“My god, Mike! What happened? Have you been in a car accident?”
“No, I was visiting the guy who has been promoting Graham Bulwell’s book – the one he was grumbling about to your dad. He lives in Islington … at least, he did live there. I went to talk to him, but when I got there he was lying dead in his kitchen.”
“My god! But why are the police holding you?”
“It’ll sound stupid, but they think I killed him.” I glanced at the uniformed officer who was standing in attendance. He was watching me without expression. I added, “Which I didn’t, needless to say.”
“What makes them think that?”
“This guy’s teenage daughter turned up when I was at the house, and drew the wrong conclusions. Unfortunately the police seem determined to believe her over me.”
“What can I do, Mike?”
“Not a lot. They’re going to hold me overnight, but hopefully they’ll let me go tomorrow, unless they decide to charge me instead. I think they must be looking for more evidence, but obviously there isn’t any. Hopefully this will end as soon as they realise that.”
“Isn’t there some way I can help?”
“You’re helping just by listening.”
“Do you have a solicitor? Do you need one?”
“No, but I don’t see the point of it.”
“A solicitor would make sure you’re given your full rights.”
“If it comes to the crunch, I think the police are supposed to provide one.”
“So where are you exactly?”
“I don’t know – Islington, somewhere.” I asked the policeman the address. “But there’s no need for anyone to come here. I just wanted someone who knows me to know where I am.”
Hesitantly she said, “Ashley …?”
“I’ll talk to her when I get out of here.”
“I see.”
I wasn’t sure that I did, but I let that one go, and so did she.
The officer standing beside me was making winding-up gestures. I said, “I think I’ve got to go. Thanks for listening.”
“You don’t think I’m just going to leave it at that?”
“There’s not a lot more you can do, and even it there was, I wouldn’t ask – honestly.”
“You’ll get through this.”
“I know.”
* * *
Somehow I made it through the night. I even managed to fall into a shallow sleep under the inadequate blanket I’d been given. In the morning I was roused to a rudimentary breakfast, then I was taken back to the interview room. I’d never been so pleased before to be put in an empty room with a metal table and four chairs … and daylight shining down from a row of high windows.
The same two detectives were on the case again. They reminded me that I was under caution, and asked me if I wanted a solicitor. I said I didn’t, even though I was distantly aware that I was disregarding all the advice I’d seen in TV dramas over the years. I was innocent, I said, so I didn’t need one. They seemed pleased. They turned on the sound recorder, and the questioning resumed with an empty chair in my solicitor’s place.
I’d braced myself for the same kind of onslaught as yesterday, and that was how it started out. Gradually, though, it dawned on me that the detectives had no new information or alternative insights to confront me with. I kept on repeating my original account of my visit to Openshaw’s house, and I could see that this was wearing them down. They seemed to be looking for inconsistencies and inadvertent revelations, but since there was nothing to reveal, I was able to stick resolutely to the truth.
One question that did cause me some trouble was how I had found Openshaw’s address from the scant information on his web site. I didn’t want to reveal the contribution of Sam’s friend Noel, who in all probability had been working at the margins of legality when he tracked Openshaw down, so my answers had to be vague. I didn’t think the detectives were impressed.
When it came to convincing them of my story, I soon realised that the biggest stumbling block was the fact that Ellie believed she’d caught me leaving the flat. I kept asking them to check with her exactly what she’d seen, but this didn’t seem to cut any ice with them. However, the same lack of witnesses or CCTV footage that had failed to exculpate me had apparently also failed to incriminate me, and the detectives gradually seemed to realise they were going round in circles.
The session eventually ended, and I was left to my own devices for what felt like hours. After a basic lunch the questioning resumed once again, but I sensed that the detectives’ bluster was weakening. Then a surprise: a man announced as my solicitor was ushered in. He was probably in his mid-forties, a shortish figure in a dark suit and black-rimmed glasses. His receding hair was brushed back severely over his scalp, and he had implacable brown eyes.
More or less ignoring me, he told the detectives briskly that he’d been briefed on my case, and their evidence was weak and circumstantial. To me he merely said, “It’s a pity I wasn’t here yesterday. You wouldn’t be here now if I had been.”
My impression was that the two detectives had already been about to release me, but the newcomer, whose told me his name was Bernard Croft, seemed happy to take the credit. They told me I was being bailed, and gave me a predictable warning that I wasn’t off their radar yet. They would want to talk to me again. I nodded gravely.
As Croft ushered me out he muttered, “You shouldn’t have said anything to these people without talking to me first.”
“I didn’t even know you existed until half an hour ago. Who are you – my fairy godmother?”
We were just emerging into the front-of-house area. He said, “You’d better ask this lady.”
I followed his gaze. Sam was standing over by the wall, leaning against a radiator with one leg crossed jauntily over the other. Her faded jeans and orange and russet pullover created a glorious splash of colour in that drab environment. I felt I’d never before been greeted by such a welcome sight.
