I Know What I Saw

36 Thursday

By the time my consultation with Jan is over, it is noon. I watch her finishing up her notes and marking certain passages with a yellow highlighter. I feel as if I am in competent hands, but I know that even competent hands can’t produce magic.

‘Thanks, Jan,’ I say, standing to leave. ‘It’s a lot to think about, but I’ll have better answers in a day or two once I have thought it through.’

There’s too much for me to process right now. I know myself. I need to go somewhere, cast away whatever of the world has stuck to me, so I can think clearly. I can get there, given time. I turn at the doorway to find Jan looking at me quizzically.

‘Where are you going?’ she says.

‘Back. Home. Or Seb’s.’

‘We have an interview.’

‘We’ve finished, haven’t we?’

‘Not with me. The police.’

‘What? Now?’

‘Yes, now, Xander. Are you feeling okay?’ she says, getting up.

‘Sorry. I didn’t … Did I know this?’ I say. The room seems to be tilting.

‘They want to interview you again this afternoon about the new evidence. That’s why you’re here. They made an appointment.’

My heart stops for a second.

‘Interview? I’m not ready for an interview. What new evidence? What are they going to ask me?’ I say, the panic climbing.

‘Stop,’ she says. ‘We’ve already been through this. It’s “no comment”. I don’t know what the new evidence is, something from the search, but it doesn’t matter. You’re way too hazy about the details to give them answers.’

‘I’m not hazy,’ I say, following her into the reception area. ‘You have to understand that I remember what I remember really clearly. I just – I just can’t be sure I’m remembering what I saw or if I’m remembering what I think I saw.’

‘Or when you’re remembering it from.’

‘But I think I saw her being killed. Surely that’s something I should be saying? If I say nothing, you yourself said it would look terrible.’ I track her to the pavement and stand there as she hails a passing cab.

‘Paddington Green Police Station,’ she says, getting in. The driver tuts at the pointless fare and then scowls when he sees me getting in too.

‘Look, Xander. You can’t say on tape, I’m not sure if it might have been me. You can’t even really say it to me. I’m borderline being professionally embarrassed here. If you say that in the interview, you may as well not even have a trial.’

The taxi lurches off.

‘But I changed my mind about that. I told you. I’m certain it wasn’t me. I couldn’t have done it.’

She turns her face and forces her eyes into mine.

‘When a murder suspect is asked whether he murdered a person, an innocent one says, “No, I didn’t”, not “No, I couldn’t.” Do you see what I’m saying?’

I know she’s right, but there is life between the blacks and whites in my non-lawyer’s world. There’s a part of me that feels with conviction that if I explained it properly, with context, I could make them see what I mean. I have at least this in my arsenal. I have the ability to speak logically and clearly and sincerely.

‘No comment then,’ I say.

The taxi screeches to a halt and we scramble out. Jan hands over what seems like too much money for such a short journey and then slams the door shut. She carries on speaking to me as we walk.

‘Xander, trust me. Whatever is going on in that head, you need to focus. You bring every bit of attention you can. You’re going to need it.’

I nod as we walk through the doors and watch with admiration as Jan negotiates our way in with calm assurance. We are shown politely to a room and as we wait Jan rehearses with me the two words I need to say.

‘Look, they’re bastards, these guys. They’ll pretend to be all pally but they are not your friends. They are there to nail you. They will keep telling you it’s your choice to follow my advice or not. That you’re the one who’s going to be on trial. And Don’t you want to get on tape your version of events? They’ll try all that. And what they’re doing is making you feel stupid for saying “no comment”. But – and listen to me carefully – if you want any hope of seeing life outside four walls this side of the next twenty or thirty years, you’ll do as I say. No. Fucking. Comment. Got it?’

I nod.

‘I need to hear the words, Xander.’

‘No fucking comment,’ I say. She reacts. Just enough of a movement of the mouth to be recognised as a smile.

When he comes to collect us, Conway is skittish. Something about having Jan here has put him on edge.

‘Come on through, Xander,’ he says. Pally. Jan looks at me as if to say ‘I told you.’

We follow him to an interview suite and Blake is already there. She stands and shakes our hands.

‘Can I get you some water?’ she asks.

