We played scorer-goes-in, using trees as goalposts, every man for himself. Millicent and I hardly scored. Max and Fab5 ran rings around us, matched each other goal for goal.
I looked up at Millicent, and felt again that near-smile, the beginning of the thaw. This, I thought. Love expressed through the doing of stuff. We need to do more of this.
She reached out, rubbed my arm. ‘We stink at soccer, don’t we?’
I looked over at Max, as he sent the ball arcing towards Fab5. Fab5 jumped and caught it, then kicked it far off down towards the cricket pitches at the end. Max tore after it, and we watched him as he ran.
‘You and I,’ I said, ‘stink at this. Our only hope is that.’
She leaned back against me, still watching Max, and drew my arms around her, nestled her head against my chest. ‘We’re not really in-the-moment people, are we?’
I kissed the top of her head. Perfume, and the shrill tone of her sweat. I crossed my arms over her breasts. ‘You smell good,’ I said. ‘The sun is shining.’
‘What is this, spontaneity 101?’
‘I love you,’ I said. And for a moment I felt a rush of something very pure. She looked up at me, her eyes glistening.
Then I felt foolish. I looked round at Fab5, expected him to be laughing at us, but he was watching something down by the far end of the park. I followed his gaze, saw a police car as it glided past. The car drove on. Probably nothing.
‘What is it, honey?’ Millicent drew away, looked up at me.
‘Nothing,’ I said. It was nothing. I looked back at Max, who had turned and was racing back up the park towards us. ‘Come on, Max. At him.’
Max scored twice more. So did Fab5. Fab5’s forehead shone with sweat. Birds and traffic. Max tireless in the heavy sun.
This time it was Millicent who saw it. She gave a little jerk of the chin, threw a meaningful glance, then turned and kicked the ball hard at Max, who stood braced in the goal mouth. The police car. It was back now.
Max slid out a foot, and the ball spun upwards into his hands. Fab5 clapped. Millicent clapped.
The police car had drawn up in a parking space fifty metres beyond us. Probably nothing.
I ran a few metres towards the car, then turned to face Max. ‘Max,’ I shouted. ‘To me!’ I pointed at my head.
Max punted the ball. I missed it deliberately, then chased after it towards the police car.
‘Da-ad …’
I recognised the officer in the front seat. A cold dread came upon me. They were going to do it now, then. In front of my son.
I turned and kicked the ball as hard as I could. It landed short. Millicent walked slowly over towards it. Then she turned, and kicked the ball hard towards Max, who made a point of catching it in one hand.
I walked stiffly back towards my family. Why now? Why here?
Max kicked the ball towards Millicent. Fab5 intercepted it, and kicked it straight at the goal. Max jumped, stretching high, but the ball passed above him.
‘Ya wee beauty!’ shouted Fab5.
‘No way!’ shouted Max.
‘Is it my fault you can’t reach, wee guy?’
‘Mum?’
Millicent gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘What do I know?’
I caught her eye and saw in her look the same fear that I felt. I nodded. She nodded. She had seen the car.
‘Ice cream,’ I said. ‘Mum’s buying.’
‘Can I have a Magnum, Mum? And a Fanta?’
‘You’re going with her.’ Keep it light. Keep it normal. ‘One or the other, Max. Not both.’
‘Why? Why can’t you go?’
‘Just go, Max.’
‘But Fab5 and me are the best, so you and Mum should go.’
‘Max.’
‘What?’
‘Do you want an ice cream or not?’
‘Why do you always have to be so mean, when you’re pretending to be generous?’
‘I told you to go, Max.’
Max stood, arms folded, resentment and defiance. ‘You don’t decide over me.’
‘Actually, I do, Max.’
‘Honey.’ Millicent slipped her arm through Max’s, and whispered something to him. Max looked up at me again, then nodded. They set off together towards the corner of the park. How did she always know the right thing to say?
