at prayer,’ she said severely. ‘Psalm one hundred and nineteen. “Seven times a day I have given praise to thee.”’
‘I’m sorry,’ Alvin said. He held up his ID. She peered at it through gold-rimmed glasses. ‘I was hoping to talk to the Mother Superior.’
The woman tutted. ‘This is the Mother House. You mean the Superior General. Mother Benedict.’
Oh boy. Talk about being outside his comfort zone. He gave what he hoped was an apologetic grimace. ‘You have to forgive me, I’m not familiar with how you run things here.’
Her lips pursed in what might have been a tart little smile. ‘You’re right, I do have to forgive you. Come in, Sergeant Ambrose. Vespers will be over shortly and Mother Benedict will see you then.’
He stepped inside, the hard heels of his shoes loud on the tiles.
She walked away, looking over her shoulder as if to encourage him to follow her. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’
33
I’ve read a lot of theories about how to tell when someone is lying. They fidget. They keep preternaturally still. Their eyes go up to the top left corner of the room. They sweat. They keep touching their face. The truth is, there is no standard tell.
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
The last shreds of Jezza Martinu’s composure had vanished by the time he reached a police interview room. Skenfrith Street station had been extensively renovated in recent years but a decision had been taken to maintain the studied lack of amenity in the interview rooms. Nobody wanted to spend money on the comfort of the accused. Tony had once tried to make the case for providing a more welcoming environment. Carol had scoffed, ‘What? You think we should get the recording equipment in pastel colours, with matching décor? That would make it less unsettling, you think?’ Ever since that exchange, Paula couldn’t help picturing the whole of Skenfrith Street in the palette of The Truman Show. That was far more disturbing than the reality.
In truth, she didn’t think it would matter whether the interview suite was decked out like a five-star hotel, complete with fruit basket. Once that door closed and the recording equipment beeped, everybody knew what they were there for. Even those who had nothing to be guilty about felt the creep of anxiety in the hairs on the back of their neck. Even, she sometimes thought, the ones who had no hair on the back of their neck.
Before they went in, Paula led Steve Nisbet into the observation room. Martinu was constantly shifting in his seat. ‘There’s a man who doesn’t like being cooped up,’ Steve said. ‘Stands to reason, doing what he does. Out in the open in all weathers. He’s going to get more and more uncomfortable the longer we keep him here.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Paula said. ‘Some people settle down once they realise there’s nothing they can do to make it go away. It’s like they sink into a sort of zen interview state. But I think you’re probably right about Jezza. There’s something eating him and we’ve got to get him to give it up.’
‘How are we playing this, then?’ He was eager, no doubt about that. Jacket off, tie loosened, he had the air of a man ready for a long night. Even his neat little quiff looked more buoyant. He pointed at Paula. ‘Good cop?’ Then at himself. ‘Bad cop?’
Paula wondered fleetingly whether working with Steve was such a good idea. ‘No,’ she said. She laid a palm on her chest. ‘Good cop.’ Then nodded at him. ‘Silent cop. Taking notes cop. Interesting facial expressions cop. You can look as menacing as you like, but I don’t want you buggering up the tempo of my questions.’
His face turned surly. ‘But what if I want to ask something you’ve missed?’
‘Don’t assume I’ve missed it. I might be circling round to it from a different direction. If you think there’s something significant I’ve not picked up on, you can tell me when we break and I’ll hit him with it when we go back in.’
‘I’m not used to—’
‘It’ll be fine, Steve. Trust me, I’m good at this.’ Hand on the door handle. ‘Let’s do it.’
Whoever Martinu had used his one phone call on had sorted him out with a solicitor. Not one of the low-paid duties, who dressed like drones in an insurance office and always looked in need of a visit to the hairdresser. This young man was wearing a perfectly lovely dark grey tweed suit with a tasteful burgundy silk tie and Paula was not in the least surprised when the business card he prodded towards her revealed that he worked for Bronwen Scott’s firm. What did surprise her was that Jezza Martinu could afford Richard Cohen.
They moved swiftly through the routine of beginning the recording and identifying those present. Thanks to TV, the accused knew the drill as well as the cops and the lawyers. ‘Thanks for coming in, Mr Martinu,’ Paula said.
‘You didn’t give me much choice,’ he grumbled, expression surly, shoulders rounded.
‘My client is not under arrest and is free to leave at any time,’ Cohen clarified.
‘Indeed. Though of course, that could change, depending on what he has
