Sixty-One Nails cotf-1

by Mike Shevdon

  "I suppose I had better see them."

  She nodded and stood up. "If you get any dizziness or nausea I want to know immediately. I've written you a prescription for painkillers, so ask the nurse if you need them." She turned to leave.

  "Can I go home?"

  The doctor turned back. "I would prefer to keep you in for observation, but I can't keep you here. See how you feel after you've spoken to the police. You may find you tire pretty quickly. Your system's repairing the damage and you may not have much energy for anything else."

  She went to the door and opened it. "You can come in now." She nodded to me and left the door open.

  Two men entered. The first was short for a policemen, but wide with it. He stepped into the room sideways, more out of habit than need. His mid-brown hair was cut short and his dark jacket looked as if he might have slept in it. The second man looked innocuous next to the forcefulness of his colleague. He regarded the room with a passive expression taking in the bed, the chair, Blackbird and me in one sweep. I suspected that if you asked him in a month's time what was in that room, he would be able to describe it all.

  "We would like to talk to you about an incident at your flat last Thursday night," the second man said, without preamble.

  "Sure. Come in." They were already in, but I wanted to make the point that this was my room, at least for now.

  "We would like to speak with you alone, please. Constable, would you take the young lady for a coffee or something. You can take a break. We'll come and find you if we need you."

  "Sir." The constable held the door open for Blackbird and they filed out, closing the door quietly after them.

  The stocky man went to the side table and put down a small handheld tape recorder. He pressed Record.

  "Recording, one, two, three." He stopped the recorder and rewound it, then pressed play. His voice repeated itself from the machine. He rewound it again and pressed record.

  "This is Detective Sergeant Bob Vincent with Detective Inspector Brian Tindall." He looked at his watch and then timed and dated the interview, naming the hospital and the ward. "DI Tindall leading."

  He turned and sat in the chair by my bed and took out a notepad. The chair was too reclined for him. He perched on the edge of it, looking uncomfortable.

  DI Tindall walked up and down in the meagre space at the end of my bed. He stopped and looked at me. "Would you state your name, please, sir, just for the record."

  "Petersen. Niall Petersen."

  "Age?"

  "Forty-two."

  "Residence."

  "I live at one hundred and forty-five Cromwell Road, South Ealing." DS Vincent noted this in his book.

  "Mr Petersen, we would like to know what you can tell us about the events of last Thursday night."

  "Very little, I'm afraid." I needed to keep this to a minimum. I knew I would find it hard to lie and that they would probably be able to tell if I did.

  "You were discovered running down the street in tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt at oh-four-seventeen. You were carrying a rucksack."

  "As I told your colleagues, I was going away."

  "One of my colleagues is dead. He was attacked by a virulent biological agent in your back garden. His face was eaten away to the point where if we didn't know who he was, forensics would have a hard time identifying him."

  "I'm so sorry."

  "Sorry? You hear that, Bob? He's sorry." He strode around and leaned over the bed, grabbing a handful of pyjama and hauling me within inches of his face. "He had a wife and a four month-old baby. She isn't even allowed to see the body. Shall I let her know how sorry you are?" He shoved me backwards onto the pillow and stared down at me. He was breathing hard, trying to control his anger.

  "There was nothing I could do. I wasn't even in the garden."

  "You didn't see what happened."

  "No."

  "Or hear?"

  "Well, I could hear some of it. They were on the radio. But I didn't know–"

  "I quote: 'Tell them not to touch it. Tell them!' That was you, wasn't it?" He leaned over me. "Why did you say that if you couldn't see?"

  "I didn't know. I was guessing."

  "Guessing!" His face was inches from mine and spots of spittle landed on my face. I daren't raise my hand to wipe it away.

  "Is that your usual technique for interviewing key witnesses, DI Tindall?"

  The voice was new and came from the doorway. Tindall stood slowly, fighting to regain his dignity as the colour in his face faded slowly. He wiped his hands down the front of his jacket and turned to the door. DS Vincent stood up.

  "Only I don't remember reading any of that in the procedures manual and I wondered if I had somehow missed that part."

  "No, sir," said Tindall.

  I registered the uniform of the man standing in the doorway holding an A4-sized white manila envelope and wondered why Tindall was addressing him as "sir". Then I noticed that the uniform was immaculate. The buttons shone, and the shoulders and collar were covered in gold braid. It wasn't a regular constable's uniform.

  "I think," said the man, entering the room, "they can hear you in the entrance hall, two floors down."

  "Sorry, sir."

  "And it may be that you need some emotional distance from this case."

  "I'm fine, sir. Really."

  "Nevertheless, I think you should withdraw."

  "Sir? We were just getting somewhere."

  "Really? Was that the part where you were leading the witness or the part where you were compromising the integrity of the evidence?"

  There was silence. Tindall looked to Vincent for support, but Vincent wouldn't meet his eyes.

  The new officer spoke calmly and reasonably. "I think it would be a good idea if you took a long step back from this case and regained some objectivity. I would like your report on my desk at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow."

  "But, sir–"

  "I've just come from seeing our dead colleague's family, detective inspector, and I am not in the mood to debate it."

