Sunday
Gareth is on his third cup of coffee of the morning when there’s a sharp double rap on the front door. He jumps, slopping coffee onto the kitchen table and hurries out into the hall. As he gets closer to the front door he sees two shapes beyond the mottled glass and his heart leaps into his throat. If the police want to speak to him face to face it has to be bad news.
He yanks open the front door and searches the faces of the man and woman standing on his front step. He doesn’t recognise either of them. The tightness in his belly increases as they stare expressionlessly back.
‘Is it … is it Mum?’ he asks.
The man on the left, dressed in slacks and a navy-blue jumper with a white shirt collar peeking beneath the neckline, flashes a badge at him. ‘DC Forbes from Avon and Somerset Constabulary. This is DC Merriott. Are you Gareth Filer?’
‘I am, yes.’
‘We’d like you to come into the station for a chat please.’
Gareth goes cold. He’d rather they just broke the news. He doesn’t want to sit in a police car for ten or fifteen minutes, fearing the worst. ‘Just tell me.’
The detective looks puzzled. ‘Tell you what?’
‘My mum. You’ve found her, haven’t you? Is she dead? Is that why you’re here?’
The detective still appears to have no idea what he’s talking about.
‘My mum’s name is Joan Filer,’ Gareth clarifies. ‘She’s a vulnerable missing person. She’s been missing since Friday afternoon. Lisa Read is the officer I’ve been in touch with.’
The detective glances at his colleague, who frowns and lightly shakes her head. Neither of them have the slightest idea what he’s on about.
‘Right.’ DC Forbes regains his composure with a quick clear of his throat. ‘I see. I’m very sorry to hear that, but we’re here about a different matter. Liam Dunford has gone missing and our enquiries suggest that you know something about his disappearance. We would like you to come to the police station with us so that we can interview you formally. You’re not being arrested but you can have a solicitor during the interview if you want one. Your attendance at the station is purely voluntary.’
Gareth stares at him, a thousand thoughts whirling through his head as he tries to make sense of what he just heard.
‘I, um … I … Okay, but I can’t be long.’
‘You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Gareth stares at the detective, feeling progressively more scared the longer he speaks.
‘Am I … am I under arrest?’
The detective shakes his head. ‘As we explained back at your house you’re here voluntarily to answer some questions. You are free to leave and stop the interview at any time. You may also have a solicitor present if you wish.’
‘Then why say all that? All the stuff about evidence if I’m not under arrest?’
‘It’s part of the interview.’
‘I’m definitely not under arrest?’
‘No, you’re not.’ The female detective sitting on the right of DC Forbes gives Gareth a look like he’s missing a few brain cells.
Gareth feels like a fool. He’s watched hours of police dramas on the TV but now he’s the one in the small, grey room with a black digital device recording every word he says, he feels completely wrong-footed. Worse than that, he feels like a criminal and he hasn’t done anything wrong. In a different universe he’d be the one sitting on the other side of the table, the one asking the questions, the one in control.
‘Is it too late to ask for a solicitor?’ he asks, then instantly regrets it when he catches the look exchanged between the two detectives.
DC Merriott puts her pen to her notepad and looks up at him from under her thick blonde fringe. ‘Sure. We can delay the interview until he turns up. Name and number?’
‘I haven’t got one. I’ve … I’ve never needed one, apart from when Mum drew up her will.’ His cheeks start to burn with shame. They’re looking at him like he’s an idiot and he’s not. He’s just a normal bloke. He’s never broken the law in his life.
‘We could get a duty solicitor in for you,’ DC Merriott says.
‘How long would that take?’
‘Maybe half an hour, maybe more.’
‘Then no.’ Gareth shakes his head decisively. ‘I don’t want one. I want this over as quickly as possible. My mum’s missing. I need to get home.’
‘Okay then.’ DC Forbes glances down at his pad. ‘So, tell us about your relationship with Liam Dunford.’
‘We’re colleagues. Well, I’m his superior, but I didn’t recruit him. Mark Whiting did that.’