Fab5 and I sat on a bench. The police car waited. The door did not open. We watched Millicent and Max disappear across the grass and the drying mud. Then we watched the police car again.
‘They’re wrong, you know,’ said Fab5.
‘About what?’
‘London. Like it’s all bad weather and mouthy cockneys.’
A second car drew up beside the first. Unmarked. The uniformed officer opened his door and went to stand by the passenger window of the unmarked car. I wondered what would happen if I stood up and walked away. But this had to be faced.
‘We haven’t seen any cockneys,’ I said.
‘Anyhow …’ He raised his dark glasses, looked searchingly at me.
‘I’m OK,’ I said. ‘Thanks for asking.’
Fab5 nodded. I could see Millicent and Max crossing the street at the far end of the park. Fab5 was watching them too.
‘I’m almost starting to think she doesn’t hate me,’ he said.
‘You took Max to school.’
‘And?’
‘Actions count for Millicent. It’s harder for her to hate you when she sees you doing right.’
The uniformed officer was still talking to his superior through the car window. What was taking them so long?
‘She found some letters I maybe shouldn’t have kept. What?’
‘What was in the letters, friend?’
‘Nothing that she didn’t already know.’
The uniformed officer had turned to face us. He was staring openly now.
‘I’ve been faithful to her from the day we met. She must know that. Why? What did you tell her?’
‘I told her what you were like.’
‘Cheers.’
‘You slept with a lot of women. Truth, friend.’
They were out of the car, now, looking at us: the two plain-clothes officers who had interviewed Millicent and me. What was keeping them?
‘Again, Fab5, cheers.’
‘You changed. I told her that too.’
The detectives were halfway across the grass now, flanked by the uniformed officer. They would be with us in a moment.
Fab5 took off his dark glasses.
‘It’s going to be OK, Alex, man.’
‘Is it?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
At the far end of the park I could see Max and Millicent. Max was carrying what looked like a small cardboard box, slowly, and with infinite care.
‘Fab5,’ I said, ‘how do you manage to be such a twat and such a mensch at the same time?’
‘Practice, Habibi,’ he said, ‘practice.’
‘I should stop taking you at face value.’
‘You’re welcome, Alex.’
Fab5 stood up and nodded at the police officers, then set off to intercept Millicent and Max.
From the back of the marked police car I watched my friend, my wife and my son. It was an interview, the police had said, nothing more.
Fab5 had caught up with Millicent and Max; they stood, easy in the sunlight, talking as if all was well with the world. Grass and trees, dogs and traffic: London pastoral.
The three police officers leaned against the car, talking lazily. Why three? And why here? Was this some sort of message to my family? To my eleven-year-old son? I felt the anger begin to rise in me.
You are not under arrest. Breathe.
I saw Max hand Fab5 something from his box. An ice cream? I wondered what Fab5 had said to him. Hadn’t he seen the cars? The police?
‘He’s eleven, you evil bastards.’
I must have said it out loud. The door opened, and the female detective looked in.
‘Something you wan
ted to say, Mr Mercer?’
I bit back my anger, smiled my most appeasing smile. ‘Any sense of how long we’re likely to be here?’
‘Just a little catch-up between colleagues.’ She returned my smile. Sympathetic and warm. She closed the door.
Fab5 produced an electric pink Frisbee. I watched the three of them, as they played one-handed, the other hand holding what must be iced lollies, catching the Frisbee on extended index fingers, spinning it away again on practised flicks of the wrist; vibrant pink against the desiccated grass.
Max never once looked towards the police car. My brave little boy.
He knows.
The uniformed policeman got in and started the engine. ‘Seat belt on, sir?’
The car pulled away slowly, and I opened the window. The fear was upon me again, as if this was some sort of parting. My wife, my child. Behind us the unmarked car pulled out, the officers in the front seats looking relaxed and professional. The man said something to the woman, and they both laughed. They had nothing on me. They were staging this to make a point. Breathe.
