I come clean. I don’t worry about the professional repercussions because being fired is always more favourable than being tried for murder. Or any other crime. I tell the detective everything, from the time I first discovered the Red Chesterfield, to the finding of the foot, to having tea and falling asleep in Yuri’s house, then racing back and causing the accident.
To give her credit, she does not interrupt me, even though she has heard some of this story from the other day. She takes notes, nods, and lets me ramble. Which I do. A lot.
When I think I’m finished, she says nothing. Just waits. And I add another ten minutes of rambling to fill that silence. This happens once more when I add an apology for not including information that I forgot to mention at the beginning.
She smiles. “Thank you for your candour, this was extremely enlightening.” Closes her notebook, pen in pocket. Stands up, adjusts her jacket. “We’re going to ask you to wait here for several moments. Someone will bring you a sandwich and a drink. Any requests?”
“Any sandwich will do.”
“Drink?”
“Anything—no wait. No cream soda. I hate cream soda.”
“Done. And thank you again.” She turns to head out of the room.
“Detective?”
She turns back.
“The constable . . . um, the one I . . .”
“Dropped the chesterfield on?” she asks with a smile.
I nod.
“He’s fine. Pissed at you, which is why he won’t be involved in this case, but overall he’s fine.”