A Line of Blood (18 page)

You are not under arrest.
Breathe.

I saw Max hand Fab5 something from his box. An ice cream? I wondered what Fab5 had said to him. Hadn’t he seen the cars? The police?

‘He’s eleven, you evil bastards.’

I must have said it out loud. The door opened, and the female detective looked in.

‘Something you wanted to say, Mr Mercer?’

I bit back my anger, smiled my most appeasing smile. ‘Any sense of how long we’re likely to be here?’

‘Just a little catch-up between colleagues.’ She returned my smile. Sympathetic and warm. She closed the door.

Fab5 produced an electric pink Frisbee. I watched the three of them, as they played one-handed, the other hand holding what must be iced lollies, catching the Frisbee on extended index fingers, spinning it away again on practised flicks of the wrist; vibrant pink against the desiccated grass.

Max never once looked towards the police car. My brave little boy.

He knows.

The uniformed policeman got in and started the engine. ‘Seat belt on, sir?’

The car pulled away slowly, and I opened the window. The fear was upon me again, as if this was some sort of parting.
My wife, my child.
Behind us the unmarked car pulled out, the officers in the front seats looking relaxed and professional. The man said something to the woman, and they both laughed. They had nothing on me. They were staging this to make a point.
Breathe.

No one reacted as the police cars passed by.

My wife could really throw. I wondered if she was faking the claps and the whoops as Fab5 threw himself to the ground, caught the Frisbee on his right index finger, jumped up and threw it to Max in a single fluid gesture. It certainly didn’t look as if she was faking.

They could be any North London family. Woman, man, child. Is that what we look like when we’re out together, I wondered. Do we make it look that good?

Three chairs, a table, a recording device. The walls were white and recently painted, the floor tiled in cracked slate. Across the white table were two white plastic chairs. My own chair – grey fabric – was more comfortable. A message, perhaps: this is going to take a long time.

A man in plain clothes came in with biscuits and a cup of black coffee. He asked me if I wanted a newspaper. ‘Could be a bit of a wait.’

‘You’re Scottish,’ I said. Glasgow, I thought.

‘Aye,’ he said, ‘right enough.’ Broad smile. Thirty, maybe. Close-cropped dark hair. ‘
Guardian
, is it?’

‘How could you tell?’

He shrugged. ‘You develop a sense for these things.’

‘Are you even allowed to bring me a paper?’

‘Nothing in the rules says I can’t.’

‘OK,’ I said, ‘sure, then. Thanks.’

I had made a point of not needing to make a phone call. And besides, there was no one I wanted to speak to: not a lawyer, because I didn’t want the police to think that I needed a lawyer; not Millicent, because she knew where I was and if I rang it might alarm Max; I certainly wasn’t going to tell my mother I was being questioned by the police.

There were graffiti scratched deep into the table. Davey S had been here. Laleh had been here, along with most of her crew. Marshall from Gorebridge had been here. So had Cookie, also from Gorebridge.

I was certain the police couldn’t search the house if they didn’t arrest me. I was almost certain of that.

‘One
Guardian
.’

He was back with the paper. His name was Paul, and he took
The
Times
himself. He’d been in London two years. He was still finding it tough down here.

‘It’s a great city,’ I said.

‘Aye, maybe we just see the wrong side of it,’ he said. ‘Makes a man cynical.’

‘You don’t project cynicism,’ I said.

‘Good to know, mate. Good to know.’ He hovered by the door, smiling as if we were friends.

‘So, Paul,’ I said, ‘is this all part of the process?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I’m just wondering whether you’re the
good cop
?’

The smile froze. ‘I was just making conversation, mate.’

‘You can go,’ I said. ‘I have everything I need. I’ve been offered counselling. Thanks for the paper.’

When he had left I tried to pick up the coffee cup that he had given me. My hand knocked it over; it simply missed the cup: a badly calibrated machine. I hadn’t meant to sound so ungrateful; I must be more nervous than I realised.

I was alone for another hour. I picked up the paper several times, but couldn’t concentrate on the stories, couldn’t connect the sentences.

