I make my way back to the Tube. In less than an hour I am walking up the road to Seb’s house. I have to do something about this but to understand what, I need to talk to someone about it. Opening up to Amit feels as though it has opened a sluice gate.
I haven’t told Seb about any of this and he has just let me be when I have been there with him, politely, as if to ask would have been an intrusion. He’s stayed out of my way, even though I have been living under his roof and in his clothes.
As soon as I knock on the door, I realise he won’t be home. It’s midday. He won’t be home for another two or three hours. But just as I turn away, I see shadows behind the glass of the front door. A beat later, the door opens.
‘Seb,’ I begin to say, ‘I didn’t think you’d be home.’
He is still in his work clothes, pink silk tie knotted tight. He hasn’t been home long. He gives me a serious look and puts a finger to his lips. I widen my eyes at him for an explanation.
He calls out to somewhere behind his shoulder. ‘Whoever it is, they’ve gone, Detective.’ He gives me a look that says go.
He is trying to help me evade the police, but I need to speak to them about what I have just learned.
‘It’s okay,’ I say to him, and push past him towards the kitchen. ‘Detective Conway,’ I say, rushing in. He turns to face me with a cup of tea in his hand. His suit looks cheap next to Seb’s and pouches under his eyes tell me he is tired.
‘Mr Shute,’ he says gravely.
‘What’s happened?’ I feel suddenly as if I can’t breathe.
‘Happened?’ he says. ‘Nothing’s happened as such. We wanted to talk to you about Mr Squire, as you know.’
‘Oh,’ I say, suddenly remembering. ‘Okay.’
‘But there’s one other thing.’
I look at him expectantly. He puts his cup down and strides towards me.
‘Xander Shute. I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything. But it could harm your defence if you fail to mention when questioned anything you later rely on in court.’
‘Murder?’ Suddenly the air around me has become thin. Too thin. ‘He’s dead?’ I say, steadying myself on the door frame. He says nothing but takes out handcuffs from his pocket and methodically tightens them on my wrists. Seb follows me as I am led to an unmarked car.
‘A solicitor – can I get you a solicitor?’ he says breathlessly.
‘No,’ I say. ‘But—’
‘What is it?’
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I just wanted to say that. For being here when I needed you.’ He stands there by my side, helpless as I am put into the back seat of the car. He takes out his phone as we are waiting to leave and dials a number but then hesitates and replaces the phone in his pocket. He stares at me through the glass as if he is trying to tell me something.
The car smells of new plastic and makes me feel ill. Conway climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the engine with a button. He looks over his shoulder at me before he pulls away but says nothing.
My heart thumps in my chest. As the car races, so too does my pulse. All of this space is shrinking, pressing down on me. I don’t want to be in a cell. I can’t be in a cell again. There is no way of connecting to myself under this pressure of space. My hands become cold and clammy and then my face. The blood is redirecting itself. I know that’s all it is but knowing doesn’t help the crushing sensation that I am having a heart attack. And now I wonder whether that is what is happening.
‘I’m having a heart attack,’ I say too quietly to be heard. I focus on something outside myself to reboot my system. To stop the panic, if that’s what it is.
Murder?
Squire?
I have been arrested on suspicion of murder. That must mean Squire has died. If there was ever a chance of him confirming to police that it wasn’t me who stabbed him, it has gone.
Conway accelerates along the road in silence until I see the sign above the building once again. PADDINGTON GREEN POLICE STATION.
He parks then unclips his seat belt. When he turns to face me, he gives me an arch look.
‘You’ve really done it now, haven’t you, Einstein?’ he says, and then steps out of the car. I wait, desperate for him to open my door. But he doesn’t. He skips up the steps to the front entrance and disappears behind the glass doors. I can’t breathe.
29
Tuesday
My throat is tightening still, but I lid the panic by focusing on something concrete. I dredge up as much of the details of the allegation as I can as I sit in the police car. I breathe slowly and evenly. Details. I need to be prepared this time. But there’s so much dust on the memory now.
It’s no good. The heat is stifling and the breaths I take feel hot and laboured. I prod at the window buttons but I know already that they’re not going to work. Panic rises in my chest, and within moments I am wishing that Conway was back here to let me out. I look around and then see a police officer on the steps, in uniform, and I tap against the window uselessly. He lights a cigarette and smokes it unhurriedly. I am maddened by his slowness and insouciance.
‘Help!’ I shout at him but he doesn’t see me or hear me, trapped in this glass and metal padded box.
And then Conway appears at the front door. He saunters towards me. My breath quickens as he inches closer. Finally, he is at my door and opens it.
‘Thank God,’ I say, panting. ‘You can’t do that! I have a condition. I’m claustrophobic.’ My voice rises and I am suddenly embarrassed by the weakness in it.
‘It was two minutes,’ he says, and then nods at me to follow him into the station.
I am processed exactly as before. Rights carefully explained to me again and I am left to read the same forms. But this time I am taken to the interview room much more quickly. It’s as if time has suddenly sped up.
Conway and Blake are there. She looks much less fried than the last time I saw her. I shut my eyes through the caution and wait for the first questions. I am still, even now, debating whether I should tell them the truth or just go ‘no comment’ as they do on TV.
‘You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention when questioned anything you later rely on,’ Conway says.
It may harm your defence if you fail to mention. I don’t remember this from TV. It is new.
Their eyes flit between one another and me. They are telegraphing something to each other but I don’t know what. The tension gets too much and I find myself speaking before I can stop myself.
‘Okay then. Say it. He’s dead. I know what murder means.’
They look at me, their brows creased. They exchange looks once again.
‘So why am I here? Is there new evidence?’ I say, searching them both.
Blake looks at Conway with realisation. It’s just the slightest of looks. A millimetre by which she raises her green eyes at him. His face, weighed down by age and this no doubt, doesn’t move.
Blake is the one who speaks. ‘Xander. Mr Shute. About Mr Squire. We got the blood results back from the lab. It’s not his blood on the knife.’
‘What?’ I say. I don’t believe it.
‘We conducted a video ID procedure and he was unable to pick out his assailant. That’s not to say it wasn’t you. It’s just, well. We’re going to NFA it,’ Conway says.
‘NFA?’ I hear myself say, but I am flooded with relief.
‘It means “no further action”. But, as DI Conway has said, if further evidence comes to light, you could be rearrested for it,’ Blake says.