Lawson retraces my steps along the map. ‘So if we were to look at the CCTV from here,’ he says, pointing to a spot in the road on the map, ‘and here … we’d find you?’
‘Yes,’ I say, because I have to.
I try to remember the roads, the shape of them, and I look at them on the map. They’re suburban. But there could be CCTV. What do I know? But perhaps he’s just saying it, to get me to say something I don’t mean. Can they do that, police officers? I have no idea.
‘Well, in that case – you’re no use to us,’ he says.
‘I know,’ I say eagerly.
Davies starts to speak, then, opening his mouth even though Lawson’s gaze swivels to him. ‘You saw nothing.’
‘No,’ I say, thinking that if they were really only interested in my evidence as a witness, and not as a suspect, they would have asked this by now.
A feeling of unease creeps into the meeting room and sits between us. Should I call a lawyer, I wonder? It doesn’t make sense, looking at the two men, in my shabby back office room, the disposable teacups. But appearances are deceptive. It doesn’t mean they’re not here to arrest me, depending on what I say.
‘We’ll be in touch if we need anything further, Joanna,’ Lawson says.
Relief blooms through me like hot air from an oven, but I don’t dare relax yet. He could stop, innocently, his hand on the doorknob, and ask to look at what I was wearing that night. My hat. My gloves. My scarf. The tread of my shoes. All just outside, a few feet away in my car.
‘That’s a weird way to go,’ he says as he’s leaving. A parting shot, a warning sign, fired into the night.
We’re walking through the main office. Ed is sitting on a desk chair, waiting for me, doing nothing at all, as is his way.
‘See you later,’ I say, my fingers trembling by my sides, wanting them to stop talking, to leave me alone.
‘You could’ve just gone over the bridge. To the tube. It’s a totally straight line,’ he says. ‘And very well populated. If you were worried.’ Inwardly, I curse the police’s knowledge of London.
‘Yeah,’ I say dumbly.
‘Did you not think to discuss this with us? This harassment? When we’re clearly looking for somebody behaving suspiciously?’
Their threat could not be clearer.
And it’s obvious to Ed, too, who’s looking interestedly over at us.
‘I didn’t think,’ I say.
Lawson nods, once, seeming to understand. And maybe he is trustworthy. Maybe I am being too cynical, too much like Reuben.
This is it, I tell myself. No more. I will work as hard as I can to get rid of that evidence.
Just let them leave. Give me another chance. My shoulders feel rigid with bizarre determination to do the wrong thing as I see the CID out.
They walk to their car just across the street, underneath a spindly tree.
When I get back, Ed is still sitting, doing nothing. Just looking at me. He doesn’t ask what they wanted. He doesn’t ask what happened that Friday night, even though he surely heard. He doesn’t ask if the burglaries were a lie. He says nothing. Simply stares at me, as if waiting for me to say something.
But I don’t. Can’t.
18
Reveal
We have Laura and Jonty over for dinner. Reuben suggested it, over WhatsApp, without asking me; something he’s never done before. He sent it straight to the group we are in, all four of us, and I read his invite like they might. As though Reuben and I are near enough lifelong friends, but nothing more.
When they knock on the door and we let them in, Laura always exclaims how cute our basement flat is, with the plants that make it almost impossible to navigate down the stairs and the herbs that line our kitchen windowsill. We laugh about those plants; the most obvious emblem of my faddishness. She has painted them, before. A beautiful portrait of a child amongst the flowers; a rare, non-feminist portrait of hers.
‘Jonty’s got mismatched shoes on,’ Laura says as soon as she is inside.
Reuben and I look down. He’s wearing two Converse trainers, but they’re different colours. We laugh, and I’m grateful for the distraction; the normality. It’s the first time we’ve all got together since it happened. It might even be the first time I’ve laughed.
‘They may as well be the same shoes,’ Jonty says good-naturedly.
Reuben exhales, a tiny laugh. ‘They’re different,’ he says. ‘They’re different shoes.’
Laura’s dressed unusually, for her. Gone are her normal clothes; the long, flowing trousers that look more like maxi skirts. She’s wearing dark, skinny jeans that look expensive, a silk, draped top. A blazer. Her hair is different. Less spiked. Less harsh.
I look at the ship window in our kitchen. It’s misty outside and Jonty and Laura have let a chill in with them. I reach to trace a finger down it. It is as though my sand timer is running out twice as quickly as everybody else’s. Or I have half as much sand. I wonder if, afterwards, I will remember all these lovely things about my life, or if I will be forever changed, unable to enjoy things, to dream? I think, too, of Sadiq, ready to make his imminent statement about me that might change my life. I think of Imran, lying motionless somewhere. There’s an awkward silence as I touch the window, which Reuben – unusually – breaks. He is looking at Jonty with a disbelieving expression; one he has regarded me with, over and over.
‘Didn’t they look different as you were tying your laces?’ he says.
Jonty just shrugs and laughs. ‘I was distracted by my beautiful, glittery perfume bottles,’ he says, and Reuben laughs, too.
Laura rolls her eyes. ‘Very intricate work, painting perfume bottles with glitter,’ she says.
‘I thought that was just for Christmas.’
‘Perfume is not just for Christmas,’ Jonty says seriously.
Laura seems distant, and I nudge her elbow. We struggle to find friend-time, when we’re together with the boys. I wish it was acceptable to go on a walk with her, or to have half an hour in separate rooms. There are always things I want to say to her in private.
‘You alright?’ I say quietly.
‘Even the laces are different,’ Reuben is saying. He can’t leave it alone.
‘I don’t tie the laces. Just stuff my feet in,’ Jonty says.
Reuben smiles at him indulgently, like he is a child, then leads him to the fridge to show him the beer.
Laura perches on one of the bar stools at our kitchen counter. I sit on the other, looking at her. She reaches and picks up the retro salt shaker I bought from Tiger last month and pours a tiny pile into her hand. I stare at it. I’m forever looking for omens, these days. I can’t help but stare at the white crystalline pile in her palm.
‘You’re not working any longer,’ she says, sounding strangely formal.
‘Well, no,’ I say, blinking. ‘They wouldn’t let me …’
‘Maybe when the trial’s over?’ she says.
I nod, although I am thinking, Long after that.
She pours the salt on to the countertop. I frown, though I don’t mind. Reuben would.
‘Your stuff has got me thinking. We’re thirty.’
I try not to bristle at that. My crime has got her thinking. The loss of my job. My imminent incarceration. It’s changed things for everybody, not just me.
But of course it has. Whether or not it’s more important to me, it’s still important to her, to Reuben, to Wilf. The human mind is so reliably self-involved. Or, at least, mine is. I can’t imagine the life crisis I would have had if it had been Laura who was being tried for causing grievous bodily harm with intent.
I look at her, shifting the salt into tiny piles, wearing her clothes that look expensive.
‘I had an interview today,’ she says. ‘For a grad scheme.’
‘Why?’ I say. ‘You’re not a grad.’
‘No, but I …’
‘What?’
‘I dunno, Jo. It’s time to stop arsing around, isn’t it? I want a career. I do. Before I want a baby. That’s …’
‘What?’ I say, my voice sounding shrill.
It’s as though everybody who used to be around me is prepping, moving on, while my life’s on hold.
‘Babies,’ I say. ‘I want them too.’
‘Do you?’
‘Of course I do,’ I say, sounding bruised and prickly all at once. ‘But I don’t have the luxury of making it happen.’