Good solicitors have the ability to make grown adults feel like uninformed children. They’re like parents who can explain why the sky is blue with the assurance that the world is in safe hands as long as they’re in charge.
The room at the back of the police station is small and cramped, with barely space for two seats and a table. Some sort of fan is buzzing overhead, as if there’s one giant bee trapped within the walls.
None of this fazes Mr Patrick, because I can’t believe anything would. He’s one of those distinguished middle-aged men for whom first names don’t seem appropriate. I can imagine his wife and kids calling him ‘Mister’.
‘It appears that the man struck by your car has taken a turn for the worse,’ he says, as he peers at me over his glasses.
‘He’s not going to die, is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I ran into his son in the pub last night,’ I say.
‘How do you mean “ran into”?’
‘My boyfriend and I were playing pool out at the Kingfisher. I had no idea who he was – but he came over and called me a murderer.’
This brings the merest of frowns and, perhaps worse, Mr Patrick rubs the bridge of his nose. ‘You should have called me,’ he says.
‘I didn’t think. It was all a bit of a shock.’
‘What happened?’
‘Not a lot. He shouted and then my boyfriend talked him down. He left and then we left.’
Mr Patrick notes something on a pad in writing that might as well be hieroglyphics given the state of it.
‘I can mention it to ensure it’s on file,’ he says.
‘I don’t want any trouble.’
He taps his pen on the pad and nods along. When he looks up, it’s obvious we’ve moved on. ‘So, we’re clear about what happens when we go back in?’
‘I am… but I don’t get it. I haven’t done anything. My car was stolen. What’s wrong with saying that?’
Mr Patrick removes his glasses and uses the handkerchief from his pocket to wipe them clean. ‘Perhaps in an ideal world,’ he says. ‘Let’s remember that it’s innocent until proven guilty. You don’t have to prove you were in bed: they have to prove you were driving. The more you talk, the greater the risk of accidentally saying the wrong thing.’
‘Like what? I know what happened.’
‘Perhaps you say you left the hotel at 2.30 – except they have camera footage of you leaving at 2.25 because you weren’t paying perfect attention. Then you say you were home at five – but they’ve got footage from a motorway camera of you being nearby fifteen minutes earlier than you thought. Say you gave one time when you last spoke to them, but, today, it’s slightly different.’ There’s an edge of annoyance to this, like being scolded by a teacher. Disappointment, not anger. ‘You’ve not lied,’ he adds. ‘It’s just that humans are imperfect. We round up and down. We don’t pay complete attention. Everyone does it – except that, in cases such as this, timings matter. The more you talk, the more chance there is of getting the small things mixed up. Put together a few things like that and it suddenly looks like you’re trying to hide something. They’re after inconsistencies – even unintentional ones.’
‘I always thought guilty people said nothing…’
It’s the same interview room as the last time I was here. Constable Robinson is back – the one who barely said anything – but, this time, he’s alongside someone called Inspector Bainbridge. I wonder if it’s a bad sign that a sergeant has been swapped for an inspector. Whether this means it’s more serious. Bainbridge is of the same mould as my solicitor – a similar age, build and level of charismatic distinguishment. I suspect they’ve each been doing their respective jobs long enough that they could swap places and argue equally as passionately for the opposite side.
The room still feels brown and encompassing. In a kidnap movie, the victim would be chained to a wall in here.
Bainbridge sets the interview up by introducing everyone and then he gets to business: ‘Where were you at five-oh-five hours on Monday morning, Mrs Persephone?’
I want to answer, to make it clear I was in bed, but Mr Patrick steps in and speaks for me: ‘My client has already made it clear where she was at that time, Inspector. If you want the answer, I suggest you check the transcript from the last time you spoke to her.’
I expect Bainbridge to be annoyed, but his lack of reaction makes it seem like he expected something along these lines. The interview – if it can be called that – goes on in much the same fashion.
‘My client left the hotel in search of a more comfortable sleep.’
‘My client is a victim here, Inspector.’
‘You already have the answer to this.’
It reminds me of the few times I’ve caught Parliamentary footage on the news channel. Someone will ask a question and the MP will say: ‘I refer the honourable gentlemen to the reply I gave some moments ago.’
It’s clearly a giant middle finger, although we all continue as if it’s perfectly fine. Bainbridge asks me a question, I say nothing; and my solicitor – in not so many words – tells him to do one.
Everything he says on my behalf is correct, but it still feels wrong in his mouth.
It feels like frustration is finally starting to kick in as Constable Robinson sets up something that looks like an iPad on the desk. There’s a video that must have come from the hotel’s reception area that shows me entering through the main doors with Jane.
‘Is this you, Mrs Persephone?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’
My reply gets a raised eyebrow from Mr Patrick, which is the equivalent of a monumental telling-off.
The video shows me walking through from reception into the main suite where the awards dinner took place. I say hello to a couple of people I know and then, in a moment that is so cringey, I find myself covering my eyes, I start to dance.
‘Would you like to describe what’s happening here?’ Bainbridge says.
I know I’m supposed to stay quiet, but it’s so bad that I can’t shut my mouth: ‘A pretty bad attempt at the cha-cha slide by the look of it,’ I say.
‘Do you perform the, ahem, cha-cha slide often?’
It sounds so ridiculous in his fatherly voice that I can’t stop my lips from twitching upwards. Like a dad claiming he’s into hop-hip. The smile passes as quickly as it arrived and then Mr Patrick answers for me.
‘Come now, Inspector. If this is all you have to ask about, I think we’ll be going.’
He motions to stand, but Bainbridge fires back with another question: ‘How much did you drink, Mrs Persephone?’
I suppose he’s suggesting I was already drunk before the awards, meaning I might have been drunker later on when I drove back.
‘I believe my client passed a breathalyser test,’ Mr Patrick says.
‘Hours after the crash.’
‘Was there any indication in those results that she drove drunk?’
There’s no reply, which is an answer in itself.
The video finishes with Jane and I walking away from the awards room, back towards reception, ready to check in. I’m not sure what came over me in that moment.
‘When did you last see your husband?’
Mr Patrick acts far quicker than me. I’m wondering whether he knows something he can’t possibly.
‘Sorry, Inspector. Are we talking about a stolen car, or my client’s husband?’
‘One thing could be linked to the other, considering there was no apparent break-in to take the car keys…’
It’s the flaw in my story that can’t easily be righted. I can’t explain how someone got those spare keys because I have no idea.
‘Have you changed your locks?’ Bainbridge asks.
I figure there’s no reason to avoid this question: ‘I have now.’
‘Have you seen your husband in the two years since he disappeared?’
The pause is momentary before Mr Patrick steps in: ‘I don’t see how this is relevant.’
I think of the photo Jane took with the man in the blue suit in the background. David or not David.
‘No,’ I say.