An item for my eyes only.
This looks promising. I suppose I can afford to spare a few more minutes on the Winchester case. I cram the folder back into the drawer and rush up the stairs to my office, grabbing another cup of coffee from the vending machine along the way.
I shut the door, unlock the bottom drawer of my desk, and riffle through the objects in it. Before long, I’ve dug out number 7.
It’s an unlabeled cassette tape.
Fact: ITR007 is shorthand for “Interview, tape-recorded, number 7.”
Of course. Fact: I’d surreptitiously recorded a handful of interviews during my early days on the force. My first mentor had confessed—after he had too many beers one night—that he once solved a case after secretly taping his interview with a seemingly incoherent thug and listening to the recording afterwards. I was inspired to wear a voice-activated recorder beneath my shirt to a few subsequent interviews, especially when I knew I would be dealing with difficult people. This was, of course, not an action sanctioned by the powers that be. But I was convinced, back then, that these secret tapes were a useful precautionary measure. I could cover my arse if questions were ever raised about my work. I could also fall back on their contents in case I missed anything during my interviews. In hindsight, I marvel at my insecurities.
But I suppose confidence comes with experience.
Number 7 must be a secret tape recording of my conversation with Anna. My 10 July report says that the interview was ten minutes long. Maybe I can spare the time. Perhaps Anna mentioned Claire Evans during our exchange, but the name failed to strike me as significant all those years ago.
A microcassette player occupies a corner of the same drawer. I fish the device out, place the tape inside it, and hit the Play button. The resulting crackle of static is followed by a male voice. I wince (I didn’t realize I sounded so green when I was younger).
Male: Could you tell me where you were? Between the evening of the ball and when you showed up at Laura’s door?
Female: It’s a secret.
Male: What happened to you during those nineteen days?
Female: Things. All sorts of things.
Male: Like what?
Female: Things happen. Whether you like them or not.
Male: But what were they?
Female: Haven’t I just said it’s a secret?
Male: We found a handbag in the water, stuck to the footbridge near Midsummer Common, a few days after you disappeared. It contained a May Ball ticket in your name. How did your bag get there?
[Silence]
Female: Things float, don’t they?
Male: Did someone take your handbag away from you?
Female: I’d like to see someone try.
Male: Did you lose your handbag, then?
Female: No.
Male: So how did your handbag get separated from you?
Female: I didn’t need it anymore.
Male: And why didn’t you?
Female: I already have enough baggage on my shoulders.
Male: I don’t get you.
Female: Cash is all you need.
Male: But what did you spend your money on?
[Silence]
Male: We also found your diary inside your handb—
Female: Diaries are damned overrated.
[Brief silence]
Male: How did you go about recording things? Did you write them down elsewhere?
Female: Do I look that desperate to remember?
Male: We found a pregnancy-testing kit inside your handbag. Did you think you might be pregnant?
[Long silence]
Female: I don’t feel like talking…anymore. The nurse stuck something in my arm again this morning.
Male: But we need to work out what happened to you. Please be honest with me.
Female: Everyone’s been asking me the same fucking questions. Dad was at it again this morning.
Male: That’s because he’s worried. He thinks that something bad may have happened to you.
Female: Yeah, right. Dad only cares about himself and the women he shags. Always has, too. I should have known that a long time ago.
Male: Why did you disappear for so long?
Female: I didn’t feel like doing anything for a while.
Male: You know you didn’t feel like doing anything for a while and that nothing bad happened to you. You also know you had some cash. This tells me that you wrote these facts down somewhere. Could you tell me what else you’ve written about that period?
[Silence]
Male: [Audible sigh] Laura said that you were supposed to meet her later that night to watch the fireworks together. Why didn’t— Female: Laura’s a bitch. A scheming, vain bitch. Always has been. Should have realized that earlier.
Male: You did show up at her door, though, nineteen days later. Where were you before that?
Female: [Loud groan] Stop pestering me, will you?
Male: Why did you decide to go to Laura’s?
Female: Once a bitch, always a bitch. And you’re getting to be a real pain in the arse, like her.
Male: How did you survive? What did you eat?
Female: I wasn’t hungry.
Male: What did you do on your way to the ball? Did something bad happen to you then?
Female: Men are bastards. Especially that one.
Male: Who’s “that one”?
Female: Arseholes, they all are. Particularly Mark. He led me on big-time.
Male: Mark who?
[Silence]
Male: [Audible sigh] Look here. Did anyone harm you? Like this Mark, for instance? Were you robbed, kidnapped, assaulted, raped, or held against your will?
Female: No. For fuck’s sake, no. I wasn’t robbed. Or kidnapped. Or raped. Or held anywhere. The answer is no. Have I made myself clear? What happened is a secret. Can you just fuck off and leave me alone?
Male: I’m glad to hear you weren’t harmed. I’m leaving now.
Female: Thank God for that.
[Beep of recorder being switched off]
I turn off the microcassette player, face flushed with embarrassment. Sounding green is bad enough. But it’s much worse to discover that I’ve committed every single mistake in the 379-page How to Conduct an Interview manual. In particular, I’ve violated the principles that “active listening should be used to establish a rapport” and “leading questions should only be employed as a last resort.”
So I wasn’t just a naive constable. I was also a pathetic one.
I ought to be mortified. Perhaps I should be less demanding of my assistants today. I can only hope that my interrogation skills have improved over time.
The coffee in my cup has turned stone cold, but I take a giant gulp anyway. It trickles down my throat like rancid cough syrup. Anna mentioned a man named Mark. An “arsehole” named Mark, more precisely. I made little of her remark during the interview, but I should have pursued the issue further. I should have worked harder to extract Mark’s last name from her stubborn mouth.
Why didn’t I do so? Silly younger me.
The long-ago errors in my 1995 investigation keep piling up like dead flies.