‘Yes,’ I say in surprise, ‘it’s my phone. Where did you find it?’
But Lamarr doesn’t answer. Instead she sits, clicks on her tape recorder and says, in a grave, formal voice, the words I’ve been dreading.
‘Leonora Shaw, we would like to question you as a suspect in the death of James Cooper. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. You have a right to ask for a solicitor. Do you understand?’
26
IF YOU’RE INNOCENT, you have nothing to fear. Right?
Then why am I so frightened?
My previous statements weren’t taped and I hadn’t been cautioned. They wouldn’t stand up as evidence in court, so the first few minutes are spent going over stuff I already told Lamarr, re-establishing the facts for the purposes of the tape. I don’t want a solicitor. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t get over the feeling that Lamarr is on my side – that I trust her. If I can only convince her of my innocence, everything will be OK. What could a solicitor possibly do?
Lamarr finishes on the stuff we have already established and then starts on new ground.
‘Can you take a look at this phone, please—’ She holds it out in a sealed plastic bag, ‘—and let me know whether you recognise it?’
‘Yes, it’s my phone.’ I resist the urge to chew my nails. The last few days have ground them down to battered stubs.
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Yes, I recognise the scratch on the casing.’
‘And your phone number is …’ She flips through her pad and then reads it out. I nod.
‘Yes, that’s c-correct.’
‘I’m interested in the last few calls and texts you made. Can you run me through what you can remember?’
I wasn’t expecting this. I can’t see what relevance it can possibly have to James’s death. Maybe they’re trying to corroborate our movements or something. I know they can triangulate locations from mobile phone signals.
I’m struggling to remember. ‘Not many. There wasn’t really any reception at the house. I checked my voicemail at the shooting range … and Twitter. Oh, and I returned a call from a bike shop in London, they’re servicing my bike. I think that’s it.’
‘No texts?’
‘I … I don’t think so.’ I’m trying to remember. ‘No, I’m pretty sure not. I think the last one I sent was to Nina, telling her I was waiting on the train. That was Friday.’
She changes tack smoothly.
‘I’d like to ask you a bit more about your relationship with James Cooper.’
I nod, trying to keep my expression even, helpful. But I’ve been expecting this. Maybe Clare has woken up. My stomach does a little uneasy shift.
‘You met back at school, is that right?’
‘Yes. We were about fifteen, sixteen. We dated, briefly, and then we broke up.’
‘How briefly?’
‘Four or five months?’
That’s not quite true. We were together for six months. But I’ve already said ‘briefly’, and six months doesn’t sound that brief. I don’t want to look like I’m contradicting myself already. Luckily Lamarr doesn’t quiz me about the dates.
‘Did you keep in contact after that?’ she says.
‘No.’
She waits for me to elaborate. I wait. Lamarr folds her hands in her lap and looks at me. I don’t know what she’s getting at, but if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s keeping quiet. The pause hangs, heavy in the air. I can hear the tiny percussive tick of her expensive watch, and I wonder briefly where she gets her money from: that skirt wasn’t bought on a police officer’s salary, neither were the chunky gold earrings. They look real.
Still, it’s none of my business. Just something to speculate on as the time ticks past.
But Lamarr can wait too. She has a kind of feline patience, that quality of unblinking composure as she waits for the mouse to panic and make a bolt for it. In the end, it’s her companion who cracks. DC Roberts, a big hulk of a man with a fleshy face that seems set in a permanent frown. ‘You’re telling us you’ve had no contact with him for ten years,’ he says brusquely, ‘and yet he invited you to his wedding?’
Fuck. But there’s no point in lying about this. It would take them two minutes to check with Clare’s mother or whoever handled the guest list. ‘No. Clare invited me to the hen, but I’m not coming to the wedding.’
‘That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’ Lamarr comes back in. She’s smiling, as if this is girl-talk over a cappuccino. Her cheeks are round and rosy, with high cheekbones that make her look like Nefertiti, and her mouth as she smiles is wide and warm and generous.
‘Not really,’ I lie. ‘I’m James’s ex. I imagine Clare thought it would be awkward – for me as much as her.’
‘So why invite you to the hen – to celebrate her wedding? Wouldn’t that be awkward too?’
‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask Clare.’