I’ve never been breathalysed before. It’s one of those things I’ve seen on TV; something that could only ever happen to somebody else.
I’m still outside my flat when the officer asks whether I’ve recently cleaned my teeth or used mouthwash. When I say I haven’t, he removes a plastic tube from a sealed bag and inserts it into a small black box. He talks me through the process, as if I’ve never figured out how to breathe before, and then I end up blowing into the tube until there’s nothing left in my lungs. He pulls the device away and stares at the front. I know I only had one drink early in the evening at the awards last night and yet there’s still a part of me that is terrified I’ll somehow test positive. It’s hard to believe there was ever a time when having a few drinks and then driving home was the norm.
‘Does it matter that I’ve not eaten?’ I ask.
‘No.’
The officer is offering his best poker face. If there’s some sort of error, I’ll be tarnished, regardless of my innocence. What would be the point in arguing with science?
It feels like an age until he peers up and says, ‘All clear.’
I start to sigh with relief and only catch myself afterwards when I realise it could seem like I was pleased to be getting away with something.
Police interview rooms on television always seem so much brighter and bigger than the one in which I am now sitting. I was expecting that at least one of the walls would be a mirror with someone on the other side, but there’s none of that. Instead, it’s four concrete walls, a heavy door and a pair of cameras fixed to the wall. The lighting is like something from a grungy 70s movie, leaving everything with a browny hue, as if I’m living in a sepia photograph.
I’ve already been through my story once, but I don’t need to be a detective to understand why they have issues. I assumed the officers who came out to breathalyse me would be doing the interviewing, but I’ve not seen them since they brought me here.
Sergeant Kidman does most of the speaking. She’s a little older than me, though not by much. She’s got one of those faces as if she lost an argument with a wall at some point: a cross between a dumpling and an axe. I can easily imagine her arguing with a supermarket cashier over an out-of-date coupon.
‘I don’t think I understand why you left the hotel in the middle of the night,’ she says.
There’s a table between us, so at least TV police shows don’t lie about everything.
‘Is the victim all right?’ I ask.
Sergeant Kidman looks to the officer next to her. I can’t remember his rank but his last name is Robinson. He’s barely said a word.
‘I’m not sure yet,’ Kidman says.
‘Are they… um…?’ I tail off, not quite able to put it into words. I’ve not been told whether the pedestrian hit by my car was a man or woman. I know almost nothing about what happened.
‘Are they what?’ Kidman asks.
‘Dead.’
She pauses, letting me squirm, though I try to sit still.
‘I’m not sure yet,’ she adds.
‘Can you tell me anything about what happened?’
‘I’m sure we’ll come to that, Ms Persephone. For now, I’d like to talk about everything that led up to it.’
She pronounces my name right, which almost nobody does, and I wonder how much she knows about me. After David supposedly disappeared, I had little option other than to go along with the appeals for his return. Plenty has been written about me in the past couple of years and it’s not like I’ve got one of those names that can be confused with some physicist who lives in Durban. If people Google my name, it is me who shows up.
‘What do you want to know?’ I ask.
‘Why did you leave the hotel in the middle of the night?’
‘The bed was uncomfortable,’ I reply.
‘Did you mention this to anyone at the hotel?’
‘No. I just left.’
‘It seems strange that you’d pay for a hotel and then leave at half past two in the morning.’
‘That’s what happened. I thought I’d sleep better at home.’
‘You’re saying that, at sometime between two and half past two this morning, you decided a hotel bed was too uncomfortable and drove two and a half hours home to get some sleep?’
She makes it sound as if I’d decided to pop to the Moon to buy a KitKat.
‘That’s right,’ I say.
I’m trying to sound confident because it’s all I have. I can hardly tell her that I was spooked because I thought I saw my former husband in a photograph. My dead former husband.
It’s as if she can read my mind when she replies with: ‘Was there any other reason you left the hotel?’
‘No.’
‘If you’ll excuse me for pushing the point, it’s just that not many people check out of a hotel they’ve paid for at two-thirty in the morning.’
