‘Interview with Jeremy Moore. Time is…’ Hunt looked at his watch. ‘Three fourteen p.m.’
Hunt shuffled a stack of papers. Jeremy’s whole body ached. He sat still, trying to focus on the man facing him and the questions being asked of him. His body was rapidly letting him down. The stillness of the room, along with its plainness, challenged his nervous system. Hushed immobility was something that eluded Jeremy in his day-to-day life. Normally, the ping of electric signals travelling around the cavern of his brain was enough to keep him moving. Even the simple path to the pool house was sufficient to distract his degenerating biology. Every organ in his body had begun to corrupt, years ago. But Hunt couldn’t see that.
On the outside, only a specialist would have spotted the fine layer of moisture that blanketed his clammy skin. Untouched by the sun, thanks to him not being able to sit still for long enough for it to seep through the exterior, he remained pasty all year round. The swollen face wouldn’t be noticed by anybody who hadn’t known him ten years ago and had nothing to compare it to. Some might assume that the puffy softness indicated a kindly ageing. However, the dilated pores, choked with the task of detoxification, told another story. He kept his hands in his pockets to still the rhythmic tremors, and his sunken eyes and bloodshot sclera, slowly fading to yellow, could be put down to tiredness, worry and stress. Should Hunt have asked Jeremy to stick out his tongue, a furry, grey carpet would have awaited him. However, this wasn’t a health check-up and Hunt was no doctor.
Jeremy’s feet and knees tapped up and down underneath the table, and he kept his focus by looking at the clock above Hunt’s head.
‘Mr Moore, it’s been explained to you why you’re here. We’d like to ask you some questions as part of the investigation into the death of Monika Thorpe.’
Jeremy felt a shift of the air in the room and realised that Hunt was waiting for a response.
‘Yes, I understand.’
He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. Hunt’s furrowed and Jeremy could identify only one emotion on the detective’s face: pity.
‘Your relationship with Monika Thorpe?’
Hunt pushed something across the table, and he saw haunting visions of Monika’s face – dozens of them. He peered at them lovingly.
‘You were in love with her?’ Hunt asked.
Jeremy’s stomach growled, but he’d become accustomed to ignoring it.
He wanted a drink.
‘Sorry?’
‘Your feelings for Mrs Thorpe?’
‘Oh, yes, she was pretty perfect.’
‘Perfect? That’s a grand accolade. Here, drink some water.’
Jeremy looked at the plastic cup in front of him but declined to take a sip. The blandness of it was disappointing even as it sat there, transparent and pure.
He needed a proper drink.
‘These photos: why did you collect them?’
‘She was a project of mine.’
‘A project?’
‘Yes, you wouldn’t understand.’
‘Try me.’
Heat welled up from the floor and settled in Jeremy’s mouth like a desert.
‘Mr Moore, can you tell me where you were on the evening of Tuesday the fourteenth of July?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘You can’t remember.’
‘Why do you keep repeating my sentences?’
‘I’m trying to get some answers from you. It’s simple, really.’
‘What was that last one again?’
‘It was about Tuesday the fourteenth of July. We know what you did on Wednesday the fifteenth; you got your wife’s car valeted – inside and out – and you got rid of a broken coat stand.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I think Alex asked me to.’
‘You think?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’
‘Had you used her car on Tuesday the fourteenth?’
‘Yes.’
‘To go where?’
‘Tony’s.’
‘So, you remember now?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, did you see Mrs Thorpe on Tuesday fourteenth?’
‘Yes.’
‘What time?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Did you hurt her?’
‘No.’
‘But you can’t remember.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you kill Monika Thorpe?’
‘No.’
‘But you can’t remember.’
‘I’m sorry, what are we talking about now?’
Jeremy knew he was helping with inquiries about Monika but couldn’t recall the context.
‘The death of a woman you saw on the evening she died. A woman you were obsessed with. A woman whose body had shards of wood lodged in her back – wood from the coat stand you got rid of on Wednesday the fifteenth.’
‘Right.’
‘Right – you killed her.’
‘No… I didn’t. I just can’t answer your questions. I’m sorry, I need to get some air.’
Jeremy stood up.
‘What was your reaction to Monika taking lovers?’
‘What? Who?’
‘Anybody but you.’
‘I need to—’
A large uniformed officer blocked the door.
‘Jeremy, why did you write this paper?’
Hunt showed him something.
‘It’s clever, I’ll grant you that, suggesting that certain people suffering from psychological problems could be framed in a murder case.’
Jeremy sat down but stood straight back up again, and paced up and down. Hunt watched him.
‘I really need to—’
‘Jeremy, you’re not going anywhere until we’ve got some answers.’
Jeremy twisted away from Hunt and stared at the wall. He avoided the shaft of sunlight. He threw a glance over his shoulder and fished around in his jacket pocket.
‘Sorry, what was that?’
Jeremy pointed to the table and Hunt picked up the photos to rearrange them. In the three seconds it took, Jeremy had whipped out a hipflask and taken a gulp.
Hunt glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room and back to Jeremy, who’d put the receptacle back in its hiding place, and was up and pacing again.
‘Mr Moore, do you have blackouts from drinking?’
Jeremy clamped his mouth closed, fearing the fumes would reveal his hand and expose him as a fraud. He shrugged.
‘Is this you?’
Hunt pointed to a photo. It was grainy, but Jeremy could still make out his trilby hat on the head of the driver, though the face was blurred.
‘Looks like it. I drive my wife’s car all the time.’
‘Note the suspect has identified himself as driving the vehicle KU22 4OA, on the night of the fourteenth of July.’
Jeremy scratched his head. ‘When?’
‘I put it to you that when Monika Thorpe rejected your advances, you got angry and the two of you fought. You attacked her inside your own pool house, didn’t you? You used the wooden coat stand to do it. The coat stand which disappeared, or so we thought. Then you drove, with her body in your wife’s car, to Grantchester jetty, where you beat her with a tool from the boot – like this. A tool which is now missing from the boot of your wife’s car.’
‘Have you finished?’ Jeremy asked.
Hunt shrugged. ‘Have we?’
‘I’m not having some amateur sleuth analyse me and make up stories from some receipts, photos and whatever it is you think you have there in your file.’
The long sentence exhausted him. He swished his hand across the desk and the exhibited evidence floated to the floor.
‘Do you deny the allegations?’ Hunt asked.
‘That’s what you want, isn’t it? To triumph in your cheap suit.’
Hunt sat further away, pushing his chair back. Jeremy had transitioned from edgy, scatter-brained and vulnerable, to arrogant, threatening and unpredictable in a matter of seconds. As long as it took to swig some strong liquor.
‘I’ll leave you to think.’
Hunt left the room.