I caught a strange look in his eyes. I could tell he wanted to say something but couldn’t decide how.
“Have you thought that Xanthe might have done it? Killed Bob, I mean.”
I almost choked on my coffee. “Xanthe? Come on, she’s so puny she couldn’t punch a hole in a paper bag.”
“Yes, but how strong do you have to be to push someone downstairs in the dark?”
I thought about it, but I just couldn’t see Xanthe doing anything so violent. “Remember how upset she was when she found Bob?”
“She was traumatised, yes. But that could be because of what she’d done.”
“She was screaming for help though. Why would she want to alert us all to what she’d done?”
“Because she needed help – someone stronger to move the body.”
“You think she used us to do her dirty work?”
“It’s possible, isn’t it? She had to go to the basement when Stuart asked because it would have seemed odd if she’d refused. Perhaps it was a relief to her because she’d been waiting for one of us to find him and no one had. She then made out she’d just found the body. And I’m sure her shock was genuine – seeing him as a corpse, she was confronted with what she’d done. Maybe she’d been hoping he wasn’t that badly injured and had got up and walked away.”
It still sounded far-fetched “I don’t know. She can’t kill a mosquito.”
He considered this but then said, “So, I’m not saying she did it on purpose. She might not even have realised she’d killed him. You saw how he was hitting on her and she pushed him away. Perhaps he tried again later or perhaps he was angry and wanted to take it out on her. She was trying to get away from him. Perhaps she pushed him away and he lost his footing.”
“And walked back into the party as though nothing had happened?”
He shrugged. “We were all pretty out of it, would we have noticed if she was behaving a bit strangely? And then there’s the money. We searched the house thoroughly that night for the backpack, didn’t we? I looked under Xanthe’s bed. It wasn’t there then.”
Something cold crept up my limbs. “Are you sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure. Think how long she managed to keep the backpack from us – she’s an actress. And there’s another thing – I know it’s minor but that Tenerife air crash – I looked it up and neither plane was flying to the UK.”
I froze, my mug of tea halfway to my mouth. I had to accept it was a bit odd. “But it might have been scheduled to stop over in England. Anyway, you can’t always believe what you read in the papers – as we know all too well. Why would she make up something like that? And even if she did it’s hardly on the same scale as killing someone is it?”
“No,” he conceded, “but it makes me question how truthful she is.”
***
The phone call came when I was at work. Sometime in the afternoon between booking a photographer for a cover shoot and checking some page proofs I picked up the receiver expecting it to be a marketing manager coming back to me with a quote I’d asked for or a PR with some figures. Instead it was the police asking me if I could come down to the station and help them with an enquiry about a stolen car belonging to one of my housemates, Stuart Mountford.
“Am I under arrest?” I asked, reeling. I was horribly aware of how sound carried in the open-plan office. Around me people were typing stories, pulling out filing drawers, conducting telephone interviews and shouting about deadlines but I felt eyes on me from all corners.
“Not at all. You’re free to leave whenever you like. But we’d appreciate your cooperation. You’re entitled to free and independent legal advice if you want it.”
I agreed to go along straight after work and made my goodbye as cheery as I could in the hope people would believe I was just a helpful witness to something minor. There was no chance to speak to the others about it, but Zak caught my eye as he left the office during the afternoon and I guessed he was heading to the same place.
The duty solicitor who saw me before the interview looked as if she’d had a life of privilege and I couldn’t imagine she’d ever been in trouble of any kind. Her golden hair was smoothed into a long, shiny pony tail and she eyed me through preppy, dark-framed glasses.
She went through the details with me. “My advice is just to answer the questions that are put to you. Don’t volunteer anything. If you aren’t comfortable with the questions you can always reply ‘No comment.’”
“Do people really do that?” I’d thought it was something that only happened in TV series.
The room looked pretty much like the ones on TV too – I mean there wasn’t much in it, just the desk, three chairs and some recording equipment. My heart thumped at the prospect of my words being committed to tape – replayed, mulled over, thrown back at me in court.
The female detective constable was joined by a sergeant who looked frighteningly like my Uncle Derek – pouchy-faced and bald except for copious ear hair and black eyebrows. He seemed to enjoy making an entrance and for a few moments we sat looking at each other.
“I must caution you that this interview is being recorded,” he said and the words that followed were depressingly familiar. “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
I felt like I’d somehow fallen into a TV crime drama and had to keep reminding myself that this was real, and I wasn’t playing a part.
For the benefit of the recording he announced the date and time, introduced himself, his colleague and the lawyer, and asked me to give my name. I cleared my throat but the words still came out as barely more than a whisper.
“Can you speak up a bit?”
“Emily McKinlay.”
“We’re here to talk about the theft of a car on January 8th, 1989 belonging to Mr Stuart Mountford.”
I waited, wondering what was coming next.
“We’ve found the car.”
“Oh, congratulations.”