If the police didn’t arrest me I would burn Caroline’s letter. It was stupid to have kept it. Incriminating, almost: the man it described was obsessive and out of control.
I am no longer that man.

I looked around me, as I had many times that hour. There was no camera. No one-way mirror.
They can’t read your thoughts.
I was not under arrest. I was not under caution. I could leave if I wanted.

The same female detective who had interviewed me before. I asked if she could give me her card again, which she did.

She smiled at me, and I think I smiled at her. This was an interview. Nothing more. I was here to help.

Why did I struggle with her name? She was June. Of course she was June.

‘I’m sorry for the wait,’ she said.

‘Your colleague kindly brought me a paper,’ I said.
Eye contact.

‘Good,’ she said.

‘Good,’ I said.

‘Good.’

She turned on the audio recorder. Then she gave her name, and my name, and my address, and my age. She gave the date, then checked her watch, and gave the time.

Then she looked at me. I tried to look back.
Eye contact.

‘Mr Mercer, you understand, do you not, that you have the right to a lawyer?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you are happy to proceed without legal representation?’

‘Yes.’ I wanted her sympathy now, and a lawyer wouldn’t help with that.

‘So,’ she said, ‘you and your son found the body of Mr Bryce on the evening of first July, as discussed in our interview of second July.’

I said nothing. What was she expecting me to say?

‘Do you have anything you wish to add to the recollections you gave then?’

‘No.’ I still remembered her kindness across the kitchen table. I hadn’t wanted her to feel sorry for me then. I wanted her sympathy now, though. ‘It hasn’t been an easy time.’
Eye contact.

‘And we are aware that discovery of a body can be a traumatic event. You have been made aware that counselling services are available, should you wish.’

Surely she couldn’t ask me whether I had seen a counsellor? Wasn’t that privileged? And surely it could never count against me that I hadn’t?

‘Everyone has been very kind.’ Her mouth smiled. There was a keenness to her gaze that I hadn’t seen before, a tilt of the head that suggested distance.
Raptor.

‘Mr Mercer, what was your state of mind on the evening of the thirtieth of June?’

‘You mean the first of July?’

‘No, Mr Mercer, I mean the evening of the thirtieth of June. The evening before your … discovery of the body.’

Why the pause before the word discovery? What was she implying?

‘You’re asking me to account for my movements?’

‘No, Mr Mercer. I’m asking you to describe your state of mind.’

‘Normal. Whatever that is.’

‘And what’s normal, for you?’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’

‘I see.’ She smiled. Then she produced a typescript from a briefcase and turned to a page marked with a Post-it.

‘A neighbour of yours reports hearing raised voices in your house on the night of the thirtieth of June.’

‘Raised voices?’

‘An argument. Which continued from roughly eleven fifteen to eleven forty-five.’

‘A neighbour?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re talking about Mr Ashani.’

‘I’m afraid that I can’t share those details with you at this point. Mr Mercer, did you and your wife argue between those hours?’

‘I don’t remember.’ Still that professional smile. Still the keenness of the eyes. Yellow-grey, unblinking.

‘Did you and your wife argue between those times?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

‘Maybe?’

‘Yes.’

‘That was very faint.’ She gestured towards the recorder. ‘Could you repeat your last answer?’

‘Yes. We argued.’

The longest of pauses. Her eyes blazed. I tried to smile back.
Eye contact.
I brought the cup to my lips, realised it was empty. Smiled again. Put the cup down.

‘Mr Mercer, I’m going to read from the transcript of the interview with your neighbour. All right?’

‘All right.’

She read without inflection, her voice flat, like a bored clerk on a long and tedious telephone call. ‘You fucking bitch. You fucking little bitch. I’m going to make you pay for that. Jesus. Next time I meet a bitch like you in a pub, the last thing I’m going to do is marry her. Christ on the fucking cross.’

The smile was gone now. Her grey-gold eyes stared. Waiting. Hungry, almost.

‘It’s the kind of thing I could have said.’

‘Did you say it, Mr Mercer?’

‘Yes. I probably did.’

‘You probably did?’

‘I said it.’

