‘It wasn’t a coincidence,’ I said. ‘And she wasn’t his lover. I was working there to prove that. Or to find the truth.’
‘I mean, how would you really do it?’
‘What?’
‘Kill two people and make it look like an accident.’
‘I thought you were talking about Frances Shaw.’
‘We’ll come to Frances Shaw. I was thinking about the car. How would you do something like that? Tamper with the brakes, the way they do in films?’
‘How do you tamper with brakes?’ I said. ‘Anyway, what would that do, driving in London? You don’t kill two people driving along at thirty or forty miles an hour. At least, not reliably.’
‘Sounds right,’ said Ramsay. ‘So what do you do?’
I broke the promise I had made and made myself think about the event once more as I had hundreds of times before.
‘They would have to be already dead. And you drive them to somewhere quiet…’
‘Like Porton Way,’ said Ramsay.
‘That would be a perfect choice,’ I said. ‘Where you can steer the car over the edge, set fire to it and then get away.’
‘Making sure you don’t leave any traces,’ said Ramsay. ‘Or drop anything.’
‘Do you think I’d have left my scarf behind if I’d committed the murder?’
‘You wouldn’t believe what people leave at murder scenes. False teeth. Wooden legs. I’m sure it’ll never come to this, Ms Falkner, but if you’re ever called upon to construct a defence, I wouldn’t stress the point that leaving evidence at the scene is an argument that you weren’t there.’
‘I was there. I went later.’
‘Obviously the case with Frances Shaw is very different. Traces of your presence were found everywhere at the scene, including on the body.’
‘I worked there,’ I said, ‘and I pulled the body clear. I wasn’t sure she was dead.’
‘That’s what the emergency services are for,’ said Ramsay. ‘They can revive people who might seem completely dead to civilians like you and me.’
‘She was dead.’
‘I believe this argument has been had before. My point was that there’s no doubt you were there, even though you fled the scene. But while there’s obvious motive for you to kill your husband and his lover, even though you couldn’t have done it, there’s no motive at all for you to kill Frances Shaw, is there?’
There was a pause because I didn’t know what to say. I wondered if he knew something and was waiting to catch me out once more. If there was damning evidence – more damning evidence – it was better coming from me. And now was the time to give it. There was a moment when I thought, Why not? I had this feeling that somehow everything was closing in on me, everything was turning out bad. Why not go along with it? What if I was blamed for it, convicted and imprisoned? How did that matter, really? But I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t think of the words with which to say it.
‘We got on well,’ I said. ‘She thought of me as a friend. I felt bad about deceiving her. I meant to tell her but…’
‘So you’re sticking to your story that you didn’t know about your husband’s affair and you had no problem with Frances Shaw…’
‘I didn’t say no problem.’
‘Nothing that would be a motive for violence, I mean.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Although you accuse her husband of having an affair with your husband’s lover.’
‘He did have an affair with her – and she wasn’t Greg’s lover. And his wife was also having an affair, don’t forget.’
‘Hmm.’ He scratched the side of his nose. ‘You can see why we’re so confused, can’t you? The problem is that it’s all these negatives, proving that someone didn’t know something, that they didn’t have a motive. I’m not clever enough for that. A knife with blood and fingerprints. Preferably caught on CCTV. That’s what I like.’
He looked around. ‘Do you ever make new furniture?’ he said.
‘I have, as a sort of hobby. It’s more expensive than old furniture.’
Ramsay seemed disappointed. ‘I can’t afford either on my salary. I’ll stick with Ikea.’ He paused and appeared to remember something. ‘You’re not playing any more of your games, are you?’
‘Like what?’
‘Pretending to be someone else.’
‘No.’
‘It wasn’t even funny the first time.’
‘I’ve got an alibi.’
‘Ah, yes. It seems we’re going to have to look into that.’
I told him about the delivery on the day of Greg’s death. I even went into the house, found the name of the solicitors’ office, then wrote out the address and the phone number for him. ‘You can check yourself.’
‘I will,’ he said.
Chapter Thirty
When Detective Chief Inspector Ramsay came to see me on the Monday morning it wasn’t anything at all like his previous visit. Even his ring at the door sounded different, more insistent and uncompromising. A younger colleague had come with him, awkward in his shiny new suit, as if Ramsay needed someone to protect him from any hint of flirtatiousness, of informality, of special treatment. There was no jovial suggestion of watching me work. He insisted on going through to the living room, where I felt out of place in my smelly, dusty work clothes. Worst of all was his expression, closed off, almost glassy-eyed, as if we hadn’t met before, as if he was only going by a first impression and it wasn’t good. When I offered them tea, he began speaking as if he hadn’t heard.
‘I thought you might be interested to know. We sent an officer round to Pike and Woodhead to check your alibi. Unfortunately they didn’t have the receipt.’
He stopped and looked at me, his expression still and unyielding, as if waiting for some justification.
‘I’m sorry about the waste of time,’ I said. ‘I remember signing for it but they must have thrown it away.’
‘No, they didn’t,’ said Ramsay. ‘But someone had collected it and taken it away before we got there.’
‘Who?’
‘You.’
For a moment, my vision went dark, dark with little golden speckles, like it does when you’ve looked at the sun by mistake. I had to sit down. I couldn’t speak. When I did, it took an immense effort. ‘Why do you say it was me?’
‘Are you serious?’ said Ramsay. He took out his notebook. ‘Our officer talked to an office manager at the firm. A Mr Hatch. He checked the file, found the piece of paper was missing, but there was a note saying it had been taken by a Ms Falkner. By you.’
For a vertiginous moment I let myself wonder whether it was possible that I really had gone over to the office, collected the docket and suppressed the memory of it. Perhaps this was what being mad was like. It might explain everything. Part of my mind had known about Greg’s infidelity, had been responsible for other terrible things and had hidden them behind a mental wall. Hadn’t I heard about that? About people who had suffered traumas and buried them so they wouldn’t have to confront the implications? People who had committed crimes, forgotten them and truly believed they were innocent? It would almost have been a relief to yield to that, but I didn’t.
‘Where is it?’ said Ramsay.
‘I don’t have it,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t me.’
‘Stop,’ said Ramsay. He held up his right hand, the tips of his first finger and thumb almost touching, as if he was holding an invisible match. ‘I’m this close – this close – to arresting you now. Ms Falkner, I don’t think you realize the trouble you’re in. Perverting the course of justice is not like crossing the road when the little red man is showing. Judges don’t like it. They see it as a kind of treason and they send people to prison for a surprisingly long time. Do you understand?’