  DI Tindall's shoulders slumped. "Yes, sir."

  "Get moving. DS Vincent will stay to assist me with the interview."

  "You, sir?" said Tindall.

  "What?"

  "It's just that you don't usually take such a direct interest in a case, sir."

  "I have a man in the morgue and another on extended leave for compassionate reasons. Two others are in shock and barely holding it together. That makes me four men down. Can you think of a more appropriate time for me to take a direct interest in a case, inspector?"

  "No, sir."

  "Good. I'll see you in my office at nine sharp with your report."

  "Yes, sir." Tindall took one last look at me and then turned away. The new officer pushed the door gently closed behind him. After a moment there was sharp noise that might have been a bark or a muttered expletive. We could all hear the anger in the footsteps gradually fading beyond the door.

  The new officer spoke. "DI Tindall leaves the room. Assistant Commissioner Mark Perkins taking over the interview. Do you mind if I sit?" He indicated the edge of the bed.

  "No, er, help yourself."

  I was unsure if this was a reprieve. Was having an assistant commissioner conduct the interview an improvement or simply a sign that things had just become a lot more serious?

  He sat on the edge of my bed while DS Vincent sat uncomfortably perched on the bedside chair.

  "I think it would help if you took us through the events of last Thursday night. From the beginning, please."

  I went back to what I had said earlier, rehearsing the events in my head. Perkins hardly spoke, letting me give my own version of the story. I missed out the bit about my glow and using magic to seal the door, but apart from that I told it as it had happened. When we got to the part where they found the thing in my garden, I paused.

  "Could I have some water?" I asked.

  Vincent passed me the water and I took several sips. They didn't prompt me or
pressure me to continue, but waited patiently.

  "There was something wrong," I told them. "The power was flickering and there was this strange laughter in the garden. It was freaking me out. I told them not to touch it. I tried to warn them, but it was too late."

  "It?"

  "I know this is going to sound strange, but it had a man's voice but a woman's sound. Does that make sense?"

  "You're not the only one to say that. Why did you warn them not to touch it?" Perkins prompted gently.

  "Are you kidding? Have you seen the walls of my flat? It wasn't like that before. Whoever was in my flat did that. If they were in my garden then I was staying well away from it."

  "Why didn't you warn them earlier," he asked.

  "I don't know. They told me it was safe. They said it had gone."

  "Does the name Gerald Fontner mean anything to you?"

  "No."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  He opened the envelope and extracted a photograph. He handed it to me.

  "Do you know this man?"

  I studied the picture. The man was almost certainly dead. He was lying on his back amongst garden debris. He wore a suit and looked strangely peaceful.

  "No. I've never seen him before."

  "Are you sure? Take your time."

  "I'm sure I would recognise him if I knew him. I don't."

  "This is the man in your garden. His name is Gerald Fontner. He has – had – a wife and two children, lived in Hampstead. Company director for a car dealership."

  "I don't know him."

  "What kind of car do you drive, Mr Petersen?"

  "I don't. There's no point in having a car in London. There's nowhere to park."

  "Do you know why Mr Fontner came to your house that night?"

  This was dangerously close to a question I didn't want to answer.

  "Maybe that stuff made him crazy."

  "Can you think of any reason that Mr Fontner would want to harm you?"

  "Maybe he wasn't himself?"

  "Do you know what the substance is, on the walls and ceiling of your flat, Mr Petersen?"

  "It smelled like some sort of mould." I was dancing around the questions.

  "It's mildew. Plain ordinary mildew. We've had it analysed. We had the lab drop everything so we could get early identification of the substance."

  "Mildew doesn't do that, does it?" I asked.

  "We have a number of theories, Mr Petersen. None of them are very satisfactory. Did you paint your walls with anything unusual?"

  "No."

  "Have you had any strange substances in your flat?"

  "No."

  "Was there mildew in it before?"

  "No. It was freshly decorated before I moved in. I've only been there a year."

  "We have a forensic team looking at your flat. They will find evidence if there have been drugs in the house. Is there anything you want to tell us now?"

  "No. I don't use drugs. There's nothing for them to find."

  He watched me for a long moment, assessing my reaction. "They tell me that you were dragged from the river, barely alive. How did you come to be in the Thames, Mr Petersen?"

  "I don't remember being in the Thames," I told him, schooling my face. The river I had almost drowned in was the Fleet, not the Thames.

  "Did someone throw you in?"

  "Not that I know of."

  "Then what were you doing in the river?"

  "Drowning?"

  He smiled slightly. "People don't normally go swimming in the Thames. If there is something you have become involved in that's got out of control, then maybe we can help."

  "I haven't done anything wrong," I told him. "I haven't broken any law."

  "You don't always have to break the law to end up out of your depth, Mr Petersen. The police are here to protect the citizens from harm and to keep the Queen's peace. If you are being threatened or intimidated…?"

  "No one is threatening me." They weren't. Not now.

  "Understand that you can talk to us if there's a problem. We may be able to help."

  "Thanks, but I think I'm OK."