No one reacted as the police cars passed by.
My wife could really throw. I wondered if she was faking the claps and the whoops as Fab5 threw himself to the ground, caught the Frisbee on his right index finger, jumped up and threw it to Max in a single fluid gesture. It certainly didn’t look as if she was faking.
They could be any North London family. Woman, man, child. Is that what we look like when we’re out together, I wondered. Do we make it look that good?
Three chairs, a table, a recording device. The walls were white and recently painted, the floor tiled in cracked slate. Across the white table were two white plastic chairs. My own chair – grey fabric – was more comfortable. A message, perhaps: this is going to take a long time.
A man in plain clothes came in with biscuits and a cup of black coffee. He asked me if I wanted a newspaper. ‘Could be a bit of a wait.’
‘You’re Scottish,’ I said. Glasgow, I thought.
‘Aye,’ he said, ‘right enough.’ Broad smile. Thirty, maybe. Close-cropped dark hair. ‘Guardian, is it?’
‘How could you tell?’
He shrugged. ‘You develop a sense for these things.’
‘Are you even allowed to bring me a paper?’
‘Nothing in the rules says I can’t.’
‘OK,’ I said, ‘sure, then. Thanks.’
I had made a point of not needing to make a phone call. And besides, there was no one I wanted to speak to: not a lawyer, because I didn’t want the police to think that I needed a lawyer; not Millicent, because she knew where I was and if I rang it might alarm Max; I certainly wasn’t going to tell my mother I was being questioned by the police.
There were graffiti scratched deep into the table. Davey S had been here. Laleh had been here, along with most of her crew. Marshall from Gorebridge had been here. So had Cookie, also from Gorebridge.
I was certain the police couldn’t search the house if they didn’t arrest me. I was almost certain of that.
‘One Guardian.’
He was back with the paper. His name was Paul, and he took The Times himself. He’d been in London two years. He was still finding it tough down here.
‘It’s a great city,’ I said.
‘Aye, maybe we just see the wrong side of it,’ he said. ‘Makes a man cynical.’
‘You don’t project cynicism,’ I said.
‘Good to know, mate. Good to know.’ He hovered by the door, smiling as if we were friends.
‘So, Paul,’ I said, ‘is this all part of the process?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I’m just wondering whether you’re the good cop?’
The smile froze. ‘I was just making conversation, mate.’
‘You can go,’ I said. ‘I have everything I need. I’ve been offered counselling. Thanks for the paper.’
When he had left I tried to pick up the coffee cup that he had given me. My hand knocked it over; it simply missed the cup: a badly calibrated machine. I hadn’t meant to sound so ungrateful; I must be more nervous than I realised.
I was alone for another hour. I picked up the paper several times, but couldn’t concentrate on the stories, couldn’t connect the sentences.
If the police didn’t arrest me I would burn Caroline’s letter. It was stupid to have kept it. Incriminating, almost: the man it described was obsessive and out of control. I am no longer that man.
I looked around me, as I had many times that hour. There was no camera. No one-way mirror. They can’t read your thoughts. I was not under arrest. I was not under caution. I could leave if I wanted.
The same female detective who had interviewed me before. I asked if she could give me her card again, which she did.
She smiled at me, and I think I smiled at her. This was an interview. Nothing more. I was here to help.
Why did I struggle with her name? She was June. Of course she was June.
‘I’m sorry for the wait,’ she said.
‘Your colleague kindly brought me a paper,’ I said. Eye contact.
‘Good,’ she said.
‘Good,’ I said.
‘Good.’
She turned on the audio recorder. Then she gave her name, and my name, and my address, and my age. She gave the date, then checked her watch, and gave the time.
Then she looked at me. I tried to look back. Eye contact.
‘Mr Mercer, you understand, do you not, that you have the right to a lawyer?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you are happy to proceed without legal representation?’
‘Yes.’ I wanted her sympathy now, and a lawyer wouldn’t help with that.
