‘Mr Gwilym?’ Phil smiled, but not too much. Just in case. He introduced himself and Sperring; they showed their warrant cards. ‘Could we come in, please? We’d like to have a chat.’
‘Why? What d’you want?’
There was a tremor in Gwilym’s voice and the fingers of the hand gripping the door seemed to be trembling. Phil also noticed a line of sweat along his brow. Coke? he thought. Bit early in the day. And then: But he does work in media.
‘Your name’s come up in the course of an investigation and we’d like to talk to you about it.’
‘Why? What investigation? What… what d’you mean…’
Phil and Sperring exchanged surreptitious glances. This wasn’t the greeting they had been expecting.
‘Will I… will I need my lawyer?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Phil. ‘Have you done anything wrong?’
Gwilym didn’t speak, but Phil was aware of the man staring at him intently. His lips were moving, eyes darting, like there was some kind of inner dialogue going on that Phil couldn’t fathom but that nonetheless seemed to be directed towards him.
‘It’s to do with Glenn McGowan,’ said Sperring.
Gwilym jumped, his face twitching as if he had just received an electric charge. ‘Glenn McGowan?’
‘You do know Glenn McGowan, don’t you?’
‘Glenn McGowan…’ Gwilym rubbed his chin, thinking, lips still moving, like he was trying to work out the probability for each possible way the conversation could go, anticipate them, have an answer prepared.
‘Could we come in, please?’ said Phil. He voiced it as a question but weighted it so there could be no argument.
Gwilym held on to the door as if he would be blown off into the path of a hurricane if he let go, but eventually relented and stood aside. They entered the house.
‘In… in here,’ said Gwilym, slamming the front door and pushing his way down the hallway so that he was in front of them. He opened the door to what Phil assumed was the living room, looking round it first as if expecting to be attacked. When it didn’t happen he opened it fully, let them enter.
Phil and Sperring sat next to each other on the sofa, Gwilym opposite on an armchair. He didn’t look comfortable.
‘So,’ said Phil. ‘Glenn McGowan.’
Gwilym’s face was almost blank. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Glenn McGowan.’
‘I presume you’ve heard the news,’ said Phil.
Gwilym looked between the two police officers. ‘News?’
‘Glenn McGowan,’ said Sperring, ‘has met a sudden and untimely demise.’
‘Wh-what?’ Again his eyes darted between the two of them. His lips moved as if he was reciting an incantation at speed. ‘What? Dead? He’s… dead?’
Phil nodded.
Gwilym closed his eyes. ‘He’s the… Yes. The transvestite. Yes. Dead?’
Phil confirmed the fact once more.
‘How… how did he die?’
‘He was murdered, Mr Gwilym,’ said Sperring, his voice no-nonsense and businesslike.
So I’m playing good cop, then, thought Phil.
‘Murdered? Jesus Christ…’ Gwilym let the news sink in. The two officers studied his reaction. ‘When?’
‘I’m afraid we can’t divulge those details yet, Mr Gwilym.’ Sperring again. Not bothering to disguise the fact that he had taken a dislike to the man. ‘I’m sure you understand.’
‘Yes, yes, of course…’ It was clear Gwilym was just saying the words they wanted to hear. He leaned forward. ‘But… could I ask what happened? How he died?’
Phil and Sperring exchanged another glance.
‘Any particular reason, Mr Gwilym?’ said Phil.
Gwilym’s eyes held a curious light. Phil knew what it was: self-interest. ‘I just wondered…’
‘He died while dressed as his alter ego Amanda,’ said Phil. ‘We believe he invited someone into his home who then killed him.’
Gwilym’s eyes widened. He smiled, almost laughed. ‘And… and this is what you want to talk to me about? This… this murder?’
‘It is,’ said Sperring.
Gwilym did laugh then. A short, sharp burst. ‘Ask away,’ he said. ‘Anything you like.’ He sat back in his armchair, slapped his hands on his thighs and smiled, looking a lot more composed than he had done when he had answered the door.
Phil was beginning to take a strong dislike to the man. He had to make sure it didn’t show. He was glad that Marina had had nothing to do with him. ‘We’d like to know what your relationship was to him,’ he said.
‘My relationship? To Glenn McGowan?’ Gwilym smiled as if about to make a joke, then, correctly judging the reception he would get, decided not to. ‘Well, he was… Let me think. Glenn McGowan. I interviewed him. Well, initially one of my assistants, my researchers did, but I followed it up.’
‘Is that how you work?’ asked Phil. ‘Assistant first, then you?’
‘Pretty much,’ he said. ‘I’d say it’s standard practice. In my trade.’ He smiled as he said that, trying to be self-deprecating but just making himself seem self-aggrandising instead.
‘How does that work, then?’ asked Phil. He was aware of Sperring looking at him, clearly unhappy with the way Phil was leading the questioning.
‘Well, I decide on a theme for my new book. Start putting together ideas, threads, you know. Then when these have percolated somewhat, I draw up a list of the kind of subjects I want to interview. The kind that I think will prove or disprove – I like to have something to argue against – my theme, my hypothesis. These people will be representative of what I’m looking for but not clichéd examples.’
‘And do any of them ever disprove your hypothesis?’ asked Phil.
Gwilym smiled once more. He was on home territory now. In control. ‘They may do. At first. But then it’s my job to find other examples to refute their claims.’
‘Or it’s your assistant’s job.’
Gwilym shrugged. Whatever.
‘And then what?’
‘Then they all go through an interview process with my assistants.’
‘How does that work?’ said Phil. Beside him, Sperring sighed.
Gwilym leaned forward, eager to talk about his favourite subject: himself. ‘They’re given a standardised list of questions to ask. The questions have been prepared by me and depend on what the subject of the book is, though some are fairly standard. You know, childhood, relationship with parents, formative experiences, how a subject’s self-defining memories were formed, that kind of thing.’
‘Right,’ said Phil, nodding. ‘And then?’
‘Pretty straightforward, really. The interviews are taped, I watch the tapes. Or DVDs or whatever. Hard drives, I don’t know. The footage. And from that I decide which ones I want to talk to further.’
‘And you decided on Glenn McGowan.’
‘I did indeed.’
Phil nodded, wrote something down, looked up. ‘Where d’you get your assistants from?’
‘What?’
‘Your assistants. Where do you get them from?’
Gwilym looked momentarily taken aback by the question. It obviously wasn’t the one he had been expecting. ‘I… Students, mainly.’
‘Mainly?’
‘Yes. Well, virtually all students, I would think. Yes.’
‘Students that you teach? Or have taught?’
‘Yes. Pretty much. Or ones who come to me and say they want to work with me, can I help them, that kind of thing.’
‘So who would have been the assistant who interviewed Glenn McGowan? Can you give us a name?’
Gwilym was about to reply, but at the sound of a small child’s voice coming from the kitchen he froze.