‘You’re security guards, is that right? At the Meads shopping centre in Bristol.’
‘Security officers,’ Gareth corrects him. ‘But basically, yeah. That’s right.’
‘And how would you describe your relationship?’
Gareth considers the question. ‘Professional,’ he says, after a pause.
‘Professional, right.’ DC Forbes scribbles something on his pad, then glances up. ‘Any issues, arguments, that sort of thing?’
Gareth sits very still. He knows his body language is being scrutinised for any sign of discomfort or guilt and, despite the overwhelming urge to rub the back of his neck, he doesn’t move a muscle.
‘No more than with anyone else,’ he says.
‘So there were disagreements then? It’s normal, isn’t it, in a work environment? We can’t get on with everyone we meet.’ DC Merriott smiles encouragingly at him.
‘As I said, no more than with anyone else.’
‘Right.’ DC Forbes presses his lips together. ‘Then why would you say to your boss, Mark Whiting, and I quote, “He could be at the bottom of a lake for all I care”?’
Gareth sits forward in his seat, resting his elbows on the table, then remembers his decision not to move a muscle and sits back sharply again. ‘Because my mum had just disappeared and Mark was asking where Liam was. Right then I couldn’t have given two shits.’
‘Understandable. Totally understandable.’
Gareth watches the detective’s hand move over his pad. He can’t read a word he’s writing and they still haven’t told him what’s happened to Liam, other than the fact that he’s missing. Is he dead? Do they think someone murdered him? His heart beats fast. Do they think he did it? Do they think he killed him and dumped him in a lake?
‘So,’ the female detective says, ‘tell me, Gareth, why would Liam tell his friends that he was blackmailing you?’
Gareth’s jaw drops and his mind goes completely blank. ‘I’m … s … sorry what?’ he stutters.
‘When interviewed about his disappearance, Liam’s friends told us that he said …’ she glances down at her notes ‘… he had you wrapped around his little finger. Those were their exact words. Why would he say something like that, do you think?’
‘He …’ The word catches in Gareth’s dry throat. He wets his lips with his tongue, then reaches for the plastic cup of water on the table and takes a sip. As he drinks he weighs up the question. If he denies that Liam was blackmailing him they’ll know he’s lying. If he tells them the truth they’ll have the motive they need.
‘Is he dead?’ He sets his cup back down, his gaze flitting between the detectives. This time it’s their body language he’s trying to read.
The detectives exchange a glance, then DC Forbes meets his steady stare.
‘Why don’t you tell us?’
Gareth leaves the police station on shaky legs, his back slick with sweat. He glances over his shoulder as he descends the concrete steps. He can’t shake the feeling that, at any moment, Detective Sergeants Forbes and Merriott will come flying out of the black, glossy door and haul him back in. There was a point in his interview, as he explained why Liam was blackmailing him, where he felt certain he was never going to leave that claustrophobic grey room ever again, a belief that was reinforced when DC Forbes asked him where he’d been between 2 a.m. and 4 a.m. on Thursday 28th March. He was at home asleep, he told them, his throat desert dry. No, he admitted when asked, there was no one who could confirm his alibi but the CCTV above the front door would show that he hadn’t left the house. DC Forbes raised an eyebrow. ‘Not via the front door, anyway.’
When DC Merriott announced there would be no further questions for now and turned off the digital recorder it was all Gareth could do not to slump over the table and cry. Instead he sat rigidly in his seat, his hands on his thighs, and asked if he could leave. He followed the two police officers through the labyrinthine corridors in a daze, feeling as though he’d been transported into another world. Was Liam dead? He still didn’t know. All he wanted was to get the hell out of that building and run all the way home.
But he doesn’t run. Instead he walks slowly out of the shadow of the station and into the weak March sunshine. He walks on autopilot, crossing the road, turning left, turning right, not knowing or caring where he’s going. Only when the police station is no longer in sight do his legs give way. He sinks down onto a low wall outside a chip shop and slumps forwards, his elbows on his knees. Then he rests his head in his hands and he closes his eyes.