As soon as the word left my mouth I realised it was the wrong thing to say. It sounded too bright, sarcastic, and from the expression on the detective’s face it was a bad start to the interview. Sometimes when I’m at my most terrified a strange calm washes over me and I speak with an ease that evades me at other times. I heard Stuart hiss in my ear, “You’re sounding flippant, Emily. Stop it.”
The DS continued, “So what we need to do now is establish who took the car and for what purpose.”
“Ah, I don’t think I’ll be able to help you with that,” I began regretfully.
“Well, let’s see, shall we?” said the DC.
The sergeant asked if I’d ever been to Sandy and I said I hadn’t. I wasn’t sure where it was. He unfurled a map and planted his bony finger on it. “It’s right here, you see, in Bedfordshire. Very close to the A1, about halfway between Milton Keynes and Cambridge. Does it ring any bells now?”
I frowned as though I didn’t follow. “And that’s where you found Stuart’s car? But it’s miles away from here.”
He nodded. “A hundred and nine miles to be exact.”
I was doing my best bewildered expression, mainly because I was bewildered. How had they only just found the car or only just worked out that it belonged to Stuart? And how, assuming this was what we were leading up to, had they made a connection with Oskar Bramley?
He asked if I remembered Stuart’s car being stolen. I said that I did.
“And do you remember where you were that night? It’s the weekend after New Year if that helps.”
I told him our well-rehearsed story.
“Whose party was it?” he asked.
I ran through the details we’d been over so many times – I had the name of the party giver fixed in my mind – only the first name of course. I’d never known the second name and we hadn’t kept in touch. I couldn’t be sure of the street, but it was quite near the station – one of t
hose Victorian semis in Wimbledon – or was it Wembley? I didn’t know London very well. I had no idea if they were still living there.
Stuart’s voice sounded in my ear. “Careful, Emily. You’re sounding glib again.” It helped that we’d practised our lines so many times in front of him. He’d anticipated most of the sarky queries and the aggression, the swings in direction and the killer question dropped in among the trivial ones. I bit my lip and did my best to look anxious to help without being over-anxious. I felt panic rise as I found myself wandering from the script and reined myself back in. I’d already broken the solicitor’s rule of not volunteering anything. She looked impassive but must have been despairing.
“Did Mr Mountford ever lend you his car?”
I told him I’d never borrowed Stuart’s car, that I’d never learned to drive because of my epilepsy. He asked when I’d last had a fit. That worried me. I didn’t want him to make a connection with that night but I didn’t know what Zak had told him. In the end I told him I couldn’t remember.
He frowned. “The funny thing is, we have a record of a car with the same registration being stopped that night near Okehampton. Do you know where Okehampton is?”
When I shook my head he sighed and pointed it out on the map again. “I take it your degree wasn’t in geography? It’s right here on the edge of Dartmoor. That’s the road you’d take from here down to Cornwall.”
I might have imagined it but he seemed to say that last word more loudly than the rest. My mouth felt dry. I wasn’t going to risk saying anything. I could only sit there like a fool and wait for what was coming.
“An officer spoke to Mr Mountford about a rear light that needed fixing. He was with a young lady apparently. Was it you?”
My lips felt dry and cracked and my tongue too big for my mouth. I held out for as long as I could but in the end I had to lick them.
He pointed to the tape. “Could you answer the question, please? Don’t just shake your head.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
That policeman who’d told Zak off about the broken light hadn’t asked my name. My looks were hardly unusual, and I doubted he’d have taken a description at the time. How many young women with bobbed hennaed hair must there have been at the time? They couldn’t be sure it was me.
“The officer recalls that she seemed very nervous. Terrified was the word he used. Why do you think that was?”
He was offering me a chance to say I’d been there, but it hadn’t been my fault – that I hadn’t wanted to help Stuart, but he’d made me. Tempting but I mustn’t fall for it. I swallowed.
“I don’t know. I suppose if they’d stolen the car she would be frightened to see the police.”
He turned his mouth down, acknowledging the point, or letting it go for the time being. “The officer remembers that the driver spoke with an Irish accent.”
My heart beat fast. “A lot of people do, I suppose.”
With a patient smile he said, “Yes. But Stuart Mountford, the owner of the car doesn’t, does he?”
“No. But the car was stolen.”
A glint of triumph showed in his eyes. “The description the officer’s given us of the driver and the details of the owner don’t match. At all. Even for a dark night. They do however match your house mate Zachary Brooke. He’s Irish, isn’t he?”
I swallowed. “Yes.”
“And you’re telling us that the car was taken by people other than you and Zachary Brooke?”
The words hit me like a punch in the stomach.
“Of course I am. Why would we want to steal Stuart’s car?”
“Let me ask the questions if you don’t mind. So, let’s talk about Zachary. Zak, is it? How well do you know him?”
I shrugged. “We share a house. We work together. We play Scruples around once a week.”
“You do what?”
The female constable cleared her throat. “It’s a game, sir. You take a card and answer a question – a moral dilemma.”
He snorted. “I know what it is. I’m just rather surprised it counts for getting to know someone.” He turned back to me. “Are you in a relationship with him?”
