The Outsider, page 12
‘You’re not a smoker, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Yeah. Well, you’re stuck here for a while longer.’
‘How long is it going to be?’ I allowed myself to sound frustrated, because I was, and Millsy lowered one eyelid deliberately.
‘You’re waiting for a couple of detectives to get here. They’re bringing in some extra help to handle the interviews and you’re number one on the list.’
‘Thanks for that,’ I said. Nothing that anyone could overhear and find suspicious, but it was helpful for me to know what wheels were turning. Who were the detectives, I wondered. Opal herself, in her professional capacity? Someone else from the team, scrambled to conduct a formal interview with me so that anyone watching would be fooled? I deliberately hadn’t used Opal’s first name on the phone in case she made an appearance herself, but was that too risky? She liked to keep her distance, did Opal, and I appreciated it most of the time but I’d have given a lot to see her waiting for me in the interview room.
I went back to sitting on the fold-down bed with its squeaky wipe-clean mattress, trying not to think about all the dedicated criminals who had sat there in their time. I knew I was on camera, displayed on screen so the custody skipper could watch me except for a modesty square over the cell’s toilet that gave the illusion of dignity. My every movement was being studied for signs of distress, or guilt, or incipient violence. I sat with my legs bent, elbows on knees, and thought bitterly about all the places I would rather be.
I must have dozed off, sitting upright with my head against the wall, because when the door opened it woke me up.
‘Mr Howell? You ready for an interview?’
‘Yes.’ I jumped up, stretching cramped limbs. ‘Is my solicitor here?’
‘No.’ The pretty blonde bit her lip. ‘Do you want to wait, or—’
‘No, let’s get on with it.’ I stretched and tilted my head left and right. ‘Sorry.’
‘Take your time.’ She smiled at me.
I was probably more polite than the usual prisoner who made it into her custody suite but I wondered if Millsy had hinted to her that she should be nice to me. He wouldn’t, I thought with a chill of nerves. This only worked if everyone played along.
Maybe it was just that she liked me.
I shambled down the corridor as she walked behind me, directing me to the interview room where I’d been on the other side of the table a couple of times. I tried to look wary and uncertain and a touch outraged, in case anyone was watching. Too relaxed would be a giveaway. Too jumpy would be out of character. The Mark that Geraint knew would be watchful, his mind working overtime to get him out of trouble. And since that was exactly what was happening in my head, it shouldn’t have been hard to act that way.
‘Here you go.’ She let me into the interview room and waited while I sat down. ‘They’re just coming.’
Footsteps in the corridor: I folded my arms across my chest and leaned back in the chair, one foot tapping under the table.
‘Thanks, we’ve got it from here.’ A man’s voice, and I looked up in genuine surprise to see him saunter in, his hands in his pockets, tall and broad in an immaculate suit that I envied. He took the time to give the custody sergeant an appreciative look as he edged past her, and was unsubtle enough about it that she blushed, but then that was pretty typical, I thought.
‘Mr … Howell.’ He sat down opposite me and gave me a piercing look. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Josh Derwent.’
I know.
‘I’m going to be interviewing you regarding the incident on the Underground this morning.’
‘Are you from British Transport Police?’
A grin appeared on his face and disappeared just as quickly, which I took as a compliment to my acting. ‘No. Actually, my colleague and I aren’t usually tasked with this kind of thing. We’ve been called in because there are so many suspects to process.’
‘Your colleague.’ I looked at the empty chair beside him and raised my eyebrows.
His expression was deadpan, unreadable. ‘She should be here any second.’
I had absolutely not enough time to process that before the door opened.
‘Sorry, I got held up.’ She slipped into the room and shut the door behind her, and I felt my throat tighten as she sat down opposite me, her attention on the folder she was holding, her eyes fixed on it even though I was willing her to look up.
‘As I was saying, this is Detective Sergeant Maeve Kerrigan,’ Derwent said silkily. ‘At long last.’
17
I’d imagined Opal pulling off all kinds of things, but getting my old colleagues to interview me wasn’t even on the list. It made sense, though – they had no connection with my current role, they knew exactly who I was, and they were Tier 5 interviewers who were qualified to help an overstretched Counter-Terrorism Command. I wondered if she had known that one of them – the one who was reading something fascinating in her folder, the one who hadn’t actually looked at me yet – was my ex-girlfriend. It wouldn’t have stopped Opal, but she might have requested video footage of the interview.
‘As I said, I got held up. And speaking of at long last,’ Maeve said, her voice soft and clear as she turned to Derwent, ‘when are you going to fix the kitchen tap? The drip is getting worse and worse.’
That sounded domestic. I swallowed: if this was how I was going to find out Maeve and Josh Derwent were living together, it was going to be hard to look as if I didn’t care.
‘I’ll get around to it,’ Derwent said, bored.
‘You are just the worst landlord. I hope you know that.’
Landlord. I could have cheered.
He flashed a grin at her, then looked at me. ‘Sorry about that. Let’s get on with this interview, shall we? Try and be a bit professional?’
