Don’t Trust Me

by Joss Stirling

  The doorbell rings. I find Lizzy on the step with a paper bag of deli croissants.

  ‘I thought you might need cheering up,’ she says.

  I pull her into the hallway and close the door. ‘Thanks.’ I bend down and kiss her, as I know she expects it. I’d slept in our spare room last night rather than at hers. She had friends over and we agreed that it wasn’t the right moment to come out about our relationship, with Jessica gone only a few hours. ‘You know what I need before I do.’

  ‘I got these on my walk with Flossie. Come on, I’ll make you coffee and you can get yourself set up for the day.’ She leads the way into the kitchen. ‘Any news from Jessica?’

  ‘No.’ I divert her from follow-up questions by darting into my study. I don’t like her mentioning Jessica. Lizzy has many virtues but she never fully chose sides in our rows, saying she understood Jessica’s point of view and even liked her, despite her foibles. I pointed out that she couldn’t have liked her that much, as she was sleeping with me, but Lizzy just shrugged, saying that was different. Jessica had made it OK for me to be unfaithful when she messed with that kid at school, like relationships are some game of tit for tat. I think Lizzy is waiting for me to invite her to move in now that Jessica has vacated, but I’m not ready. There’s too much history between us for that to work out.

  Lizzy puts two coffee cups on the table, croissants on a wooden board, butter in a white dish. She takes note of things like presentation, another way in which she outdoes Jessica. I feel hungry for the first time since Jessica stormed out.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘But you think she’s all right?’

  ‘Please leave it, Lizzy.’

  ‘Just tell me she’s got somewhere to go.’

  ‘There’s a friend over in Feltham.’

  ‘Drew?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are they together now?’

  ‘I don’t know, and I really don’t care.’

  ‘I’d just feel easier about us if I know Jessica is OK.’

  I want to snap that there is no ‘us’ but I need Lizzy’s help right now. ‘It’s not bothered you before. Jessica will be fine. She always manages to fall on her feet.’

  The phone rings. Sipping my coffee, I grab the receiver. ‘Yes? Hello?’

  ‘Dr Michael Harrison?’

  ‘If this is a sales call, I really don’t have time right now—’

  ‘No, sir. This is Detective Sergeant Lloyd from Lewisham police station. I wonder if you might help us with an investigation into a suspicious death.’

  My mind flicks through the interesting murders I’ve noticed recently in the news. ‘The Clapham one?’

  ‘No, sir. This one took place in Camberwell.’

  ‘So why do you need my help?’

  ‘The body was discovered by someone you know: Jessica Bridges.’

  ‘Shit.’ I sit down. What has Jessica got herself mixed up in now?

  ‘You can really help us if you would clear up a few outstanding issues as to her connection to the victim and also her whereabouts over the last few weeks.’

  ‘Are you looking at her as the killer? If so, I’d say you were barking up the wrong tree. She’s fatally disaster prone but not violent. If she’s involved, it would’ve been some ridiculous mistake. She wouldn’t kill on purpose.’ I worry a little over the slashed mattress but she hadn’t turned the knife on a person, had she?

  ‘That’s good to hear, sir. It’s just a matter of tying up some loose ends.’

  Agreeing to come over this morning, I quickly down my coffee.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asks Lizzy, straightening my tie for me. I want to push her away but daren’t.

  ‘You won’t believe this new development: Jessica stumbled over a dead body. Isn’t that so like her?’

  ‘Oh my word, when? Is she OK? Do you know who it is?’

  ‘The police didn’t say. I’ve been asked to go over to Lewisham to vouch for her. To be honest, I’d much prefer to leave her to sink or swim.’

  ‘Michael, you can’t. She couldn’t kill anyone.’

  ‘I know that – you heard me tell the police the same thing – but after what she did—’

  Lizzy bags up the remaining croissant and tucks it in my messenger bag. I want to tell her to stop mothering me but the last thing I need is another argument. ‘She’s not been well. You need to cut her some slack.’

