Chris had found himself plunged into a spiral of repeated questions. All the same ones they’d asked about Freya before, but with a new gravitas hanging over them, and a camera now recording from the corner of the interview room. And there was extra stuff, too, personal stuff. They seemed to know exactly which nerves to hit when it came to his marriage and his insecurities.
Now his “alleged route” from his last lesson with Freya was being waved around again. Chris felt beaten up. Why didn’t they just get on with whatever they wanted to say about it?
Eventually they did.
“Your number plate was picked up by a speed camera,” Ford said, “at thirteen forty-two on March the fifteenth. Three miles from where you should’ve been at that time, according to your version of the route.”
Chris shifted. “I told you my memory might not have been completely accurate.”
“But shouldn’t you have been heading back toward Freya’s school at that time? Instead you were going in the opposite direction.”
His mind swam. Would a speed camera have been able to tell who was driving? Would it show two figures arguing in the front of the car?
How much could a camera reveal about the relationship between a driving instructor and his student?
Chris resorted to sarcasm. “I’m not sure how much you know about driving lessons, but the idea isn’t to take the most direct route to where you want to go. The idea is to practice driving.”
“You wouldn’t have had enough time to get back to Freya’s school by two p.m.”
“We were running a bit late, as it happens.”
“You didn’t mention that before.”
“Didn’t I?”
“No. Is there anything else you’ve failed to mention?”
The sarcasm drained out of Chris. He dropped his hands to his knees and shook his head.
Just as he thought they’d exhausted every last detail, there was something else. Ford reached for an iPad and showed him their trump card: a photograph of a crumpled, dirty banknote. Chris recognized the doodle in the corner and his breath truncated.
“Why did Freya still have three hundred pounds’ worth of the money that was meant for her driving lessons?” Ford asked. “Why was it in her pocket?”
“I have no idea.”
“Shouldn’t she have been giving it to you?”
“Yes . . . She did.”
“So she had been paying for her lessons?”
“Of course.” There was itchy sweat in his eyes. “Maybe this was for future ones.”
A thick silence followed. Chris bit the insides of his cheeks.
At last Ford put down the iPad. She placed her hands at either side of it, palms on the table, as if she was wanting him to draw around her fingers.
“I think you’re hiding something, Mr. Watson.”
Chris tried to stare her out, but fear was filtering through him. “I want a solicitor.”
“Fine.” A smile played on Ford’s lips, as though this was what she’d wanted him to say. As though it was an admission of guilt.
It was Vicky’s face that came most strongly into his mind now, rather than Freya’s. Vicky pulling him up to dance at a party full of raucous student nurses sometime in the distant past. Vicky staring into their bedroom mirror yesterday, painting her mouth with scarlet Chanel lipstick, and today, holding on to the hall table as she’d watched the police lead him away.
The duty solicitor, Ms. Beaumont, arrived within half an hour. She had unmoving black hair and a brisk, efficient manner. When Chris faced the two detectives with her at his side, it felt like a fresh start, of sorts. Having someone next to him equaled things up.
“It seems my client has been asked some irrelevant questions about his personal life,” Ms. Beaumont said. “There will be no more of that.” She sounded like she was reprimanding two naughty children. “And please inform my client whether he is under arrest.”
The detectives exchanged a glance. Ms. Beaumont’s head was cocked expectantly, her hair like a black metal helmet. But as Ford opened her mouth to respond, the door to the interview room creaked and a tall man with pouched eyes appeared. “DI Ford, a quick word?”
“We’re just wrapping up here,” Ford said, sending a wash of relief through Chris’s body. “Can it wait?”
The man looked at Chris, then back to Ford, a subtle signal in his gaze. “Not really.”
Ford stood and left the room. Chris turned to Ms. Beaumont for reassurance, but an M-shaped frown creased her forehead. He rocked back in his chair, feeling its legs bow beneath him. Finally Ford returned, brandishing a second iPad and moving with new purpose as she retook her seat.
“The team has finished going through Freya’s iCloud storage,” she said, and Chris felt the drop of his stomach, the clean slide of a dreaded but inevitable outcome.
Of course she’d have backed up her photos to the cloud. Sometimes it felt like nothing could be contained anymore. Secrets floated in cyberspace, beyond your own reach and control. He thought of Vicky cutting out pictures from a magazine, or touching the bracelet on her wrist as if to check it was real. Was she trying to make things tangible? Trying to keep control, one ownable item at a time?
Chris looked at the photo on the iPad. It was hard to believe that its collection of sad-looking bric-a-brac spilling from a glove box had embroiled him in this.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Ford said, “this is the inside of your car.”