Evans consults her pocket book, which I’m sure is not necessary but she’s playing the part. ‘Traitor. Disloyal. Hypocrite.’ Evans looks at me and I realise she’s waiting for a reaction.
‘Quite specific, then. Well, I’m not responsible,’ I say.
‘The windscreen and door handles were also smeared with dog faeces,’ says Evans. ‘Do you have a dog, Mrs Tennison?’
‘No,’ I reply.
‘Only, we noticed a pair of shoes on your doorstep with dog faeces on one shoe.’
I look blankly at Luke who looks equally confused. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘So, back to our original question, your whereabouts yesterday evening …’
I pull a face at the thought. ‘I was at home last night. I went to bed just after ten p.m. and I got up this morning at six a.m. when my alarm went off.’
‘And you didn’t go out at all last night? Can anyone vouch for you? Mr Tennison?’
Luke hesitates a moment too long. ‘Yes, Clare was here last night.’
‘All night? You know she was here? What time did you go to bed last night, Mr Tennison?’
‘Around eleven,’ he says.
‘And Mrs Tennison was in bed when you went to bed yourself?’
Evans is persistent. She’ll go far, she’s getting right down to the nitty-gritty details – unfortunately, for me.
‘Well, I slept downstairs last night,’ confesses Luke. Evans raises her eyebrows, in question. ‘I was busy working and I didn’t want to disturb my wife. I quite often sleep downstairs. It’s not unusual.’
I silently thank Luke for not saying we had an argument. I don’t want them to think I go around arguing with everyone every day. Although, currently, that seems to summarise my life.
‘May we take a look at your car, Mrs Tennison?’ asks PC Doyle, speaking for the first time.
I can’t refuse. ‘Okay. I’ll just get the keys.’ We walk out to the hall and I look in the key cupboard. The hook where I usually hang mine is empty. ‘That’s odd,’ I say. ‘They’re not here.’ I scan the other hooks, looking for the small plastic key fob, which has a picture of me, Luke and the girls sitting in a log flume ride at an amusement park we visited last summer. There is no sign of it.
‘Your bag?’ suggests Luke.
‘I never put them in my bag, you know that.’
‘Just a suggestion.’
I pick up my bag and rummage through. To my surprise, the keys are in the little side pocket, zipped up. ‘I don’t understand,’ I say. I think back to last night. Had I put them in my bag? Was I distracted enough not to hang them up as I always did? My usual clear head and thought process seems to be deserting me. I can’t recall for certain what I did.
Evans gives a sceptical look in my direction. ‘Shall we look at the car now?’ she says, with the patience of a tired teacher on a Friday afternoon.
As we leave through the front door, I look down at the offending pair of shoes. They’re my black work ones with the small one-inch heel and, just as Evans said, dog poo is wedge in the inside of the heel.
‘I don’t even know what my shoes are doing out here,’ I say. ‘I’d have known if I had trodden in poo.’ Evans looks unconvinced. I don’t blame her. I sound like a very unreliable witness. I’m not even sure I believe myself.
We go out to the carport. My car is facing outwards, as I always park it. Evans takes the keys from me and the two officers walk around the car, inspecting it as they do so. They get to the back and after muttering something that I can’t hear, they call me over.
The towbar on the back of my car has traces of red paint on it and there is a small dent in the bumper. Pippa’s car is red.
‘Can you tell us how this happened?’ asks Evans.
‘I’ve absolutely no idea,’ I say, my empty stomach churning over.
‘May we look inside?’ Evans presses the unlock button, lifts the boot and, with her torch, shines the beam into the blackness. It’s empty. As I would expect. I’m not one for carrying loads of stuff around in the back of my car. Evans bends down and shines the light right into the far corner. A silver aerosol can with a white lid is illuminated. Evans takes a plastic glove from her pocket and, careful to make minimal contact, she retrieves the can. It’s the sort of spray paint used on bodyworks for cars. The sort easily available from petrol stations.
‘I’ve never seen that before in my life,’ I say, vaguely aware I sound totally unconvincing.
‘There’s something else,’ says Doyle.
This time Evans retrieves a till receipt. ‘Looks like it’s for this paint. Bought yesterday at the garage on the main road into Brighton. Paid for with cash. At seven p.m.’ She looks up at me. ‘Can you tell me where you were at this time?’
My mouth dries a little. This isn’t looking too good for me. ‘I was on my way home from the hospital. I’d been to see Pippa.’