Colour washed into Maeve’s face and I realised that she had been as pale as paper when she came in. This had to be hard for her too. I had walked out without any warning, because the job required it, and because I couldn’t think how to say goodbye, but I knew it had hurt her. She looked the same: maybe a little bruised under the eyes, as if she hadn’t been sleeping well. Still beautiful enough to make you catch your breath. Her hair – a reliable indicator of her general frame of mind – was pinned into a knot, a sleek wave across her forehead softening the effect. This is business. I am here for professional reasons and nothing else.
Fair enough, I thought, and longed to touch her.
Derwent occupied himself with the preamble for the interview, for the benefit of the tape, stating who was in the room and that I had waived my right to legal representation. Maeve looked up at me at last while he talked and I held her cool grey gaze, trying to convey everything I couldn’t say.
I’m sorry.
I didn’t want to see you again like this.
I can’t be anything other than Mark Howell at the moment so I can’t say anything that gives me away.
You look beautiful.
I missed you.
I’m really sorry.
‘So, Mark, tell us about this morning,’ Josh Derwent said. ‘You were arrested outside Oxford Circus tube station. Tell us what happened before that.’
‘I was on my way to work.’
‘Where?’
‘We were going to a photoshoot.’ I gave him the address Den had given me, and he wrote it down.
‘Where did you start your journey?’
‘My boss’s house.’ I recited the address for Haulton House too. I limped through the cover story that Geraint had given me, explaining who I had been with and what we had been doing, and how we had got separated early on and I hadn’t got close to Den. Derwent took the lead in asking the questions; Maeve barely spoke. She was listening, though, and watching me – presumably coming to her own conclusions about how I looked and sounded. More than ever I resented the custody tracksuit I was wearing.
Derwent took me through the entire story, right up to the moment when the first explosion went off.
‘And what did you see?’
‘Nothing.’ I shrugged. ‘I was looking at the people who were waiting to get off and hoping I’d get a seat. Then there was a bang and the carriage filled with smoke.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘I thought about jumping out of the carriage. There was a woman with a child in a pushchair – I was worried that people would trip over the pushchair and injure the child. I stopped to help her.’
‘Did you know her?’ Maeve asked.
‘No.’
‘Get her name?’ Derwent’s eyebrows were raised.
‘No, and I didn’t get her phone number either.’ I was genuinely irritated by his tone of voice. ‘I told her to stay on the train until the platform was safe, which it wasn’t at first, and then I helped her through the station. That was all.’
‘That wasn’t quite all.’ Maeve took a printed picture out of her folder and slid it across the table to me. ‘Tell us what was going on here.’
I looked at the image of myself at the top of the stairs, pulled from CCTV. Blurry and distorted as it was, it was recognisably me, facing down the crowd of people who were approaching.
‘They were heading for the stairs. I thought there was the potential for a significant loss of life if that many people tried to take one exit from the platform, especially in their panicked state of mind, when they would be rushing. There was considerable chaos on the platform itself. I wanted to persuade them to try the other exits that seemed less appealing in the moment, because I knew they were safer options. The station staff were responding but at the time there wasn’t anyone else to organise the evacuation.’
‘And that’s not a gun,’ Derwent said, circling it on the image with the end of his pen.
‘It’s my phone. There wasn’t time to persuade people to listen to me. I thought the phone would look enough like a gun that it would be an effective deterrent. My expectation was that the crowd would veer away instinctively, given that they were scared anyway. It wouldn’t have fooled anyone up close but they were thinking of terrorists and saw something dark in my hands.’ I shrugged. ‘It worked.’
‘Wasn’t that quite risky?’ Maeve asked, not looking at me. ‘They could have stampeded. You were right in their path.’
‘It seemed like the right thing to do.’
‘We have a couple of very full witness statements describing the gun.’ Derwent leaned back in his chair and grinned. ‘Bit of debate about whether it was a Glock or a Sig Sauer, but they were absolutely certain that you pointed a handgun at them.’
‘Just an iPhone. People see what they want to see.’
‘Indeed they do.’
‘Have you been looking for a gun in the station?’ I asked.
‘Not personally.’ Derwent smiled. ‘They haven’t found one.’
‘I never had one, and I didn’t see anyone else with one.’
‘OK.’ Derwent glanced at Maeve. ‘Anything else to ask?’
She shook her head.
‘Then all we need you to do is write us a statement, if you would. A full statement.’
‘Am I still a suspect?’
Another look sparked between the two of them; I really envied that easy wordless communication they’d developed.
‘We’re treating you as a witness. You’ll have your belongings returned to you and then you’ll be free to go on your way.’
‘Are you happy to write your own version of events?’ Maeve asked. ‘I can write something for you to approve if you prefer.’
‘No, I’ll do it.’
She slid a few sheets of paper across the table and I started writing, concentrating first on the version of events that Geraint had supplied. It didn’t take long. Then I moved on to a separate sheet and wrote a note for Opal: what had happened, the men blocking the access to the other platform, my suspicion that either Geraint didn’t trust us or his conspirators didn’t trust him. I added descriptions of the people I thought should be of interest, knowing that Opal would be able to pick them out from the CCTV if she had enough detail. The other men had stood out to me, with my heightened state of awareness during the incident, but I wondered if they would look like innocent passengers to anyone who hadn’t been there. I was certain I’d identified them correctly.
