‘This interview is being tape recorded at Longsight police station. I am DI Taylor. I will be conducting the interview with my colleague, DC Waters. The suspect is John Anderson. Also present is his legal representative—’
‘Dewi Morgan.’
The two officers sat facing Anderson across a table. No natural light in the small room. A dusty plastic palm tilted in the corner.
Anderson could feel his legs shaking.
‘Thank you. The time now is 1903 hours. Mr Anderson, I need to remind you of the caution. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Things were moving so fast. Still adjusting, Anderson couldn’t keep up.
‘Right, Mr Anderson, you have been arrested in relation to a road traffic accident which happened on the westbound carriageway of the M56, just past junction five on the 24th of January this year. Do you have any recollection of that incident?’
‘No, I don’t.’
The officers exchanged glances. ‘What is the last thing you remember, Mr Anderson?’
‘Leaving court with my junior and his pupil. I was prosecuting in a trial – I’m a barrister. We went our separate ways. Then I went for a coffee at Starbucks on Quay Street.’ Anderson thought hard about what he was going to say next. He swallowed. ‘And that’s it.’ No mention of Tilly. What was the point of upsetting people, embarrassing her and himself? Causing further upset to Mia? Nothing happened anyway. But he’d just lied – on tape – during a police investigation. He’d just done an act tending and intended to pervert the course of justice.
No time to dwell on it, questions were coming thick and fast.
‘What time was this?’
‘About five.’
‘Did you buy a drink?’
‘Yes. An Americano.’
‘That’s a black coffee, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you drink it?’
‘Think so.’
‘You don’t sound very sure.’
Why hadn’t Anderson thought about these things before? Furious with himself, he more than anyone knew how important it was to be decisive in a police interview. ‘I drank most of it. I remember spilling some as I got up to leave. I was in a hurry.’
‘In a hurry?’ repeated DI Taylor, eyebrows raised. This was too easy. Not the usual cat and mouse when interviewing psychopathic murder suspects.
‘Yes. To get to my son’s football match. I wouldn’t have driven like a madman or anything, you couldn’t even if you wanted to at that time of day.’ Anderson cringed as he heard himself say it. What was he thinking?
‘You don’t know how you drove – do you, Mr Anderson? I mean you say you can’t remember?’
‘Well – yes − but – I would never drive inappropriately for the conditions.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Taylor replied.
Anderson’s solicitor decided to offer an explanation: ‘It is perhaps worth noting at this juncture, officer, that Mr Anderson received a serious head injury during the accident. We of course consent to the police having access to those medical notes.’
‘Is that what you are saying, Mr Anderson? You had a bump on the head which caused you to lose your memory?’
‘He can’t answer that, officer.’ Morgan wasn’t going to let Anderson get tied down to a defence at this stage. ‘That is a matter for a medical expert.’
The interview continued in this vein for some time. The drip-feeding of information about the crash drove Anderson mad with curiosity. He couldn’t wait any longer. ‘Officer, I appreciate you are conducting this interview in your own way, but…’ Anderson could hardly get the words out. ‘I know a woman and a child died. No one has told me anything about them. Please, what happened?’
‘I was just getting to that, Mr Anderson,’ replied DI Taylor officiously. He wasn’t going to let the suspect bully him, whoever he was. ‘We have several eyewitnesses who describe your vehicle.’ The officer glanced at his notes. ‘A Volvo, registration BV52 EYS, drifting from the outside lane across the carriageway at speed and then colliding with another vehicle that had just entered the nearside lane from junction five.’
Anderson digested the information. He had no recollection of it at all. Had his brain erased the awful truth?
‘The vehicle you collided with was driven by Mrs Granger. Her five-year-old daughter, Molly, was in the back. Had to cut her out of the vehicle. She died later in hospital from her injuries.’
Anderson wanted to blot out what he was hearing.
‘Did you lose control of the vehicle in your hurry to get back?’
‘No!’
‘No you didn’t, or no you can’t remember?’
Dewi Morgan tried to rescue his client: ‘Officer, Mr Anderson has already told you that he cannot remember the accident, but that he would never drive dangerously.’
‘Your passenger was killed, Mr Anderson. A thirty-two-year-old woman, Heena Butt.’ The officers waited for a reaction.
Anderson looked at his solicitor for some kind of explanation.
None came.
‘Heena Butt?’ repeated Anderson. ‘I don’t know that name. Who is…’ He checked himself. ‘Who was she?’
‘We were hoping you could tell us that.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t,’ Anderson stuttered, struggling to take it all in. ‘Do you have a photograph of her?’
Taylor nodded to DC Waters, who then removed an A4 brown envelope from a file and took out a photograph, which he then slid across the table towards Anderson.
Terrified at what or whom he might see, Anderson slowly cast his eyes down at the picture. Taken at the post-mortem, a lifeless body on a slab. The skull was impacted but he could make out the features of a woman. Asian, possibly Indian or Pakistani, with long brown hair. She’d been beautiful. Anderson gagged, then gave an involuntary sob. Was he really responsible for her death? He tried to compose himself. ‘I don’t recognise her, officer. I don’t know this woman.’
‘Mr Anderson, even if you can’t remember the collision, surely you would remember how and when this woman came to be in your vehicle?’
‘You would think so, officer, but I don’t.’
‘Do you often give complete strangers a lift in your car, Mr Anderson?’
All he could offer was: ‘No, never.’
Taylor gathered up his notes. ‘Right, that’s all for now, Mr Anderson.’
‘What, I can go?’
‘For now, yes, but I’m sure we’ll have some more questions for you when our collision investigator has completed his report.’ Taylor checked his watch. ‘I’m terminating this interview. The time now is 1933 hours.’
Anderson was relieved to feel the cold Manchester air nipping at his face as he balanced on the steps outside the police station. His solicitor wanted a quick debrief. ‘You really don’t remember, John?’ he asked with the merest hint of a smile.
Anderson didn’t hear him. Deep in thought – his old life; Mia, the children.
‘John? Are you OK?’
‘Yes, sorry, I was miles away.’
‘You must be exhausted.’ Morgan took Anderson by the arm and guided him towards the car park. ‘I’ll drive you home.’ Morgan continued to moan about the police. ‘Outrageous to pull you in like that, the day you get out of hospital.’
‘Do you think it will go to trial, Dewi?’ Anderson already knew the answer.
Morgan grimaced. ‘It doesn’t look good, does it?’
Anderson climbed into the passenger seat and tried to picture Heena Butt’s face. Tried to remember if he knew her, or had seen her somewhere before. His head began to ache. He looked across at Morgan. ‘We need to find out about that woman – Heena Butt. She must be the key to all this.’
‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, John. Might be better to let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘What do you mean?’ Anderson replied.
‘We’re both men of the world, John,’ said Morgan, treading carefully with his client.
‘Go on?’
‘Well, acting on your instructions – which of course I do – you say you didn’t know the deceased. If you met her that night and she was in your car…? What would a prosecution barrister think that meant?’
The penny dropped. ‘You’d think I’d been kerb crawling.’
Morgan tiptoed on. ‘And if you were distracted…’
Anderson shook his head in horror. ‘You’d think I’d crashed the car because I was having sex with a prostitute whilst driving down the motorway?’
‘As your lawyer, I have to tell you how it looks, don’t I? What other explanation is there?’
Was this really happening? Was she a prostitute? Would he pay for sex? Could he be sure of anything? ‘My DNA won’t be inside her.’
‘Maybe not. They haven’t disclosed that yet, but it’s not critical.’
Anderson was confused.
Morgan spelt it out: ‘You know − blow job.’
Anderson looked skywards. ‘Please, just get me home.’