“No.” An anguished cry issues from his lips. “This isn’t possible…”
I’ve given Mark Evans a taste of the same medicine he meted out to his poor wife, Claire, earlier this evening. It must be damned disconcerting to discover that you’ve committed murder. Especially when you’ve managed to kill your mistress, who also turns out to be an ex-girlfriend.
“I didn’t mean to…” he says, blubbering and shaking his head, as if this could diminish the horror of his crime. “Poor Sophia—”
“Mr. Evans,” the solicitor says, raising a cautionary hand at his client. “Inspector, you shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions.”
I ignore the elderly man. Death by drowning is a rather unpleasant way to go. I should make our suspect aware of the physical horrors Sophia experienced two evenings ago. I sift through my mind for the facts I’ve learned from the pathology courses I took when I was still a constable.
“Let me continue,” I say.
Miss Ayling regained consciousness after she plunged into the Cam. But things didn’t seem right. Water was swamping her body. Water just about everywhere. Tons of it, pinning her down. Flooding her eyes. Causing her to see nothing but murky darkness. To make things worse, something heavy was dragging her shoulders down. Sucking her farther down into a watery hell. She held her breath, trying to convince herself that it was merely a horrible dream. A nightmare she would eventually emerge from. Maybe she should surrender to the current flowing past her limbs, as it might carry her back to safe ground. So she permitted herself to drift along the contours of the dream, just for a little while. But she soon realized that it was impossible to keep holding her breath. Her head felt dizzy, deprived of something vital. Something intrinsic to her existence. She needed oxygen. Air.
Our man seems transfixed by my words. He may be right. I may indeed have a future as a novelist. I’m not doing too badly so far; maybe I ought to join those earnest Monos at the Cambridge Flower School. I’m even getting better at it as the minutes tick by; I never realized that I could conjure so many magnificent adjectives and active verbs out of my little black policeman’s helmet. Maybe it’s the effect of having read hundreds of murder mysteries in my lifetime (including Evans’s, though I’m never going to admit to him that I’m a massive fan of his books).
But I’m merely operating according to a key principle: one should always try to find the lowest common denominator—or a half-inch of common ground—when dealing with a suspect.
A basic tenet of any criminal investigation.
Thus if one is dealing with a storyteller, one should dispense a good yarn. Using the same fanciful, overwrought descriptions he is likely to employ himself. The same colorful excesses he favors in his own books (I should also provide ample evidence that policemen are capable of constructing good sentences). It will force him to empathize, to understand his wrongs.
It may even break him.
She took in a deep breath. But instead of life-sustaining air, water began surging into her nostrils. Cold river water, smelling of rotten algae. It traveled down her air passages right into her chest. She began coughing in a desperate attempt to expel the water. This merely drove air out of her lungs and caused water to flood her mouth. She began struggling with her hands, trying to claw her way out of the liquid darkness that engulfed her. Out of the nightmare that had swallowed her up. Her fingers struck something hard. She latched on to it. It merely cut her fingertips and shredded her nails. The pain in her lungs had become excruciating. It was as if they had been filled with sharp metal blades. She needed air. Just once. One tiny gulp. So she took in a second breath. Again, water began surging in through her nostrils and mouth, inundating her insides with more liquid hell. Her movements, she knew, had degenerated into terrible, frantic convulsions. But nothing matched the agony she felt in her chest—
“Stop it, Inspector.” His words trickle out in a whimper. “Please stop it…”
Ah. Our tough cookie is beginning to crack.
“I didn’t know she was still alive—”
“Mr. Evans—” the solicitor says, jumping to his feet and flapping his hands at his client.
“I didn’t,” our suspect says, ignoring the elderly man at his side. “I really didn’t. She wasn’t breathing at all. Neither of us could find a pulse. We thought she was dead. If only I’d checked more carefully. I didn’t mean to cause her to suffer…”
A tear pools at the corner of his right eye. He tries to blink it back.
“Poor Sophia,” he says, his voice a mumble.
“Manslaughter, Mr. Evans,” I say. “Your sentence may be reduced from murder to manslaughter if you give me your full cooperation.”
My words cause our man to stiffen. He looks at me, the anguish in his eyes giving way to the realization that he’s fallen into my trap. The power of a gripping tale should never be underestimated.
I flip on all the lights again before walking back to the table to pause the digital recording device.
I study my chessboard, having ensured that Mark Henry Evans has been safely and securely locked up for the night. Only one move remains. I prod the black queen on a forward diagonal before toppling the white king and placing it in a forlorn position in the middle of my desk.
I grab my briefcase and head out in the direction of the front doors. To my astonishment, I see Fiona bearing down on me with a purposeful gait, her leopard-print trousers undulating in the semidarkness. I’m surprised she’s still in the office. It is, after all, past eleven in the evening. Doesn’t she have anything better to do than to hang around the dim corridors of Parkside station on a Saturday night?
“I hear you’ve brought your man in,” she says, beaming at me. “My diary says you’ve solved four other murders within a day over the past six years. I’m sure you will win the special award for excellence again. For the seventh time running. I’ll be surprised if you aren’t promoted to detective superintendent soon.”
Fiona has lovely iridescent eyes, even though they are concealed by her horn-rimmed spectacles. She has a beautiful smile, too. What a shame.
“Well done, Hans.”
I shrug.
“I was wondering if you’ve had your dinner.” She gives me a shy but hopeful look from behind her glasses.
“No.”
Her cheeks are flushing a little. She tilts her head, as if she is expecting me to go on.
I oblige.
“Good night, Fi.”
I give her a regretful nod before walking through the front doors of the station. I shouldn’t be flirting with my colleagues. Even if they are geeky yet flamboyant raven-haired women whom I secretly fancy. Nor should I be having dinner with them. Even if my daily workload leaves me with no time whatsoever to scour the online dating sites for better possibilities. Fact: My colleagues will find out all sorts of undesirable things about me if I spend too much time with them. Things I’d much rather keep to myself, especially if I wish to get somewhere in my career.