‘I wouldn’t know what other people do…’
There’s a tiny amount of satisfaction as she leans back in her seat and I get the sense that she knows she’s getting nothing more from me on this.
One of the things I came to learn in the weeks after I killed David was that I’m an incredible liar. I suppose everyone has their talents – perhaps acting or singing; playing football, or the ability to wear Burberry and not look like stained wallpaper. One of mine is that I can look a person dead in the eye and come out with the most outlandish nonsense while not flinching. Confidence is everything. I’ve wondered since what that makes me; whether there’s something wrong. About a year ago, I read that, if a true psychopath has the ability to question if they’re a psycho, then they are definitely not. I’ll take that, I suppose – but I’m still one hell of a liar.
‘Were you with anyone?’ Kidman asks.
‘When?’
‘When you checked out of the hotel?’
‘No.’
‘What about in the car?’
‘No.’
‘At home?’
‘After the awards, I went to bed and I was by myself until the locksmith turned up at my flat.’
Kidman makes a point of turning to her colleague and muttering, ‘We can get CCTV from the hotel to check that.’
If I was lying about that part then I might have reason to worry – but that side of my story will check out.
‘Did you drive straight home?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Which route did you take?’
It’s a simple question, but I end up stumbling over it, getting the name of the A-road wrong and then correcting myself. I might be a good liar, but I don’t pay attention to road signs. Kidman seems uninterested by these details in any case.
‘How much did you drink at the awards dinner?’ she asks.
‘I passed the breathalyser test.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘I had a small glass of wine at the very beginning. It was a welcome drink that everyone got when they walked in.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Perhaps seven o’clock?’
Kidman makes a note of this on a pad and then leaves a gap. It took me a while to realise how often police do this. They create an uncomfortable silence which the person they’re speaking to feels obliged to fill. At first, I’d keep talking, but then I learned to shut up and wait for whatever was next. On this occasion, I don’t mind playing a little dumber than I am.
‘I’m not very good with alcohol,’ I add. ‘I’ve never been a big drinker.’
Kidman nods along, though doesn’t write anything. She’s twiddles a pen between her thumb and forefinger – and perhaps it’s that which sends me back to my living room after what happened with David. That was the last time I was interviewed properly by the police. It was far less formal then, with an officer named Sparks asking the questions. He was an old, grey-haired guy and I got the sense he was winding down to retirement. It was as I was making tea on the exact spot that David died when I convinced myself that I could get through it all.
‘What time did you arrive home?’ Kidman asks.
‘It was about five. I don’t know exactly.’
‘And you drove straight home?’
‘Right.’
‘You didn’t stop anywhere on the way down…?’
‘No.’
‘What music did you listen to while you were driving?’
My instinct is to shoot back with, ‘Who said I was listening to music?’ – but there’s no need to be aggressive. My car was stolen and I’m the victim here.
‘I was listening to the radio,’ I say. ‘I can’t remember the station but the DJ was talking about cheese. That’s all I remember.’
It gets a raised eyebrow but little more.
‘The problem I have with this,’ Kidman says, ‘is that your car ended up four miles from your flat.’
‘I told you that it was stolen.’
‘It was four miles from your flat and whoever was driving hit a pedestrian.’
‘It was stolen – and I was asleep. As soon as I woke up and saw the car was gone, I reported it.’
Kidman nods along and scratches at her earlobe. There’s a frizzy strand of hair that she tucks tight and then, after a glance to her mute colleague, it’s finally his turn to speak. I remember now that he’s a constable, so a lower rank. The lack of wrinkles mean he’s probably younger than me, though he has a shaven head that makes it look like he’s gone bald. It’s all a bit contradictory.
‘If you still have one set of car keys,’ he says, ‘how could someone have got the other set?’
‘That’s what I asked when I called you,’ I reply. ‘There was a spare set at the back of my underwear drawer.’
‘But you said there was no sign of a break-in.’
