I Know What I Saw

37 Thursday

‘Why did you stop the interview?’ I say.

I think I know why – I am just too embarrassed to accept it. I was foundering. Every question was another rock, every answer a lurch into peril. This bland room we’re in makes me queasy. My breathing is still a toil.

‘I need to make sure about this,’ she says seriously. ‘The money. What happened to it?’

‘What?’

‘The money. What did you do with it? Where did it go?’ she says. Whatever patience there was in her voice is hanging on by a fingernail.

‘I haven’t got it,’ I say in the end.

‘No shit,’ she says, looking me up and down. ‘I know you haven’t got two hundred and fifty thousand dollars on you. But what happened to it? Where did it go? Speedboat? Renoir? Casino?’

‘You don’t understand. I kept it.’

Jan squints at me as if I have started speaking code.

‘Xander,’ she says, tilting her head. ‘What are you talking about? Kept it where, in an account?’

‘No. In a trunk. At Seb’s.’

She hears this and slowly sinks into a seat along the wall. ‘Xander. What are you doing to me? Please tell me it’s still there.’

‘I can’t. It’s gone.’

‘For crying out – okay. We don’t have time for this right now. You need to find that money before your trial or that guy in there is going to crucify you.’

‘I’m trying,’ I say. I think of Nina but have no confidence that she is going to help me. ‘But is it that important, really?’

She stands up again and looks at me. ‘You’re saying, why would I kill someone I love. They’re saying, a quarter of a million reasons.’

‘No, I get that,’ I say. ‘But what real difference does it make?’

‘Okay. Look. Did you take the money?’

‘You know I did.’

‘How do we know that you didn’t kill her for it? I mean how can we prove that?’

‘I didn’t kill her,’ I say, tumbling at the accusation. The words kill and murder are being slipped at me blandly like playing cards. Each time I hear them I see her face, frozen in the photo.

‘I know. Just humour me. How can we prove that you wouldn’t kill her for money?’

‘Because, look at me, money is the last thing that drives me. You couldn’t find anyone who cares less about money than I do,’ I say. I feel the heat rising up my neck. I look at her and she suddenly doesn’t seem like the ally I had expected her to be.

‘So how do we prove that money doesn’t interest you?’

‘Jan? Look at me. I’ve got a degree from Cambridge. I could earn money. I could have more money than I need. But it doesn’t interest me. I was walking away from all that. That’s what this is about,’ I say, showing her my stained hands.

Her gaze remains level.

‘And if you had a boatload of money, how would we prove that you have no interest in it?’

Finally, with that question, a glow perforates the darkness. ‘By showing it to them untouched after thirty years,’ I say with a sigh.

‘So, are we going to be able to do that? Or are we going no comment?’

‘I don’t know where it is. I know that sounds unbelievable, but it’s true. It’s gone.’

‘No comment it is then, Xander.’ She stands up and makes for the door. ‘And, Xander, for Christ’s sake, say no comment to every question. Not just the ones you don’t like.’

I nod rapidly. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

The interview resumes. The formalities are rehearsed all over again. I study Conway for any hint of a change in his demeanour but his face gives nothing away. Blake, however, seems to have hardened. There are no more half-smiles. I am not sure whether that is to deny me or to appease Conway.

‘So, to pick up from before we stopped the interview, Mr Shute, to allow you to consult with your solicitor, are you satisfied you have had enough time to speak with her?’

‘Yes,’ I say. Jan glares at me and immediately I try and correct the mistake. ‘No comment.’

‘So, what did you do with the money, Mr Shute?’

‘No comment.’

‘As you know we became aware of this matter because of you reporting the murder of a young woman. Do you recall telling us that there had been a murder at 42B Farm Street?’

‘No comment.’

‘Would you agree that since there has been a young woman murdered at number 42B, that it stands to reason you were there?’

‘No comment.’

‘What were you doing there?’

‘No comment.’

‘How did you get into the house? Were you invited in?’

‘No comment.’

‘Or did you break in?’

‘I did not break in,’ I say, unable to resist.

‘So how did you get in?’

‘No comment,’ I say, despite the tug to say something in my defence.

‘Actually, we don’t believe you did break in. There was no record of a break-in. Police at the time couldn’t be sure there was a murder. The coroner recorded an accidental death. But, Mr Shute, it wasn’t accidental, was it?’

‘No,’ I say. Jan slaps the desk in frustration at me. ‘I saw her being killed,’ I say. I can’t deny this. I have said this much already to police.

‘Yes. You told us that when you were being interviewed about the Squire murder. So, who do you say murdered her if it wasn’t you?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say, anger building from nowhere.