  He paused for a moment, thinking, then stood up and picked up the tape deck. "Interview ends at…" He checked his watch and recited the time and date. Then he handed the recorder to DS Vincent.

  "If you could get a transcript typed up for me for tomorrow, I can go through it with DI Tindall in the morning."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And you could find the constable who was keeping an eye on Mr Petersen for us and let him know he can go home."

  "You're not going to arrest me then?" I asked.

  "The police are not in the habit of prosecuting witnesses, Mr Petersen. We would like you to come down to the station and sign a copy of your statement, but apart from that we won't be needing anything else from you, unless there's something more you would like to tell us?"

  "No. There's nothing else."

  "Very well." He waited while DS Vincent gathered up his notebook and tape recorder and went in search of the constable.

  "Do you play golf, Mr Petersen?"

  "Golf? No, why?"

  "The head of the CPS plays golf."

  "CPS?"

  "The Crown Prosecution Service. The people for whom we must gather the evidence and to whom we must make our case. The head of the CPS is responsible for deciding who gets prosecuted and who does not."

  "And he plays golf?"

  "Apparently he plays with some of the Queen's Bench Division at the Royal Courts of Justice. I believe you are acquainted with one of the masters there, by the name of Checkland?"

  "Yes. We met quite recently." Was this another interview, without the recorder this time?

  "I just wanted you to know. If I find out that you were in any way responsible for the death of one of my officers, it won't matter who you know or what favours you are owed. Do I make myself clear?"

  I took a deep breath. "Yes. I understand."

  "Good morning, Mr Petersen." He quietly pulled the door closed behind him.

  After a minute or two, Blackbird reappeared. She was not alone.

  "Daddy!" Alex threw herself onto the bed, wrapped her arms around my neck and hugged me fiercely.

  "Careful, darling, he's still not well." Katherine, a few steps behind our daughter, was being Mum. "Sorry, she's been dying to come in here ever since she first heard you'd woken." She tried to ease Alex from around my neck.

  She managed to move her from lying on my chest, but my daughter was not going to be parted from me so easily. She lay alongside me, her head on my shoulder, curled into the crook of my arm, her curls tickling my nose as I stroked her hair. Katherine gave up trying to separate her from me when I nodded it was OK. It was better to concede to being hugged than to have her fight to stay.

  "How are you feeling?" Katherine asked.

  "I've been worse," I reassured her, noticing Blackbird slipping out of the room past a man who was standing in the doorway, looking out of place. Tall and bearded, he was caught at the boundary, unwilling to enter, but also unwilling to leave. I looked curiously at Katherine.

  "This is Barry," she introduced him. "Barry brought us over in his car."

  My Fey hearing found the evasion in that sentence, and the look between Katherine and our daughter confirmed that there was more to this than they were saying. They were terrible at keeping secrets at the best of times.

  I nodded to him. "Hi, Barry, you don't have to stand in the doorway. You can come in." He edged into the room, still looking uncomfortable, as if he didn't think he ought to be here.

  Katherine took a deep breath. "Niall, you might as well know now. Barry is my fiancé, we're getting married."

  I looked between the two of them, while my daughter hugged me extra tightly as if I might erupt. It took me a moment to realise that a week ago it would have sparked a deep sense of resentment in me, but a lot had changed in the past few days.

  "Well, that's great news," I
told them. "Congratulations, to you both. Really." Barry smiled at this positive reaction. I offered him the hand that didn't have a drip attached to it and he shook it gently, conscious of my debilitated state.

  Katherine was more sceptical about my reaction.

  "We've been seeing a lot of each other, but I didn't know how to tell you. Alex here has been sworn to secrecy, haven't you, sweetheart?" She reached over and ruffled her hair.

  "Katherine, it's your life. I wish you every happiness together."

  "Thanks," she said, and seemed to mean it. "And I'm not the only one with developments on the relationship front. I've met your girlfriend. She seems very nice. What an unusual name."

  A moment of panic hit me when I realised I had no idea what name she'd given them. "Is it?" I said lamely.

  "Yes, I've never come across a Blackbird before, have you?"

  "It's kind of a nickname that stuck," I explained.

  "Well you've been keeping her quiet, too. Where did you meet her?"

  "I met her on the Underground and she insisted on taking me for coffee. We've not been together very long."

  "Don't look so embarrassed, Niall. It's good that you've found someone, even if she is a lot younger than you. She's barely left your side, you know, and she's been worried sick about you. We've got to know each other over the past day or so. I like her."

  "So do I."

  Reassured that there wasn't going to be a row between her parents, Alex sat up on the bed, taking in the room and its contents.

  "Dad, what do these buttons do?" She pointed to a row of buttons on the wall.

  "I have no idea, sweetheart. Just don't press any of them."

  Katherine interceded. "Barry, would you mind taking Alex and seeing if you can find something for her to drink? I think I saw a water fountain near the door."

  "I don't need a drink. I'm fine," my daughter declared.

  "Don't be difficult. You haven't had a drink for at least two hours and you know what you're like. You'll wait until there's no chance of getting one and then declare you're dying of thirst. Go on with you, you can come straight back to your dad once you've drunk it."