“No, I’m not.”
He looked surprised. “But you’re having his baby, aren’t you?”
I felt my face flood with colour. How could he possibly know that?
“I’m having my baby. Look, I’m sorry, I don’t know what this has…”
He sat back and folded his arms. “I’m assuming you know who the father is.”
I was tempted to shout that it was none of their business. They couldn’t prove anything by it after all. But then I thought that if by some means I couldn’t even fathom they knew I was lying about that they might think I was lying about other things. And remembering how Stuart had reacted to finding out Zak and I had spent the night together after our drive to the Cornish coast, I definitely didn’t want them making that connection.
The solicitor put a hand on my arm. “My client’s not obliged to answer that question. Unless you can explain what relevance it has to your investigation.”
The DS must have decided to let the matter lie but I wondered what conclusions he was drawing. He asked a few more questions about the car. He seemed to be working on the theory that Stuart had got his friends to fake a car theft. This wasn’t so bad. As long as they had no idea what it had contained. I began to think this might be quite straightforward after all.
“Do you know how much the car was worth?”
“I don’t know anything about cars.”
He sighed. “You don’t know much about anything do you Miss McKinlay? It all seems rather convenient. Well, let me tell you that the car was worth nothing at all. Which makes an insurance scam rather improbable, doesn’t it?”
Reluctantly, I agreed that it did – assuming the people involved knew anything about cars.
It was then that he produced a clear plastic bag, which he introduced for the benefit of the tape as exhibit CLJ/1. The bag contained a battered trainer.
“Have you any idea who this belonged to?”
I shook my head, but I was screaming inside. “I don’t recognise it. It could be anyone’s.”
His expression hardened. “Oh, we know whose it was.”
I didn’t like the use of the word was.
I had to keep reminding myself about what Stuart had said about the police laying traps. “They’ll plant something and say you dropped it. Don’t fall for that one. Don’t admit to anything unless they have incontrovertible proof.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, this isn’t an episode of The Bill,” Zak had said but it didn’t seem funny now.
This was incontrovertible wasn’t it? Unless the shoe had been planted. Perhaps it had. Surely it would have been burned to a cinder if it had been in the car?
I shrugged as if to say I’d like to be more helpful but wasn’t able to. I had to keep it together now. I reminded myself It’s not over until it’s over.
But I could feel both pairs of eyes on me as he said, “It was found on a cliff in North Cornwall, close to where a body of a young man was found.”
Then oh so casually he placed exhibit CLJ/2 in front of me – a photograph
“Do you recognise this man?”
And there it was. The game was up. I felt a crushing pain in my sternum as I looked at the photograph. Imaginary insects crept over my skin.
“Sorry, I don’t.”
“Oskar Bramley, aged twenty-four, from Leeds,” said the female DC. “Does that help?”
My breathing was all over the place. I was fighting desperately to keep it under control. Images were crowding in of Zak hoisting the body out of the boot on that windy cliff, asking me to help with the legs which kept getting stuck. It was so dark and so noisy. Would I have noticed a shoe coming off?
But I still didn’t see how they could have made a connection to the burnt-out car in Sandy which was so far away. It wasn’t over yet. I had to keep going until the last drop
of luck ran out because what else was there? I was caught on a precipice – I could hold on or let myself drop. It wasn’t much of a choice.
I shook my head – although it felt more like a twitch.
“We found something inside the car too,” said her colleague.
My heart stalled. But that surely couldn’t be right.
“You said the car was destroyed by fire.”
The sergeant frowned. “I didn’t say it was destroyed, did I?”
The constable shook her head to confirm that he hadn’t. Something cold crept over my scalp. I felt the roots of my hair lift. I concentrated on trying to look impassive but as I tried to speak my throat had swollen over.
“I meant because it had been set on fire, I just assumed that it was.”
Every so often one of them would leave the room, hold a whispered conversation with someone outside the door, disappear for a while and then return. I couldn’t help thinking about Zak sitting in a similar room. What were they telling him or implying about me? Had I ever told him about the firework incident? That would come as a surprise.
And Xanthe, wide-eyed and tripping over her words. What would they be asking her about that night and would she remember everything Stuart had told her? I could imagine her going off at a tangent giving them information they hadn’t asked for. Stuart had lost his temper so many times about her inability to keep a straight face. But this was different – this was real.
“Do you know which materials are most capable of surviving fire?” the sergeant asked.
“Glass?” I ventured at last. It came out as a whisper.
“Glass can withstand high temperatures, yes. But not as high as some metals – gold for instance. Diamonds are even more resistant. So, a distinctive piece of jewellery can sometimes be identified after a fire.”
A pain seared above my eyes. I pressed my fingers against my brow.
“Miss McKinlay, are you all right?”
I nodded. My head swam. My brain felt huge and heavy. I was thinking back to the party. Oskar tapping me on the shoulder and asking if I’d seen Fitz. I could still feel the imprint of his bony fingers. Had he been wearing a ring? I had no idea. Now I thought about it he might have been.
The Suspects Page 17