The police station is a drab, seventies build – the sort of thing that might have looked edgy and modern once, but now looks depressing in a harsh, Brutalist way. Part of me had expected a row of uniformed officers holding sub-machine guns to be waiting for me at the doors, the type you see patrolling London underground stations or key tourist attractions. But of course, they don’t bother with the likes of me. I’m not an immediate threat. It’s the past that matters now. Not the present, or the future.
The woman on the desk looks at me with all the emotion of a robot. I explain who I am and who I’ve been asked to see. She glances at a screen that’s turned away from me, then at a tablet device on the desk in front of her, then tells me to take a seat. I do as I’m told, sitting next to a young man who cracks the knuckles on each hand, as if to warn me not to even think about messing with him. One of his hands, I notice, is badly bruised and cut, like he’s punched a wall. Or a face.
‘What you fuckin’ looking at?’ he asks me in a thick Newcastle accent, then, without waiting for an answer, he asks, ‘Want a smoke?’ and brings out a packet of cigarettes. I look down at them, noticing the box is stained with something dark and sticky-looking, perhaps spilt beer, then jump when a voice above me says, ‘No smoking in here. It’s illegal.’ A short, burly police officer rounds on us both, as if we’re two naughty school kids. I object to being grouped in with the unsavoury-looking man next to me and start stammering about how I hadn’t intended to take one, but another voice cuts me off.
‘Katherine Marchland?’
Another figure has appeared to the left of the short man. This one’s also male, but younger – he only looks about twenty-six or -seven – and much taller. ‘I’m Detective Constable Malik. Please come this way.’
He doesn’t smile exactly, but his mouth thins into a shape that I think is meant to be comforting. His movements are gentle and courteous as he holds the door open for me, leading us deeper into the building. The light quality is poor – the corridor is windowless and lit by dim white strips, with some of the bulbs blinking as if they might give up the ghost at any moment.
‘Just in here,’ he says, and opens the door to a small room, also windowless. I recognise it instantly as a police interview room from any number of television dramas. It even has one of those dark-glass sections in the wall, presumably for people to watch behind it unseen. The only thing different is that I can’t see one of those big old cassette recorder decks on the desk, although I can see something long and thin hanging from the ceiling, so I presume it must be a microphone hooked up to a recording device somewhere out of sight.
‘Do take a seat,’ he says, motioning to the one he clearly wishes me to sit in, then asks, ‘Would you like some water?’
I nod, grateful for the offer. ‘Yes please. Thank you.’ Maybe things aren’t quite as bad as I’d thought. This man seems kind.
He opens the door, presumably to go out and get the water, but a woman walks straight through it before he can exit. ‘Ms Marchland? My name’s Detective Inspector Tamara Cousins. I’ll be leading this interview with DC Malik.’ She’s short, and quite a bit older – maybe early forties. Whereas the younger officer is clearly a local, with a pleasantly soft Northumbrian note to his voice, her accent is a surprise – rather posh and tight.
At this, DC Malik leaves the room and returns seconds later with a plastic cup filled with water. ‘Are we all set up?’ DI Cousins asks her colleague.
He nods. ‘Fine to go ahead.’
‘OK, for the recording, present in this interview we have currently speaking Detective Inspector Tamara Cousins and Detective Constable Leon Malik.’ She then looks at me: ‘Please confirm your name and date of birth.’
‘Katherine Marchland,’ I say, a little shakily. ‘I was born on the 4th September 1977.’
‘I gather you were formerly known as Katherine Carlson – although I understand Marchland is a name you have created rather than one you acquired through marriage – and you live at Number 2, Station View Walk in the London Borough of Barking and Dagenham?’
I nod.
‘Could you answer “yes” or “no” please for the recording?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Ms Marchland, you do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ She’s looking right at me, watching for a reaction. I don’t give one, just stare back, trying to ignore the rush of panic sweeping through me. ‘As I explained on the phone, you’re not under arrest at present, and I’d also like to make it clear you’re free to leave at any time. Do you understand everything I’ve just said to you?’
I nod. ‘Yes.’
‘Splendid. I’ve got here that you are currently employed as a staff writer on a newspaper. The Dagenham and Rainham Advertiser. Is that right?’
‘Sort of. I do bits and bobs. Sell some advertising space, write some copy.’
She nods, looking at the papers in front of her. ‘The purpose of this interview is to help us understand your perspective on certain incidents which have come to our attention.’ Her eyes flick back up to my face and stare directly into mine. ‘In other words, Katherine, we’ve seen the video.’
She holds my gaze for a couple of seconds, then presses on. ‘What you say in this interview will be recorded. We will take into account what you tell us today when we decide whether to pursue formal arrest and any potential criminal charges. You have not brought any legal representation with you, and I believe you declined the offer of a solicitor to be appointed for you?’
I nod again. ‘Yes.’
She produces a folder from her bag under the desk. ‘I trust you have an idea as to why you’re here?’ It’s said like a question, and she raises her eyebrows at me.
‘I do. I’m here because …’ I take a deep breath, trying to stop my speech becoming shaky, ‘because of what happened in the woods. All those years ago.’