“Mrs. Reid?”
I don’t know what to say. Patrick told me I’m not Mrs. Reid but the world doesn’t know it yet.
“I guess. What can I do for you?”
“May we come in? We’d like to talk to you about Patrick Armstrong.”
Holy smoke. My insides are shouting at me in panic mode. “Let them show you their identification. Don’t let them in. Anybody can rent a uniform and pretend to be a police officer.”
Did I ever say I want my parts to go away? I lied. There are times when they come in handy.
“May I see your ID’s please?”
They show me their badges. Not that I have the foggiest clue how a real badge is different from a fake one. I let them in and show them to the table.
“I’ve only got two chairs.”
“We won’t take long. Can you tell us where you were yesterday evening around seven?”
What a stupid question. “Here, of course.”
“Can someone confirm that?”
“I’m living alone, so no. Why are you asking?”
“There was an incident at Patrick Armstrong’s place last night. According to his diary, you were the last person he saw yesterday.”
“Yes, I had an appointment late morning. I’d be surprised if I was the last person he saw. He’s completing a land transfer for me and some other private matters. What incident? Is he okay?”
“Sadly no. Someone shot Mr. Armstrong last night and ransacked his office. Do you know anything about it?”
“How would I know anything about that? He was in high spirits when I left him.” I’m shaking and feel the blood draining out of my face. Cornered like a fox surrounded by bloodthirsty hunting dogs, I don’t know what to say. Suddenly the full meaning dawns on me.
“Oh my God. What are we going to do? Is he dead?”
“Yes.”
“Am I a suspect?” I already know the answer, but I’d like to hear it from the police officer.
“We have to question everyone who had contact with Mr. Armstrong. We couldn’t locate his secretary Miss Heather Millhouse, but we found blood all over her workstation and fear the worst for her. Have you seen her since you left Mr. Armstrong’s office?”
“I left his office at about midday. He was… I can’t believe he’s dead. Why? He… His secretary? How…?”
“Do you mind if we search your house and your car?”
“Search my house? I guess. Have a look around.”
They divide into two teams, two are searching the house, and the other two are roaming around the garden. I must have sensed they were coming for me. My dream wasn’t an accident.
“Do you own a firearm?” I startle when a policewoman appears behind me.
“A gun? No! What would I do with a gun? Those things scare the living daylight out of me.”
I feel naked seeing the officers searching through my house, pulling out books, looking into every tin in my pantry, even looking through my balls of wool next to the loom. They poke through my few possessions and glare at the scarce, run-down furniture with judgment in their eyes that puts me into the same society-dropout-category as compulsive hoarders and cat ladies.
Only when they move upstairs, do I hear a whimper. First, I thought a child is hiding somewhere then I realize it’s one of the Tribe, sobbing in fear of the police finding the entrance to our tree house. I take a deep breath. There is no chance of them finding even a hint of the tree house. Even I, knowing it exists, haven’t found it yet.
The police take almost an hour to search through every nook and cranny of my place. It feels excessive but I don’t dare to complain.
“Thank you, Mrs. Reid, it was very kind of you to allow us to search. We didn’t find anything. Do you have any travel plans for the coming weeks?”
“No.”
“That’s good, we might have more questions for you.” The policewoman took off her sunglasses and squinted at me. “Before we leave, we have received a missing person notice for Elizabeth Reid reported by Miss Helen Reid, Waitakere Flats. That’s you, aren’t you?”
“Technically.”
“Technically?”
“My real name is not Reid and Helen Reid is not my sister-in-law. That’s what Mr. Armstrong was working on. He found out that Horace was already married to Helen Reid when he married me. I didn’t know about any of this until Mr. Armstrong told me yesterday. He assumed my late ‘husband’ had reasons to trick me and staged a fake wedding ceremony. Patrick was looking into what those reasons could have been. Thus, it’s probably more accurate to call me by my maiden name Seagar. Elizabeth Seagar.”
“Do you have any documents that prove that?”
“Patrick promised to write a report and send everything, including the documents. But it shouldn’t be any problem for the police to follow that up. He reported the marriage fraud and the involvement of Helen Reid to the police.”
The female officer wrote something in her notebook and put it away. “I will follow that up, thank you.”
I watched them leave and only went inside when the two police cars disappeared among the trees.
Patrick dead.
Shot.
This kind man, who showed so much joy having found something other to deal with than the usual land transfer, shot dead. And it’s our fault!
The pressure inside my head is getting unbearable. If I had to describe what’s going on inside, I would talk about a village reduced to ruins after an earthquake and everyone either stunned or running around, aimless, in panic and terror, trying to find a safe spot.
They are hunting us.
Again.
There is no doubt Patrick’s murder has to do with us. Every cell in my body, every part—even the tiniest—is convinced it has to do with us. For the first time, I wish I too could go