‘There isn’t.’
‘Does anybody else have keys to your flat?’
It’s impossible not to think of David.
‘No…’ I say. ‘Well, my ex-husband does. He went missing about two years ago.’
Robinson looks to his superior and it’s obvious from the momentary recognition that they both already know this.
This time, it is Kidman who picks things up. She presses forward on the desk and interlinks her fingers: ‘Did you change the locks after your husband disappeared?’
‘No. Why would I have done?’
‘Some people might have felt more secure knowing they were the only person who had keys to their home…?’
‘He was my husband – it’s not like I was scared of him.’
At least I don’t need to lie about that.
‘Have you seen your husband recently?’
I stare back at Kidman, matching her gaze. I can’t quite figure out if it’s as I suspected – that she thinks I was driving – or if she believes David might be back.
‘Of course not,’ I reply. ‘They told me it was seven years before they could issue a death certificate. I could apply for a divorce, but there doesn’t seem much point.’
‘Do you think he’s dead?’
I open my mouth and then immediately close it. I thought I was being clever but, instead, I was the one who brought this up. I take a breath and try to come up with something better than the only words in my mind.
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
It’s not great. Yesterday, I would have said it was a lie. In almost all respects, I still believe it is – except that there’s a niggly seed of doubt.
Fortunately, Kidman nods along and seems to accept this: ‘Does anyone other than your ex-husband have keys?’ she asks.
‘No.’
‘Have you ever lent your keys to anyone?’
I start to say ‘no’ and then I remember: ‘My friend, Jane, got me a cleaner for my birthday last year,’ I reply. ‘I think it was a bit of a joke because my place was messy. I was out taking classes at the gym and left the keys for a few hours. When I got back, my friend was there and let me in. I can’t think of another time.’
It’s hard not to feel awkward. I have something to hide in respect to David – but I definitely wasn’t driving my car when it apparently hit a pedestrian. I’m lying, though not about the thing they might suspect me of.
I can see how it all sounds: I left a party early in the morning and, hours later, my car hit a pedestrian. If I’d failed the breathalyser test, I’d have already been charged. My mind starts wandering to things like CCTV. They surely can’t have footage of the crash, or anything around it, else they’d know I wasn’t driving. I opted to go without a solicitor, because I wanted to appear as open and honest as I could. I’m now wondering if that was a mistake. Unless I’ve misread things, they believe I hit the pedestrian, rushed home on foot, and then called to report my car stolen.
Kidman seems unbothered by my cleaner story and moves on: ‘Has anyone else been in your flat who might have taken the spare keys?’
‘Only my boyfriend, Andy. He wouldn’t have taken the keys, though.’
She takes his details anyway – and I figure I’ll have to let him know they might be in contact. In everything that’s happened, I’ve not thought about him since we were on the phone last night.
‘Anyone else?’
‘My friend, Jane, comes over fairly regularly, but she—’
‘Jane is the person who was with you at the awards dinner?’ Kidman asks.
‘Right.’
‘She also left early?’
‘Yes.’
She takes Jane’s details and, from nowhere, it feels like my entire life is up for grabs. My friends will be getting calls to see if anyone can vouch for me. Either that, or there will be implicit accusations, as if I’ve accused them of stealing my keys and car.
Kidman picks up her pad and drums her fingers on the page before looking over it to take me in. ‘What I don’t understand is how it all comes together,’ she says. ‘You say your friend and boyfriend couldn’t have taken the keys; you say your husband is missing. There’s no sign of anyone breaking into your flat – so how do you explain your car being found in a ditch four miles away from where you claim you left it?’
‘I don’t claim I left it anywhere. I parked it outside my house. It was stolen.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. Hotwired? Something like that.’
‘I don’t think your car can be “hotwired”.’ She makes air quotes and I sense a disdain that I don’t believe is in my mind.
‘I don’t know what to tell you,’ I say. ‘I noticed my car was missing and I called you.’
‘Is that so?’ she says.
‘That’s so.’