I finished off by pointing out that we needed some failsafe way to communicate in similar circumstances. The worst part of the day – aside from the tracksuit – had definitely been not being able to warn anyone in advance. It was risky for me, but the next time this happened – and there would be a next time – I wanted to be the one taking the risk, not the innocent civilians who’d blundered into the path of Geraint’s obsessions.
I slid the note for Opal behind the bland statement that would go on file with Mark Howell’s signature at the bottom and passed it back to Maeve.
‘Thanks,’ she said, reading through it. ‘That’s all we need, I think.’
‘Can I go now?’
‘You’ll need to go back to your cell, I’m afraid.’ Derwent didn’t actually manage to sound sorry about it. ‘Just while we get the paperwork processed.’
‘Right. Can I have my clothes back?’
Amusement narrowed his eyes. ‘I’ll see what I can do. You might have to leave dressed like that.’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘I’m sure.’
Casually, I looked back at Maeve, to see that she was watching me again. She held my gaze for a beat longer than she might have, then stood.
‘I’ll go and sort out the paperwork.’
No, wait. Stop. I need to talk to you. I tried to make sure my face was impassive, but I kept my eyes on her until the door closed behind her and cut off my view, leaving me on my own with Josh Derwent, his raised eyebrows and an atmosphere that was suddenly heavy with unsaid things.
An hour later I was dressed in my own clothes. I would never take them for granted again, I thought.
‘Ready?’ Derwent was standing in the doorway of my cell. ‘Bet you can’t wait to get out of here.’
‘Yeah. Thanks for sorting this out.’ I started towards him and he held up a hand, checking over his shoulder.
‘Wait.’
There was a mild commotion in the corridor. I looked past Derwent to see Den being returned to his cell. He caught sight of me and his expression changed.
‘Hey. Hey, Mark.’
‘Don’t talk to him.’ Derwent put himself between me and Den, blocking his view very effectively, and glowered at Den.
I turned away, clasping my hands behind my head as if I was frustrated, but really wondering if I’d given myself away. I hadn’t been being friendly with Derwent – not exactly. And he had hardly been smiling at me. I was under no illusions about his feelings about me. He had chosen his side early on, and it wasn’t mine.
‘Come on,’ Derwent said finally when the cell door had closed behind Den. ‘Back to the skipper.’
I followed him, head down, looking fed up and sullen. I had been hoping that Maeve might be at the desk too, but there was no sign of her. Derwent handled the processing of my belongings with grim efficiency, and Millsy looked through me as if he had no reason to be pleasant.
‘Total waste of time,’ I said quietly as I slid my watch back on.
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ Derwent leaned on the counter, signing a form. Casually, he said, ‘Do you know where you’re going?’
‘I’ll work it out.’
He nodded, and said goodbye with grim professionalism.
I found myself back on the street in busy, bustling central London, as if nothing had happened. I walked away, not too fast but with decision, and it wasn’t until I was sure I’d lost myself in the crowds at Covent Garden that I allowed myself to take out the folded sheet of paper that was in the pocket of my coat.
It was an address, I saw, scrawled in Josh Derwent’s writing. Nothing more.
It was all I’d wanted.
Three hours later I stood outside the front door of a Victorian maisonette at the end of a quiet residential street, after taking elaborate and careful precautions to ensure I wasn’t followed as I made my way across London. I rang the doorbell. My heart was thumping as if I was on speed. I knew I was allowed and even expected to turn up – I wouldn’t have had the address otherwise – but I wasn’t sure what kind of reception I was going to get, and I braced myself as the door opened.
This time Maeve’s hair was down, a soft and gleaming cloud around her face and shoulders. A big jumper, narrow jeans, bare feet: her off-duty uniform, and it was so familiar it made my heart hurt.
‘Hi.’
‘Maeve.’ I hesitated, trying to find the words, and she came to the rescue.
‘I presume you’ve come to fix the tap.’
‘The tap,’ I repeated. ‘Yes, I thought I should take a look. I mean, I’m not an expert. But I probably won’t make it worse.’
The smile started in her eyes. ‘You’d better come in, then.’
18
‘So this is Josh Derwent’s place.’ There wasn’t room for both of us in the tiny galley kitchen, where Maeve was cooking. Like the rest of the flat the kitchen was immaculate, freshly painted and neatly designed, with every inch of space put to good use. The old Maeve had lived in a constant state of mild chaos, but that had changed. I felt it wasn’t the only difference. She seemed a stranger, somehow, in a way that wasn’t just down to the way I’d left or the time we’d been apart. It was as if something was missing that I’d taken for granted. ‘How did you end up here?’
She gave me a sidelong look. ‘Are you sure you want to ask that question now?’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, after you left without any warning whatsoever, I stayed in our flat for a while. Then I got bored with being there on my own. But I didn’t want to leave in case you came back.’