She was watching us with apparent amusement. “Surprise, surprise.”
Addressing us both, Bernard said, “Call me if these people start harassing you again. All right?”
I shrugged, but Sam levered herself away from the wall and said, “Will do. Thanks, Bernard.” She gave him a brief handshake and he bustled away.
We smiled at each other. Awkwardly I said, “Fancy seeing you here.”
Then she broke the spell. She said, “Nick’s just parking the car, but he needn’t have bothered. Shall we get going?”
Chapter 21
Nick materialised as we were walking away from the police station. He strode up and greeted me like an old friend. “So Bernard has worked his magic,” he said. “I knew we could rely on him.”
I decided not to point out that the police had probably been about to release me anyway. He seemed to need his moment of glory. He led us off in search of the parking bay where he’d left his Jaguar, and from there I directed him across inner London to the flat in Camden Town.
“Do we get the guided tour?” Sam asked as we reached the front door.
“Of course.” I turned to Nick. “I’m afraid you’ll have to look for another parking meter.”
He drove off, and Sam and I went upstairs. “Home sweet home,” I commented fatuously as I ushered her into the flat.
“It’s nice.”
“I like it.”
We stood there awkwardly. I was suddenly conscious that we were on our own, and I had the sense that she had the same awareness. To break the silence I said, “I couldn’t afford this place if the owners were charging me the full market rate.”
“No, I see that.” She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf and scanned the titles on it. She turned to me. “I suppose all these books are someone else’s?”
“Sadly yes.”
Another silence. It came as a relief when the front door buzzer sounded and Nick came up. Sam then proceeded to tell me what had been happening. She explained that she’d told
Nick about my phone call to her from the police station, and he had immediately suggested despatching someone from his firm’s solicitors to try to secure my release.
Nick said, “I’m only sorry we couldn’t get someone out to you sooner. We don’t normally deal with their criminal law department, but we’ve come across Bernard from time to time.”
I said, “It must have cost a bomb, calling him out and dragging him all the way to London from Banbury.” I braced myself to make the unavoidable offer. “You must let me have the bill.”
He waved my protests away. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Tell you what, if this goes any further, we can talk about the cost then. But let’s hope it doesn’t.” He gave me one of his winning smiles.
I didn’t want to be in Nick’s debt, but at this particular moment it seemed churlish to argue with him, and in any case I didn’t have the energy. I shrugged. “I don’t think I’ve ever needed to call on the services of a solicitor before – not in this kind of situation, anyway. I wouldn’t have known who to ask for.”
Sam seated herself on the sofa, while Nick chose the office chair in front of the desk. He sat swivelling himself idly from side to side, tapping a foot rhythmically on the footrest. It dawned on me that they were both looking at me as if I were some kind of laboratory specimen. I said, “You’re probably wondering how I got into this situation.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Sam said, but I could see the curiosity in her eyes.
I paused to think. “I turned up at this guy’s house. The door was slightly open. I rang the doorbell and knocked, but no one answered, so I decided I might as well head home. Then his daughter turned up, and she thought I was leaving – because of the open door, presumably. She freaked out when she went inside, so I followed her in and found her father dead on the floor.”
Sam said, “So the door was left open by whoever killed him?”
“I assume so – but according to the police, there are no security cameras around there, and the only person they know was in the house is me.”
We talked around the issue for a while, with each of us throwing in theories about what must have happened, then I said, “Look, if you don’t mind, I could really do with a shower and a change of clothes.”
Sam stood up. “Of course. We must let you get yourself together. We’ll head off.”
Suddenly I didn’t want to be left alone. I said, “Don’t go. Since you’ve come all this way, why don’t we all go out for a meal? My treat. It’s the least I can do. There’s a brilliant Indian just down the road.”
Sam gave me a severe look. “You don’t want to go out,” she said decisively. “Maybe I could cook something.”
Nick said, “How about a take-away? It’s a bit early, but we’ll need to drive back to Banbury after this.”
Sam jumped on the idea. “I’ll go and get it. What’s the name of this place you were talking about?”
So I went off to have my shower, and Sam headed downstairs to get the food. Nick stayed behind to check his emails on his phone. It was only after Sam had left that I realised they were paying for the meal. Yet again I was in their debt.
When I re-emerged in the lounge Nick rose abruptly to his feet. “I hope you don’t feel we’re invading your space here. We probably should have left you on your own.”
“Not at all.” I attempted a smile. “Can I offer you a beer?”
“I won’t, but I’m sure Sam will. I’ll have a sparkling water if you have some.”
As I opened the fridge door I couldn’t help wondering about Nick’s motivation in all this. I could see that Sam wanted to help me, but he had no such loyalty. Presumably he was simply doing this for her. All the same, his show of solidarity seemed a little over the top. As I handed him his water I said, “It’s very good of you to come all the way to London.”
“Sam was determined, and I couldn’t leave her to make the trip alone.”
It occurred to me that his words could be taken two ways, but I gave him what I hoped was a grateful smile.
