I Know What I Saw

28 Tuesday

I don’t get on with cemeteries. The ghost of Rory lingers around every hallowed space. He is hard enough to escape on good days when I am busy surviving. Even on those days he comes through, snaking in through cracked veins. And when he does it takes all my effort to shut him out.

But here, he flies straight at me from every corner. He is everywhere. Smiling. Reproachful.

The ghosts press hard against the shell of my skull but I push myself ahead. Ebadi is hunched uncertainly against the cold, but there’s no uncertainty in his route. He skirts the old chapel at the foot of the path and then makes straight for the field of graves. He weaves through the headstones, picking over the uneven ground. The wind bites as I go, forcing my face down.

Ebadi is heavier-set than I remember, but he moves smoothly despite his weight. I pause to watch where he goes and as soon as I do, he stops too.

As the wind cuts through me, he plunges his hands into his pockets to bring out fistfuls of petals. The wind carries them away to land on broken ground. As he releases the last of his confetti and touches his hand to chest, I realise something with a jolt. Maybe he has buried her here. Maybe he’s managed to remove her body to this graveyard. What better place for a decomposing dead body? A sanctified space for a woman he no doubt loved. Of course, when I think of it now, in this cold light, he couldn’t have, wouldn’t have simply dumped her in a river or some waste ground. He would have wanted to be able to commune with her. He would have needed a place to exorcise his grief and beg for redemption. Or at least to hide her in plain sight.

I fix my eyes on the gravestone. From this distance it looks smooth like marble, similar to the marble that now paves his hallway. The coincidence begins a furious sadness in my chest. Even in death she couldn’t avoid being possessed by him. Ebadi looks up to the sky and then makes his way back to the path. I look past him, feigning a casual glance before heading off at a tangent. I circle round behind him so I can watch his back receding towards the exit. I keep looking until he is just a dot and has passed through the gates. Then I make immediately for the smooth gravestone.

What am I expecting to see engraved there? Her name? Would he be that bold? And then other questions begin to rain down around me. How did he get a space here? Would there have been a death certificate? What about a ceremony? A service of some kind? Immediately behind me I feel the weight of a person, not quite pressing, but following. There is no sense in turning around.

I know it’s Rory.

I stand before the stone and stare.

It has started to drizzle again and the mist feathers my face as the wind blows. Droplets trickle down the lettering and the engraved dates:

I remember. The name he called out at her as she lay there, dead – was that Mishal? There is something below it in what looks like Arabic lettering but could just as easily be South Asian. But it’s that name, Mishal, that stills me. She has a name. Whatever else he might have done to her, he didn’t bury that.

When I crouch to touch the stone, I notice how clean the grave itself is. There is a slab on the ground matching the headstone. But where the other graves are fringed in grass, this one isn’t. There is only bare soil, darkening in patches as the rain continues to fall. This grave is newly dug.

My head is spinning as I walk towards the path. There are gaps in my understanding of what has happened. I don’t know how exactly he has managed to bring her, Mishal, here. I don’t know whether it was money or influence or subterfuge. At least I know she is here, and I know who she is. I just don’t know what to do about it.

I make my way back to the Tube. In less than an hour I am walking up the road to Seb’s house. I have to do something about this but to understand what, I need to talk to someone about it. Opening up to Amit feels as though it has opened a sluice gate.

I haven’t told Seb about any of this and he has just let me be when I have been there with him, politely, as if to ask would have been an intrusion. He’s stayed out of my way, even though I have been living under his roof and in his clothes.

As soon as I knock on the door, I realise he won’t be home. It’s midday. He won’t be home for another two or three hours. But just as I turn away, I see shadows behind the glass of the front door. A beat later, the door opens.

‘Seb,’ I begin to say, ‘I didn’t think you’d be home.’

He is still in his work clothes, pink silk tie knotted tight. He hasn’t been home long. He gives me a serious look and puts a finger to his lips. I widen my eyes at him for an explanation.

He calls out to somewhere behind his shoulder. ‘Whoever it is, they’ve gone, Detective.’ He gives me a look that says go.

He is trying to help me evade the police, but I need to speak to them about what I have just learned.

‘It’s okay,’ I say to him, and push past him towards the kitchen. ‘Detective Conway,’ I say, rushing in. He turns to face me with a cup of tea in his hand. His suit looks cheap next to Seb’s and pouches under his eyes tell me he is tired.

‘Mr Shute,’ he says gravely.

‘What’s happened?’ I feel suddenly as if I can’t breathe.

‘Happened?’ he says. ‘Nothing’s happened as such. We wanted to talk to you about Mr Squire, as you know.’

‘Oh,’ I say, suddenly remembering. ‘Okay.’

‘But there’s one other thing.’

I look at him expectantly. He puts his cup down and strides towards me.

‘Xander Shute. I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything. But it could harm your defence if you fail to mention when questioned anything you later rely on in court.’

‘Murder?’ Suddenly the air around me has become thin. Too thin. ‘He’s dead?’ I say, steadying myself on the door frame. He says nothing but takes out handcuffs from his pocket and methodically tightens them on my wrists. Seb follows me as I am led to an unmarked car.

‘A solicitor – can I get you a solicitor?’ he says breathlessly.

‘No,’ I say. ‘But—’

‘What is it?’

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I just wanted to say that. For being here when I needed you.’ He stands there by my side, helpless as I am put into the back seat of the car. He takes out his phone as we are waiting to leave and dials a number but then hesitates and replaces the phone in his pocket. He stares at me through the glass as if he is trying to tell me something.

The car smells of new plastic and makes me feel ill. Conway climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the engine with a button. He looks over his shoulder at me before he pulls away but says nothing.

My heart thumps in my chest. As the car races, so too does my pulse. All of this space is shrinking, pressing down on me. I don’t want to be in a cell. I can’t be in a cell again. There is no way of connecting to myself under this pressure of space. My hands become cold and clammy and then my face. The blood is redirecting itself. I know that’s all it is but knowing doesn’t help the crushing sensation that I am having a heart attack. And now I wonder whether that is what is happening.

‘I’m having a heart attack,’ I say too quietly to be heard. I focus on something outside myself to reboot my system. To stop the panic, if that’s what it is.

Murder?

Squire?

I have been arrested on suspicion of murder. That must mean Squire has died. If there was ever a chance of him confirming to police that it wasn’t me who stabbed him, it has gone.

Conway accelerates along the road in silence until I see the sign above the building once again. PADDINGTON GREEN POLICE STATION.

He parks then unclips his seat belt. When he turns to face me, he gives me an arch look.

‘You’ve really done it now, haven’t you, Einstein?’ he says, and then steps out of the car. I wait, desperate for him to open my door. But he doesn’t. He skips up the steps to the front entrance and disappears behind the glass doors. I can’t breathe.