  I close my eyes and gather the threads of my composure, reminding myself of what image I want to project to Lizzy: much wronged but still kind. ‘Yes, of course.’ I kiss her briefly. I don’t feel even the spark of attraction for her today – that’s one of my problems with our relationship. Going to bed with her is far more about comfort than the thrill. She doesn’t have Jessica’s willingness to experiment; our physical relationship is definitely that of equals, sometimes it feels more like a wrestling match in which I’m not always the winner. ‘I’ll see you later. Oh, there’s a new mattress due to be delivered this afternoon. Would you mind?’

  She smirks. ‘Of course. I have a vested interest in it, don’t I?’

  I wish she wouldn’t make comments like that.

  Approaching Lewisham police station, my gloom lifts and I feel a flicker of excitement. I’ve been called in often enough to advise the police, but that is usually either at Scotland Yard or they come to me in my office at Royal Holloway. It’s been a while since I’ve visited a homicide team at their local headquarters. I wonder if there’s some material I can use here in my next set of lectures? I’m planning a course on the effect of the police investigative process on sociopathic individuals. Confrontation is the worst way to question those with this disorder, as they’ve often come from abusive backgrounds and it just confirms them in their least productive behavioural patterns. I’m thinking of devising some recommendations for alternative methods of interrogation. I’d need to field test them, of course…

  ‘Dr Harrison?’ The receptionist gives me a cold look when I present her with my university ID. ‘Take a seat.’ She presses a buzzer at her desk and a plain-clothes officer enters, accompanied by a constable in uniform.

  I get up and offer a hand. ‘I’m Dr Harrison.’

  ‘DS Lloyd,’ says the officer, not coming close enough to shake hands, holding the door open for me instead. ‘This way, please.’

  A sense of disquiet blooms. In the past when I’ve pitched up at police stations I’ve been treated far better than this. I would be ushered in to see a senior officer, a chief inspector at least, and thanked from the outset for carving out time for my consultation. I never charge, seeing it as my giving back to the society that educated me and made my career possible. I’ve never been escorted by a DS and a constable into an interrogation room before. A fingerprint scanner sits on the table.

  Another officer joins us after a few moments and introduces himself as Detective Inspector Randall. I rack my brains. I think I’ve heard good things about his work. He’s not one of the highest flyers, but is known to get the job done through careful and dogged investigative techniques. Whatever his record, though, that doesn’t mean they should be treating me like a criminal, corralling me in a room like this.

  ‘What’s all this about, inspector?’ I ask sharply. ‘I’m a busy man. I thought you wanted me to confirm Jessica’s alibi for the times I was with her?’

  ‘Yes, we do.’ Randall gestures me to take a seat but I remain standing. I don’t want to concede my upper hand by sitting on that cheap excuse for a chair. ‘We also want to offer you the opportunity to give your fingerprints for elimination purposes.’

  ‘Is this about the break-in at my house? I’ve already explained that I don’t like my data being sucked into the police central database. I know you people swear it is deleted once its purpose is served, but I’m not that gung-ho about my personal details.’

  ‘It’s not to do with the break-in, not directly anyway.’

  ‘Then what is it to do with?’

  ‘The murder of
Jacob West last Monday night.’

  ‘What?’ The news forces me to sit. Why him now?

  ‘I take it the name is familiar to you?’

  ‘Yes, from way back. Five years, or more, even. He pestered Emma, my wife, after she broke off her relationship with him. But what’s Jacob West got to do with me?’ This is a bad dream. West was the only man who ever brought me briefly into trouble with the police. It had no consequences as he didn’t stay around to press charges after our confrontation and the police lost interest. Looking at Randall’s cynical expression and Lloyd’s pretence at blank disinterest, I quickly decide not to offer that history to the men before me. Not if they’re investigating his murder. I know too much about the law not to know that miscarriages of justice happen all the time when the police get fixed on an individual. The last thing I want is them to focus on me.

  ‘Jacob West masqueraded as Jacob Wrath. Under that name, he employed your girlfriend for three months. Do you have any idea why he might do that?’