‘So,’ she said, ‘you and your son found the body of Mr Bryce on the evening of first July, as discussed in our interview of second July.’
I said nothing. What was she expecting me to say?
‘Do you have anything you wish to add to the recollections you gave then?’
‘No.’ I still remembered her kindness across the kitchen table. I hadn’t wanted her to feel sorry for me then. I wanted her sympathy now, though. ‘It hasn’t been an easy time.’ Eye contact.
‘And we are aware that discovery of a body can be a traumatic event. You have been made aware that counselling services are available, should you wish.’
Surely she couldn’t ask me whether I had seen a counsellor? Wasn’t that privileged? And surely it could never count against me that I hadn’t?
‘Everyone has been very kind.’ Her mouth smiled. There was a keenness to her gaze that I hadn’t seen before, a tilt of the head that suggested distance. Raptor.
‘Mr Mercer, what was your state of mind on the evening of the thirtieth of June?’
‘You mean the first of July?’
‘No, Mr Mercer, I mean the evening of the thirtieth of June. The evening before your … discovery of the body.’
Why the pause before the word discovery? What was she implying?
‘You’re asking me to account for my movements?’
‘No, Mr Mercer. I’m asking you to describe your state of mind.’
‘Normal. Whatever that is.’
‘And what’s normal, for you?’
‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘I see.’ She smiled. Then she produced a typescript from a briefcase and turned to a page marked with a Post-it.
‘A neighbour of yours reports hearing raised voices in your house on the night of the thirtieth of June.’
‘Raised voices?’
‘An argument. Which continued from roughly eleven fifteen to eleven forty-five.’
‘A neighbour?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re talking about Mr Ashani.’
‘I’m afraid that I can’t share those details with you at this point. Mr Mercer, did you and your wife argue between those hours?’
‘I don’t remember.’ Still that professional smile. Still the keenness o
f the eyes. Yellow-grey, unblinking.
‘Did you and your wife argue between those times?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘Maybe?’
‘Yes.’
‘That was very faint.’ She gestured towards the recorder. ‘Could you repeat your last answer?’
‘Yes. We argued.’
The longest of pauses. Her eyes blazed. I tried to smile back. Eye contact. I brought the cup to my lips, realised it was empty. Smiled again. Put the cup down.
‘Mr Mercer, I’m going to read from the transcript of the interview with your neighbour. All right?’
‘All right.’
She read without inflection, her voice flat, like a bored clerk on a long and tedious telephone call. ‘You fucking bitch. You fucking little bitch. I’m going to make you pay for that. Jesus. Next time I meet a bitch like you in a pub, the last thing I’m going to do is marry her. Christ on the fucking cross.’
The smile was gone now. Her grey-gold eyes stared. Waiting. Hungry, almost.
‘It’s the kind of thing I could have said.’
‘Did you say it, Mr Mercer?’
‘Yes. I probably did.’
‘You probably did?’
‘I said it.’
She closed the transcript, placed it carefully in front of her on the table. ‘Well now.’ The smile was back. Patient, without warmth. She followed my gaze as I looked towards the door. Would she stop me if I got up to leave? Would she arrest me?
Something in me – almost a voice – told me that she couldn’t search the house if she arrested me at the police station; that she could only search the place where the arrest was made. I was sure – almost sure – that I had read that somewhere. Had I read that somewhere? Why had I said no to a lawyer?
I forced myself to meet her gaze. ‘You’re quoting selectively,’ I said.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Mercer? Could you explain yourself?’
‘You’re taking my words out of context.’ My voice sounded injured; the voice of a petulant child.
‘And how would you contextualise your words, Mr Mercer? Let me remind you of what you said: “You fucking little bitch. I’m going to make you pay for that.” We agree – do we not – that you said that?’
‘Yes. Look …’
‘Yes?’
‘That’s not how it was said.’
‘Your voice was raised, was it not?’
A Line of Blood Page 14