Blake stirs and then says, ‘That’s not strictly true is it, Xander? What you told us in the interview was.’ She pulls up a sheet of paper from a folder in front of her and reads from it: ‘The woman. In the house. I saw her being strangled. By her boyfriend. That’s what you told us.’

Conway raises his eyebrows at me. Waiting.

‘No comment.’

‘We think we agree with you, Mr Shute. She was strangled by her boyfriend. But you were her boyfriend, weren’t you?’

‘I didn’t strangle her,’ I say, and as I do I am conscious that my voice betrays my own uncertainty.

‘It is interesting, Mr Shute, how you use that word “strangle”. Because although the post-mortem records that she died from a blunt force trauma injury to the head, it also shows that she had bruises on her neck. The post-mortem report says this: “Present on the neck, four sites of cutaneous bruising and a further five sites displaying fingernail abrasions. It has not been possible to date the contusions using any back-calculation but a reasonable conclusion is that somewhere up to forty-eight hours before her death, pressure had been applied to the deceased’s neck in a throttling action.” So, my question is, Mr Shute, did you strangle her?’

‘No comment.’

‘Is that how you knew she had been strangled? Because you were the one who did it?’

‘No comment.’

‘Was it beyond your control?’

When he says the words this time, the memory comes in a wave back to me. It was from a film we had seen together at the cinema, Dangerous Liaisons. John Malkovich kept saying the line over and over again. I don’t remember why, but I remember he did and she, the girl, cried harder each time. I cannot tell them this in a way that sounds good.

‘No comment.’

‘Okay. The thing that we are concerned about is that it doesn’t look that good for you at the moment. By your own admission, you were in her house. We believe she must have invited you in because there were no signs of forced entry. By your own admission, you saw her being strangled. She in fact had been strangled. You were the last person to see her alive and the first person to see her dead. Now unless another person broke into the house while you were there and killed her in front of you and then repaired the door and left, we can only see one way this murder happened. It was you.’

There’s no way out of this. ‘No comment.’

‘You were in love with her. You were writing her letters telling her you would never let her go.’

Jan interrupts, throwing her hands back in high dudgeon. ‘It doesn’t say that! It says that he can’t let her go. And, as we have already established, he didn’t send the letter.’

‘Okay, then that you can’t let her go. And then we have this money that you empty out in cash from her account. We think that you used that money to help you disappear after the murder. And it did help you disappear for a very long time, didn’t it?’

‘What’s your evidence that he used that money?’ says Jan, bridling.

‘Well, you tell us, Mr Shute. Did you use the money? Is it lying safely in a suitcase somewhere collecting dust?’

Jan and I look at each other and then flick our eyes away before it can be noticed. My eyes land on Blake’s. She noticed.

‘No comment,’ I say.

‘So, you tell us if we have it wrong. If someone else did this murder, tell us who. Tell us how he got in. This is your chance to put your side of the story.’

I don’t know what to do for the best. This interview is a mess. Whenever I say something it makes things worse. But I know each time I say no comment that a jury hearing it will think I am guilty, that I have no answers to give.

‘Okay, Mr Shute. Before we terminate this interview is there anything else you’d like to say to us?’

‘No. Just. I didn’t kill her. I didn’t do it,’ I say in desperation.

‘Then tell us what you know. Help us catch the killer. Surely you’d want to help catch the person who did this?’

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘So, come on, because at the moment we have no reason not to charge you with this. And there’s no reason for me to recommend bail on what little you have given us.’

Jan leaps out of her seat. ‘Officer Conway, that is improper and you know it. It’s a breach of PACE to offer any inducement for an interview comment,’ she says, leaning over the desk, stabbing her finger at Conway. The ferocity of her objection puts my eyes on stalks.

‘Wait. Hang on right there, you know that was not meant as an inducement—’ he starts, going pale.

Blake cuts in. ‘What DI Conway is saying is that it is your right to answer no comment. It is an ongoing right. And to be clear you are not being pressured to answer any questions. But this is your chance. He is right, we cannot recommend police bail in your case. The evidence is strong, Xander. Really strong. And you haven’t helped us with your defence. You show us why we have got it wrong and that could change whether we even charge you. But on what you have given us, you’re being charged with murder.’

Jan nudges me and I turn to see her shaking her head firmly.

I turn to look at Blake and although I know that she is not my friend, I sense that she is trying to give me a chance. I don’t know whether I can survive the walls of a prison when even the walls of Seb’s beautiful house feel like a prison. I take a breath and try to slow down the thoughts in my head.

‘No comment,’ I say.