The Killing Hour

‘Where were you on Sunday night?’


‘Sunday night? Umm, let me think.’ I run my hands through my hair trying to look like I’m trying to remember. Trying to act as though Sunday night and Monday morning were no different from any other. ‘I was at my friend’s house.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Watching DVDs.’

‘What time did you leave?’

I shrug. ‘Not sure. Maybe somewhere around eleven o’clock, give or take.’

‘Where did you go when you left?’

‘Home.’

‘You came straight here.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And went straight to bed.’

‘I had a shower first.’

‘Anybody see you?’

‘My shower isn’t outside.’

‘Did you spend the night alone?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You’re sure you came straight home?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘Uh huh. Well, I guess that pretty much sums it up,’ he says, but he doesn’t make any attempt to get up. He just sits there, staring at me, maybe pissed off because I haven’t offered him coffee, or because he thinks I’m a cold-blooded killer.

‘Good.’ I lean forward and start to stand.

‘Just two more questions.’

‘Just two?’

‘First, why haven’t you asked me why I’m here?’

I sit back down. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You didn’t ask what I’m investigating. It’s like you already knew. You just opened the door and resigned yourself to the fact that I was here to arrest you. I saw it in your face. You didn’t ask what I wanted because you thought I was here to take you into custody for murder. You didn’t go through the whole routine of trying to figure out why a detective inspector would show up on your doorstep late at night wanting to ask you questions. An innocent person would have. Or a good liar. Your problem, Mr Feldman, is that you’re neither.’

‘That’s crazy.’

He stops tapping his finger and points it at me. ‘Have you ever heard of Camelot Drive?’

I know what’s coming and can’t see a way out of it.

‘Mr Feldman? Just a yes or no will do.’

‘No,’ I answer quickly.

‘The body of a young woman was found there yesterday morning. But you know all about that, don’t you?’

‘Sure, it’s been on the news. Everybody knows about it. Does that make everybody a suspect? Unless you’ve got …’

‘Why would we think of you as a suspect?’

‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

‘But you must have done something to think that we would regard you as a suspect.’

‘Look, if you’ve got a point here other than trying to play games, then maybe you should get to it.’

‘Two o’clock,’ he says.

‘What?’

He flips open his notebook, turns a few pages and runs his finger across the notes he’s jotted down. After a few seconds he comes to a stop. ‘Two o’clock is the time your Honda Integra was spotted parked outside the victim’s house. I bet if we were to comb through it we’d find blood samples matching those of the women.’

It’s hard to believe he’s bluffing, even though the newspaper said they were looking for a dark stationwagon. Were the newspapers lying?

‘I seriously doubt that,’ I say, because I don’t know what else I can say. Perhaps the best thing is to come clean, to tell this man everything that happened. I decide not to. If Landry were sure of himself then he would be arresting me, not questioning me.

‘How do you explain your car being there?’

‘It’s a mistake.’

‘A mistake. Sure, okay, we’ll go with that for the moment. Did you know either of the women who died yesterday morning?’

I shake my head. ‘I thought you only had two more questions for me.’

‘That was until you started lying. You’ve never seen or spoken to either woman?’

Again I shake my head.

‘Let’s go back to the car. How do you think it found itself parked up Luciana Young’s driveway?’

‘I’ve no idea. I thought I’d made that pretty evident at the beginning of this conversation. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, I don’t know either of the women, I’ve never seen them before in my life, so if you have anything to back up what you’re saying then either tell me now or this discussion is over.’

Landry stands up and tucks his notebook into his pocket. ‘Just one more question, Mr Feldman.’

‘One? I doubt you’ll stop at one.’

‘We’ll see.’ He reaches into the inside of his jacket pocket. ‘It all depends on how you can justify this.’ He pulls his hand back out and produces a plastic zip-lock bag. Inside is a small pad. He holds it towards me and I reach up to take it. ‘You don’t need to hold it to read it,’ he says.