We shake our heads and the tape starts as soon as we sit. Blake does the introductions and then repeats the caution. This time the words clang in my ears. You don’t have to say anything but if you fail to mention when questioned … harm your defence …

‘My client will be exercising his right to silence throughout this interview,’ Jan says in a way that makes her sound bored, but really is signalling confidence.

‘Obviously that is your right,’ says Conway. ‘You can follow your solicitor’s advice but at the end of the day it is just advice. She isn’t the one who’s going to be going to trial—’

Jan sees something and quickly leans forward in her seat.

‘To trial, Officer? Are you charging Mr Shute?’

‘Well, we don’t know that yet, do we? Depends on what happens in this interview.’

‘Does it?’ she says. ‘You know that if you have enough evidence to charge my client, then this interview shouldn’t be happening at all.’

Conway shifts about, loosens his collar. This dance isn’t one he is good at.

‘I’m well aware of that, Ms Cullen. Now, as we were saying, there are a few questions we would like your comments on.’

I wait as Blake looks down at a file of papers. She seems less than pleased but I can’t precisely describe how she seems. Embarrassed? Irritated?

‘Picking up from the last interview we had, I wanted to clarify whether you have now had a chance to consider whether you did know the victim, Michelle Mackintosh?’ asks Conway.

That word ‘victim’ lies heavy in the air. I look across at Jan and she shakes her head almost imperceptibly.

‘I did know her,’ I say.

‘I just want to remind you of my advice, Mr Shute,’ Jan says, her voice brittle.

‘And were the two of you in a relationship?’

I take a breath. I badly want to explain this part. There is no harm in this part of my story. Jan’s eyes are steel.

‘No comment,’ I say. She relaxes slightly in her seat.

‘Actually, there’s not much point denying it. At the time of your last interview, officers carried out a search of your bail address and found some interesting things. For the tape I am showing the suspect exhibit RG/9, a selection of photographs. Have a look at these, Mr Shute. These are pictures of you and the deceased. And just so you’re aware, these are just a few of the ones we have.’

I didn’t know that Seb had photographs. Of course, he must have had some. I think of the one on the mantel.

‘Is that a question, Officer?’ Jan says.

‘No, the question is just whether you are prepared to accept there was a relationship between you both?’ he says, flaring.

I don’t know how it can harm my defence if I accept this but I follow the advice. ‘No comment.’

‘Okay then. Let’s do this the hard way,’ he says.

‘Exhibit RG/10 is a letter written by hand on light blue notepaper.’ I stare at it and remember it immediately. There are yin and yang signs on each corner. This was Grace’s trademark paper. She always wrote to me on that paper.

‘Do you recognise this letter?’

My letter. How do they have my letter? And then I remember: the belongings that Seb stored in his loft. This must have been part of the stuff that was taken. And then I think of the money and the thought passes through my mind that they might have taken the dollars. But Seb was sure they didn’t.

‘Officer, I gather this was taken in the course of a search without a proper warrant,’ Jan says.

‘We can argue about that later, Miss Cullen. For now, let me just ask you, Mr Shute, if you recognise the letter?’

‘No comment,’ I say, fighting against the urge to explain.

‘I’m just going to read it out. It’s got a date written on it: November 2nd 1989. My dear Xander, it says. I am not sure whether I am going to send this letter to you or whether it’s going to join the others I’ve started and crushed into balls. I want you to know I never meant to hurt you even though all we seem to end up doing is hurting each other over and over again. This time—’

I am whipped back three decades. I don’t remember the letter and what it said but I remember everything else. What I wore then – an old tweed jacket from a second-hand shop. Which brand of cigarettes I smoked – Consulate. I remember the colour of the walls in the room in which I read it – apple-white. I remember the twisting feeling in my gut. The hopelessness.

‘Stop,’ I say. ‘Yes. I knew her. We were in a relationship.’

Jan is angry but more at Conway than me.

‘By the looks of this letter, your relationship ended at her choice, so to speak,’ he says.

‘Yes,’ I say, my jaw tightening.

‘How did you feel about that?’ he asks.

‘I’m going to repeat my advice, Mr Shute.’

‘It’s okay, Jan. I felt how anyone would feel. I loved her. I didn’t want it to end. But it was beyond my control.’ I am articulating something I haven’t had a chance to become familiar with yet.

‘That’s an interesting phase you’ve used though, Mr Shute, isn’t it?’

‘Is that a question?’ Jan says. She is shifting in her seat. Coiled.