She closed the transcript, placed it carefully in front of her on the table. ‘Well now.’ The smile was back. Patient, without warmth. She followed my gaze as I looked towards the door. Would she stop me if I got up to leave? Would she arrest me?

Something in me – almost a voice – told me that she couldn’t search the house if she arrested me at the police station; that she could only search the place where the arrest was made. I was sure – almost sure – that I had read that somewhere. Had I read that somewhere? Why had I said no to a lawyer?

I forced myself to meet her gaze. ‘You’re quoting selectively,’ I said.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Mercer? Could you explain yourself?’

‘You’re taking my words out of context.’ My voice sounded injured; the voice of a petulant child.

‘And how would
you
contextualise your words, Mr Mercer? Let me remind
you
of what
you
said: “You fucking little bitch. I’m going to make you pay for that.” We agree – do we not – that you said that?’

‘Yes. Look …’

‘Yes?’

‘That’s not how it was said.’

‘Your voice was raised, was it not?’

‘That’s not what I mean.’

‘Was your voice raised?’

‘Obviously. Otherwise Mr Ashani wouldn’t have heard me.’

‘Well, quite,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

‘So it was Mr Ashani …’

‘… a neighbour …’

‘… who heard us through the wall. He’s an old man, and he doesn’t understand context.’

‘And again, what was the context?’

‘We were making up.’

She laughed. She actually laughed. She put her hand to her mouth, then composed herself. ‘Go on, Mr Mercer.’

‘Look at your transcript again.’

‘And why would I do that, Mr Mercer?’

‘Because you’re leaving out what Millicent said.’

‘And what did your wife say?’

‘She called me motherfucker, and told me I was a jerked-up little dweeb. We were laughing. Didn’t he say we were laughing?’

She leafed lazily through her transcript, made a play of not looking at me.

‘We were sharing a bottle of wine; we were laughing.’

‘Really, Mr Mercer? Really?’

‘Really. Motherfucker is a term of affection. So’s bitch.’

‘Unfortunately, Mr Mercer, I have no record of your wife’s reply, affectionate or otherwise.’

‘I would never use the word
bitch
in anger.’ I was struggling to keep the desperation from my voice. ‘It’s an ironic use.’

‘Let’s move on, shall we?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘let’s not, until we’ve discussed why I said it.’

‘Mr Mercer,’ she said, smiling broadly, ‘I’m just trying to establish the facts. It’s time to move on.’

They knew about Millicent’s affair with Bryce. They had interviewed someone who worked at the Swedish who could only have been the manager. He had heard everything. The description he gave of my swearing didn’t make it sound in any way ironic. Apparently I had used words stronger than
bloody
.

The detective made it very clear what she thought of me. It’s hard to explain to a female police officer why you have used the word
cunting
in a loud argument with your wife, or why you have screamed the same word at the manager of a Swedish café. ‘I didn’t scream it,’ I wanted to say. ‘I was never that loud.’ They had also spoken to someone who had seen me swearing and sucking my thumb in the street. Ranting, the description said.
Ranting.

I tried to bring her back to my argument with Millicent the night before the neighbour died. It wasn’t about the affair, I wanted to say. It was about our son.
I didn’t know about the affair.
It was about vegetables, and sweets, and ice cream, and fruit. Parent stuff, and parents shout at each other about this stuff. About how much cheese is too much cheese, and how many burgers are too many burgers. My wife thinks I make a
thing
about food, and it doesn’t need to be a
thing
. We were done, by the time I called her a bitch. We’d moved on. We were laughing. And anyway, who doesn’t shout about this stuff?

But she kept moving the conversation forwards, never letting the subject rest for long enough for me to explain myself. I sounded lame. I sounded petulant. I sounded like a hurt child.

She left me alone. Paul came in and accompanied me to the toilet, then fetched another coffee for me. He was brisk and completely without warmth. I wondered what she had said to him.

I should have called a lawyer. I wondered what I would think, confronted cold with a man like me and a corpse in the house next door. They had spoken to a lot of people about me, and the theme that kept emerging was anger. Maybe that was me, the ranting man. A man in thrall to rage. Ranting in the home. Ranting in the café. Ranting in the street.

A small step from rage to jealous rage.