18

The radar of familiarity found me a chair, stopping me from collapsing onto the floor.

‘Dead?’ I mumbled to the room. ‘Who … are you sure? Anna Boyd?’

Blond-hair nodded, ‘Yes we’re sure.’ His voice was quiet and respectful, but his eyes wore another badge. He intoned our address, saying that a neighbour had alerted them when they saw that the front door was open, stuck their head in and saw something they’d never forget.

‘But how?’ I was beyond tears, beyond shock. ‘But I was with her early last night. She was fine.’ Blond’s eyes were on me like a pair of magnets on a fridge.

‘Can you tell us where you were in the early hours of this morning, Mr Boyd?’ asked Grey.

‘Anna. Dead. How?’ I asked, unable to process Grey’s question.

‘We’re still waiting for the full forensic report,’ replied Grey. ‘Would you like anyone with you at the moment?’

‘Anna. Dead,’ I repeated like a mantra, like a spell that would prove the last few minutes to be a lie. This was all a joke, a horrible joke. Anna wasn’t dead. She was lying in her bed as we spoke, reading Hello magazine and sipping her third coffee of the day.

‘I’ll just phone her.’ I reached for the phone. ‘You can speak to her.’ My eyes darted from one man to the other. ‘Then you’ll see that this is all a terrible mistake.’ My voice rose into a yell.

Grey put his hand over mine to replace the receiver. ‘I’m afraid this is no mistake…’

‘What’s going on?’ Sheila walked into the room, no doubt alerted by my shout.

‘Sheila, tell these men. Tell them. Anna’s not dead. She’s sitting up in bed reading. Go on phone her, phone her.’ I could hear the hysteria in my voice, but I didn’t care. They had to believe me.

‘Anna’s dead?’ Sheila whispered, her hand moved to cover her throat and an image from this morning’s dream was displayed in my mind like a still from a movie. Like this morning, I again shook my head as if to dislodge it. That was a dream. Only a dream.

Wasn’t it?

‘Can you account for your presence last night, Mr Boyd? Between the hours of midnight and six a.m.?’ asked Grey.

His voice came towards me out of a tunnel. His mouth moved, the words arrived seconds later.

‘What?’

‘Do you know of anyone who would want to harm your wife, Mr Boyd,’ asked Blond.

‘Eh? Harm? Sheila, tell these men. Tell them.’ I stood up. Felt a charge of guilt as I remembered the moment I was standing outside Anna’s front door. Once again I heard the cry I had dismissed as a fox.

Could that have been the moment when Anna died?

If I had gone in, could I have saved her? My legs gave way and I stumbled back onto my chair. Sweat sparked cold and wet the length of my spine.

Oh my God. Anna.

Sheila rounded on the policemen, ‘I think Mr Boyd has had enough to take in for the moment, gentlemen. Why don’t you give him some time to come to terms with this before you ask any questions?’

Blond made as if to say something but was silenced by a look from his colleague.

‘Mr Boyd, we will have to intrude on your grief. If not now, then later. There are questions we need to ask.’ He looked at his colleague. They seemed to come to some silent agreement. ‘We’ll be back.’

They walked out.

‘Andy, what the hell happened?’ asked Sheila.

‘They said Anna’s dead,’ I repeated. ‘She’s dead.’

I stared at the wall. Pictures of Anna filled my mind, a montage of her smiles, laughs and kisses. Blink. I told myself, blink. Strangely, no thought of the violent side of her nature corrupted this gallery of images. It was as if my brain was already trying to sanitise her memory. Anna pregnant and shovelling chocolate into her mouth, Anna cradling Ryan just moments after he was born, Anna playing with the boys.

My hand shot to my mouth. ‘The boys. Oh my god, the boys.’ Only when I thought of the consequences to the boys did my emotion crash through. A sob escaped my mouth.

I can remember sliding forward on my chair and landing on the floor. I can remember thinking that the pain was as much physical as mental. I can remember rocking on my knees as I tried to soothe it.

Sheila knelt by my side, ‘Oh Andy.’ Her arm rested on my shoulder.

We rocked together for what seemed hours. It may have only been minutes, for the place we crouched in held no sense of time. There were no clocks, no machines here. We were two animals, one trying to assuage the other’s pain..

‘Andy. C’mon let’s sit up. My knees are killing me.’ Sheila said at last, leading me to a chair.

Gradually my motor functions returned. Coherent thoughts pushed through the haze in my mind.

‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Coffee, please.’ No sooner, or so it felt, than the words issued from my mouth, hot ceramic was placed in my hand.

‘She was okay last night, when I left.’ My mind began to question the events of the proceeding evening. ‘I left around nine. We talked, she let me have the boys…’

‘You have to go and speak to the police. Tell them everything.’