‘It will be, Miss. You see we also found these at your bail address, Mr Shute. At the bottom of a cardboard box we lifted from the loft. Is that your handwriting? For the benefit of the tape, I am showing the suspect exhibit RG/11, a letter without a date on it.’

I look at what he is showing me. It is still in a plastic police bag but I can make out the writing easily enough. It is my writing, or was.

‘No comment,’ I say.

‘It’s easy enough to get a handwriting expert in, Mr Shute, if you’re denying it as your writing but it has your name at the bottom. In it you use that same expression you’ve just used to me now. It’s beyond my control, you say in a letter you have written to the deceased.’

I am straining my memory to remember this but it is a fog. I look across to Jan who is incensed. Thankfully, she speaks for me as I grope around in my head for memories.

‘First of all, Officer, looking at the letter, it’s not addressed to the deceased, it seems to be addressed to a Mabel. And secondly, if the letter was found at his address, it obviously wasn’t sent to Mabel, whoever she was, so I don’t see the relevance of this.’

Conway isn’t fazed and seeing his face turn smug begins to worry me.

‘Actually, Miss Cullen, in the letter that your client has already agreed he was sent by the deceased, she signed it Mabel. Was that a pet name you used for her?’

‘It was,’ I say, and although Jan shoots me a scolding look, I don’t have a choice. I’m going to have to accept it.

‘We believe that you meant to send this letter but didn’t, for whatever reason. In it you say that you can’t let her go. You say, it’s beyond your control. And you say it one, two – five times – it’s beyond your control. What did you mean by that?’

The memory of that letter flashes in my mind in a burst of colour. There was something in that phrase that I remembered. It meant more or less than it seemed to at the time, but I can’t remember now which: was it more or less? It feels like it might have been a joke. But there is sentimentality there that doesn’t fit a joke.

‘It was a joke,’ I say.

‘Doesn’t sound like a joke.’ Blake speaks for the first time. Conway looks across at her with reproach.

‘Not a joke, joke. An inside joke but I can’t remember now what it is,’ I say.

Jan begins to wriggle as though she is climbing out of her body.

‘I’m going to remind you of my advice, Mr Shute.’

‘No comment,’ I say.

‘Okay. Just so’s you understand I’m going to still ask the questions.’

What was just warmth in the room is now squeezing me tight. The air begins to cloy at my throat and the urge to leave the room becomes desperate. I look over at Blake who hasn’t broken a sweat. Conway too sits as if in complete comfort. But still the room wraps itself around me.

‘Okay. Maybe to just change gear a bit. I want to ask you about the money. For the tape I am showing the suspect RTG/6, a copy of a bank statement for an account in US dollars. You would agree that this statement shows your name and the name of the deceased, Michelle Mackintosh?’

Jan’s eyes begin to widen but I can’t read why.

‘No comment,’ I say, gasping for air.

‘Well, it’s there anyway on the document. And as we pointed out in the last interview, we can see there that two hundred and fifty-three thousand dollars and twenty cents vanishes out of that account a couple of weeks before her death. Can you tell us who withdrew that sum in cash?’

‘No comment.’

‘It must have been her or you, since it’s a joint account. Was it her?’

‘No comment.’

‘Was it you?’

‘No comment.’

‘We have done some investigating since our last interview and according to the bank’s microfiche records, the person that withdrew this money was you. What was the reason for that? Did she agree to you withdrawing it?’

‘No comment.’

‘Actually, we know that she didn’t countersign the withdrawal. So, my question is, why did you take this money out before she died?’

My mouth has dried and I have a desperate urge to swallow. But the sheer cliché of it, gulping like a cartoon character, stops me.

‘Did you have money problems, Mr Shute?’

‘No comment.’

‘If you don’t mind me saying, you look as if you have money problems.’

‘That’s not a question,’ Jan says before I can say my two words.

‘Okay, well, here’s a question. What did you do with it?’

‘Enough. I am requesting a break in the interview at this point.’

I’m not sure why Jan is so edgy about these questions but I am myself desperate to stop. I need to get out of the room, even for a few minutes. I pull my shirt away from my neck and take a deep lungful of sticky air.

‘Certainly,’ says Conway with a sneer. ‘We are pausing this interview to allow you to have a consultation with your solicitor, Mr Shute. The time by my watch is fourteen thirty-nine.’