‘So what happened?’ Faraday was trying to rein himself in.
‘I was on the phone. I remember now.’
‘Oh, yeah? And why’s that?’
Prentice didn’t answer. Faraday had established that the lad in the café had just been given a season ticket for Fratton Park, £320 worth of spontaneous present. The name on the credit-card slip had been Prentice’s. Beyond any reasonable doubt, he’d bought the lad’s silence.
Faraday could hear Prentice’s mother in the kitchen now, noisily putting the kettle on. All she’d wanted was her boy to tell the truth. And at last, for whatever reason, he’d done it.
The door was still open. Faraday closed it.
‘OK, son, this is what you’re going to do. You’re going down to Kingston Crescent police station. You’re going to ask for PC Barrington. You’re going to tell him the truth about the crash. You’re going to tell him you were on the phone when you hit the Fiesta, and that afterwards you bribed the lad to cover for you. PC Smith will sit you in an interview room with your solicitor and a tape recorder and you’ll go over the whole story again.’ Faraday nodded towards the door. ‘You want your mother to go with you?’
Prentice shook his head.
‘What happens afterwards?’ he muttered.
‘You’ll be charged.’
‘What with?’
‘Perverting the course of justice. You’ve interfered with a witness. Courts take a dim view of that. You’ll be lucky to avoid a jail sentence.’
‘Jail?’ Prentice sank onto the sofa. For a while, he did nothing but study his hands. When he finally looked up, his eyes were glistening. ‘I just wanted to say I was sorry,’ he said hopelessly. ‘I don’t need any of this.’
Faraday gave him time to compose himself. If he felt anything, he felt weary. The longer he did the job, he thought, the less certain his take on what really made people tick. We’ve all got in a muddle. We’ve all lost the plot. Actions and reactions, causes and effects. One tiny moment, and a life blown away.
‘The whole story,’ he repeated stonily. ‘OK?’
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