I heard the tension in her voice. ‘Why would I go and tell them? If they want me they know where to find me.’

‘Do you not watch TV? The husband is usually the first suspect. If you don’t take the initiative here you could look guilty.’

I stared up at Shelia, my mouth hanging open as I chased this thought down to a horrifying conclusion.

 

King Street Police Station is only a short walk from the bank. I ran. One phrase imposed its rhythm on the fall of my feet – I thought about it, I thought about it, I thought about it. I had actually considered murder as a way out of my predicament. Does that make me nearly as bad as the man who did do it? After all, there is only a short step from intent to action. A short step that only a sick and evil person could take, I reassured myself. Besides, my intent was never concrete, it was only the thought of a desperate man. Wasn’t it?

Grey and Blond showed me into an interview room. It was stark in its simplicity. One table, four chairs and one double tape recorder. The regularly spaced holes in the soundproofed tiles were the rooms’ only decoration. It was a room that would encourage confession. Knowing that I was almost certainly the prime suspect did not aid my performance.

‘I was at my mother’s last night. All night,’ I asserted.

‘We will just put on this recorder, Mr Boyd,’ said Grey. Blond sat back in his chair, his arms crossed. His eyes staring, always staring.

Grey pressed record and then announced who was present in the room.

‘Can you tell us for the record where you were between the hours of midnight last night and six a.m. this morning, Mr Boyd.’

‘Yes, I was staying at my mother’s.’

‘Was your mother there?’

‘Yes. She slept on the couch.’

‘Why were you not in the marital home?’ asked Grey.

‘Because the marriage is over.’

‘And how happy are you about that?’ asked Blond.

‘Things happen, people change, and they learn more about the other than they ever wanted.’

‘Interesting that you say “things happen”, Mr Boyd. Were you not, only several nights ago, forcibly removed from your home?’

‘Yes, but…’

‘Did your now-deceased wife not complain about your violence towards her?’

If I was worried before, I couldn’t begin to explain the state my mind was in then.

‘I would like to speak to a lawyer.’ I said. After all that’s what you heard people saying in the movies.

‘You can speak to a lawyer in due course, Mr Boyd. We just want to ask you a few questions,’ said Grey.

‘I want a lawyer. You guys are clever. You could try and trip me up,’ I said.

‘Is there something that you don’t want to say, Mr Boyd? You can only be tripped up if there is something at your feet. A dead body perhaps? A guilty conscience?’

‘No guilty conscience, no dead body at my feet, I just want a lawyer. Do you not have to let me speak to a lawyer when I ask for one?’

‘Not necessarily. If we believe that justice will not be served by the introduction of a lawyer then we don’t need to grant your request.’ Blond smiled. In my present state of paranoia, I was certain he was convinced of my culpability.

‘Let me reassure you, Mr Boyd. Think of this as an early questioning session,’ Grey said, his tone fatherly. I could read the intelligence in his eyes. He wouldn’t just go for the easy option.

‘Sorry.’ I breathed deep. ‘Ask me anything you want.’

‘Tell us about the night the police were called to your house at your wife’s insistence.’

‘We’ve had a difficult relationship over the years,’ I began. ‘But the violence … that was my wife.’ And so the sorry tale spilled from my lips, like milk soured by my tongue. I finished by telling them about Anna letting me have the boys last night. Just as I stopped speaking, someone knocked at the door.

The two men rose and a hurried conference ensued in the corridor, out of my hearing. Grey and Blond came back in and sat resumed their seats.

What the hell was that all about?

‘Mr Boyd, you were the last person to see your wife alive and you have a record of violence towards her. She was brutally murdered last night – stabbed thirty times.’

I covered up my ears as if hearing the words would damage the fine mechanism within.

‘It was a frenzied attack, Mr Boyd.’ Blond’s voice was heavy with disgust. ‘Blood was everywhere. A man of your height was spotted running away.’

‘No, no, no.’ Poor Anna, I thought, to die in such a way. My mind fought with both the idea of Anna pierced with tens of cuts and the insinuation in Blond’s statement.

‘Would you like something to drink, Mr Boyd? Some water?’ asked Grey.

I could only manage a nod. My mind was full of an image of a blood-soaked Anna lying on the hall carpet.

Once Grey fetched a drink the questions continued.

‘Tell us again about last night.’

‘Tell us about the fight you got into in Campbeltown.’

‘Tell us where you stayed the night you were evicted from your house.’

‘Tell us about your relationship with Sheila Hunter.’

‘Tell us about your relationship with your wife.’

On and on the questions went. While one spoke the other watched and then shot in, questioning one of my answers, telling me that I had contradicted myself. The only thing that kept me going was knowledge of my innocence. An innocence stained by the intent I once shared with Anna’s eventual killer.