  ‘Wrath and West are the same person? And I thought she’d made him up. I was convinced she’d spun a fantasy.’ The events of the past few days reassemble themselves in a new order. I’ve been way off.

  ‘No, she didn’t, but he did make up his identity and, it would appear, he got her in trouble with false claims in her name and avoided meeting anyone who might know him.’

  It’s a shock to find Jessica equally innocent of the rent fiasco, though I suppose that follows. And I even… ‘The bastard,’ I mutter. ‘He picked on her because she was with me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I’m in the unexpected position of owing Jessica an apology. ‘I’d better give her a call.’

  ‘We’d prefer it if you didn’t contact her at the moment.’

  ‘Are you seriously considering her as a suspect? If so, I’d say you are wasting your time pursuing the wrong person.’

  ‘No, we don’t think Miss Bridges killed Jacob West.’

  ‘Thank God. Then perhaps if you’d let me give a statement, then I can let you get on.’ I want nothing more than to get out of here. West cropping up in my life again is what various branches of the military would call a situation that has gone FUBAR. I need to take stock of what it all means.

  Randall ignores my signals that I want to leave. ‘Would it surprise you to hear that it appears that Mr West was the person who broke into your house on Monday?’

  What? ‘Busy guy – breaking and entering and then dying on the same day.’ The police are not amused by my attempt at gallows humour. I adjust my tone. ‘Yes, it does surprise me, but now I think about it, I can see why he might’ve targeted me. He was always fiercely jealous that I won Emma from him. She was an amazing woman and he didn’t want to admit that she’d left him for good. I’d even go as far as to say that he was obsessional about her. But so much time has elapsed, and Emma has been dead five years, I never suspected he’d wait this long to strike.’

  ‘Miss Bridges said you thought that she was responsible for the break-in.’

  ‘It was the only thing that made sense at the time. I wasn’t very nice to her, I’m afraid. I’d really like that opportunity to contact her. I said some harsh things.’

  ‘Just said?’

  What has Jessica been telling them? My feeling of goodwill towards her diminishes. If she’s made a fuss over the inadvertent blow during our quarrel, then no wonder the police are looking at me like I’m some kind of criminal. ‘It wasn’t a scene either of us would be proud of, on sober reflection.’

  ‘Talking of sobriety, I understand you are partial to Scotch?’

  I can spot a leading question. ‘Among other drinks. What bearing does this have on anything?’

  ‘Have you ever visited Jacob West’s home in John Ruskin Street?’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Near the Oval.’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘In that case, you won’t mind giving us your fingerprints for elimination purposes? We have a set of prints from the crime scene that are key to our enquiries and are yet to be identified.’

  ‘I told you that I don’t like my data being taken. The less personal information out there, the better.’

  ‘This is a murder enquiry, Dr Harrison, not a Facebook request.’

  I can see that refusal to provide my fingerprints will result in a much longer stay at the station and I have things I would much prefer to do today, like write a letter of complaint to the Metropolitan Police commissioner. ‘All right, I’ll give my prints but I want you to make a note that I object to the invasion of my privacy.’

  ‘You’ll find, Doctor, that murder tends to trump privacy.’ He beckons to the detective sergeant who takes me through the process of having my hands scanned. I tell myself it is an interesting chance to be exposed to current police practice, that I should use this in my future writing on law enforcement, but mostly I’m fuming.

  ‘Can I get you some refreshments?’ asks Randall when the scan is finished.

  ‘I’d much rather get a decent coffee on my way to the library. I know what police station vending machines are like.’ I look at my watch. ‘Have you finished with me yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Randall waits while the sergeant exits the room with the scanner. ‘Are you sure you won’t have something? Water?’

  ‘All right, water.’ My tone is ungracious but what do they expect?

  The inspector dispatches the constable in pursuit of a drink for me and we’re alone. I’m worried now that I might’ve appeared too eager to leave and it has raised their suspicions.