He was looking oddly dishevelled in the open-neck white shirt he wore for business. I tried to study him without staring, but somehow I couldn’t take in the totality of him. It was like looking at a sketch in which the central details were blurred and incomplete.
He said, “So all this is ultimately about Graham Bulwell’s campaign to big up his eBook?”
“That’s partly how I got involved, yes. But I also paid this guy to promote my own book. More than Graham, in fact.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “I never would have thought that self-publishing could be such a dangerous activity.”
I attempted an ironic laugh. “Nor would I – but this could be about something else altogether. This guy may have made enemies we know nothing about.”
* * *
Sam returned with the take-away meal and followed me into the kitchen to help me serve it. She gave me a concerned look. “Are you really all right? I don’t know how I would feel if I’d just been through what you’ve been through.”
“I feel a lot better now I’m back here.”
She said, “I’m sorry for subjecting you to the Nick Hathaway show. He always has to do everything in grand style.”
I laughed. “I’m not complaining. I wasn’t expecting anybody to be stepping up for me.”
“What about that policeman friend of yours – Dave, isn’t it? Couldn’t he have done something?”
“He’s away on holiday.”
“Oh. Well you should talk to him when he gets back.”
“I probably will.”
We both fell silent, then I said, “It’s wonderful that you came down here today.” I tried to give her a meaningful look, and she held my gaze for a moment, but I couldn’t read what was in her eyes. She said, “That’s what friends are for.”
Back in the lounge, she commented brightly, “I really do like this flat. It has a warmth about it.”
“A journalist used to live here before me.”
“And now another journalist lives here. Or should I say a writer?”
“Well, I live here part-time … and I’m a part-time writer. Except that the world hasn’t discovered me yet.” I hesitated. “And the unfortunate Mr Openshaw won’t be helping with that now.”
Nick said, “If the police keep on hounding you about that, just give one of us a call. You’ll want someone like Bernard on your team.”
“I appreciate it.”
They drove off back to Banbury in the middle of the evening. I cleared the plates away to the kitchen, then sat on the sofa and stared out through the window. Freedom seemed a precious commodity when you had it taken away from you, even just for one night, and having Sam around to celebrate it had been an unexpected bonus. All the same, the dynamic of the evening had been strange and slightly strained. I didn’t know what to make of it.
Chapter 22
“Bloody hell, Mike,” Ashley said when I skyped her next morning. “You seem incapable of living a quiet life, even when all you’re doing is promoting your book.” She was smiling and frowning at the same time.
In the three years since I’d met her, she’d gradually formed the view that I led a dangerous and trouble-prone existence. It was true that I’d had some unfortunate experiences, but I hadn’t sought them out. Her view of me didn’t square with my view of myself.
I said, “I don’t go looking for these situations. You know that.”
“All I know is that you have an uncanny knack of finding them.”
She’d agreed to this Skype call after I’d texted her with the bare bones of what had happened. For once she’d broken her own rule about not skyping from work.
“And this guy who was killed,” she said. “Are you telling me he’s the same one you were asking me about when I went to that business park in Santa Monica?”
“That’s him, yes. He was a Brit, and it turns out that he was operating from a house in north London.”
“So tell me ex
actly what happened.”
She took in my account of Rob Openshaw’s death with admirable lack of fuss. She deplored histrionics, and simply listened in silence, occasionally interrupting to ask questions.
I couldn’t hide the fact that I’d called Sam rather than her from the police station, but she seemed to take this in her stride. However, she was bemused by the way Nick and Sam had descended on me when I was released. “It seems a bit de trop,” she commented dryly. “They seem determined to sweep you up in the Nick Hathaway machine.”
“But I don’t have to take up his offer of that fancy solicitor. I’m assuming it’ll never come to that, but if it does, I can find somebody else.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t. Have you heard anything more from the police?”
“No, nothing yet. Hopefully they’re trying to find the real killer, and not wasting their time on me.”
I asked her if she had any idea of when she would be returning to Britain. She said no. “I’m keeping an open mind.”
* * *
Later that evening Graham phoned me.
“I hear you’ve been in the shit over Rob Openshaw’s death,” he said without preamble.
“You could say that.”
“Me too. The police were round here yesterday. I reckon they were checking me out to see if they could pin his death on me.”
“How did they leave it in the end?”
“There was nothing they could do. I was on the other side of London when it happened, on my way to a reading group meeting.”
That seemed to confirm that he couldn’t have been involved. I said, “Lucky you. I didn’t have any alibi.”
“That’s not the end of the story, though. They tried to make out that I’d put you up to visiting this Openshaw man. You were going to put the frighteners on him, and then we were going to split the refund between us. Except that it went wrong, and he was accidentally killed.”
“Bloody hell, Graham! What kind of person do they think I am?” As I spoke, an unpleasant thought came to me. I said, “You don’t believe any of this stuff yourself, do you?”
The Concrete Ceiling Page 9