  ‘Look, Randall, I think I’ve heard good things about your work.’

  He raises a brow. ‘You have?’

  No harm in laying it on thick. ‘Yes, Chief Inspector Butcher speaks very highly of you.’

  ‘She does?’

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘Yes. You’re Dr Michael Harrison. You lecture at Hendon on criminal psychology. I’ve sat through a couple of your sessions and found them helpful.’

  ‘In that case, if you know who I am, why are you keeping me here? I’d be happy to come back to help you with your enquiries at any time, but I really do have work I need to get to. Important work.’

  ‘And so do I. I’m afraid I’ve only just started with my questions. The session will be recorded for your protection and mine, as I’m sure you understand. I’m just waiting for my colleagues to return.’

  I feel like Alice through the looking-glass, everything I consider normal turned on its head. ‘Is this really necessary? You can’t seriously be considering that I had anything to do with West’s death?’

  ‘I have to consider all possibilities. You said yourself that many criminals with severe pathologies hide behind a mask of normality.’

  Talk about your own words coming back to bite you. ‘I wasn’t referring to myself. I can refer you to many character witnesses who will attest to my sanity.’

  ‘And those who know you best say you have a capacity for violence.’

  The constable returns and sets a paper cup in front of me.

  ‘Who? Jessica?’ I feel a swoop of anger, finding it hard not to give in to the urge to throw the water over Randall. ‘And you take the word of an unhinged woman over mine? We argued, all right? I challenge anyone to live with Jessica and not feel like driving their fist through a wall.’

  ‘If it were only a wall, I’d not worry. And then there’s Jacob West’s theory about you. I have to look at all avenues of enquiry, no matter how outlandish they might seem.’

  ‘Whatever he said, West would only want to present me in the worst possible light.’

  The sergeant returns and passes Randall a note.

  ‘I see. Right, then we can start.’ Randall begins to read out the date, reference number and people present in the room. I can’t believe this is happening to me. Should I call a solicitor? But as I know I’ve nothing to feel guilty about, wouldn’t they take that as an admission I’ve got somet
hing to hide? I decide to let this run for a while and find out what they think they have on me.

  After reminding me of my rights, Randall takes me through some easy questions to get a rhythm going. I answer with short replies, not elaborating. He asks me to repeat on record how I know Jacob West. Yes, Ali and Emma were the same person. I explain that she reverted to her first name to shake him off after having used her middle name when with Jacob. It’s not exactly a lie.

  Then Randall sets off in a completely different direction. ‘Do the names Ramona James, Lillian Bailey, Clare Maxsted and Latifah Masood mean anything to you?’

  ‘Who?’

  He repeats them, pausing after each name. Both the sergeant and Randall are watching my reactions very closely.

  ‘Not to my knowledge. But I meet a lot of people in my job.’ The list is vaguely familiar but I can’t put faces to any of the names.

  ‘We know that you did meet Latifah Masood a year ago. We’ve checked with your employer and she interviewed for a place on your course.’

  ‘She did?’ I remember several bright girls who might’ve been Latifah in the last intake. ‘I’m afraid she didn’t make a distinct impression but if you say so, then yes, I did meet her.’

  ‘Ramona James was a waitress at the reception you attended at the Tate gallery in Margate, February two years ago.’

  ‘The Turner place? I barely remember the pictures, let alone the waitstaff.’

  ‘Lillian Bailey left Harrogate the same evening you returned from a conference in the city a few months later – July 16th, to be exact.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘Clare Maxsted ran away from her home in Birmingham on the same night you were staying at the university. 12th November 2015.’

  ‘Birmingham? What was I doing there?’

  ‘Examining a PhD,’ chips in the sergeant.

  ‘Oh yes. I wanted to fail the person but we agreed to let him pass after some rewrites. But this is all coincidental. Why have you bothered stringing all this together?’

  ‘We didn’t. Jacob West did.’

  Something clicked. ‘Of course! Jessica mentioned these names to me while we were on holiday! She said they were missing persons cases.’