‘That wasn’t me,’ Christian said dully. ‘My car was stolen.’
He picked up a disposable plastic cup of tea that Richie had brought in for him. His face soured as he took a sip. Sarah didn’t blame him. Custody tea was made with cheap tea-bags, powdered milk, and tasted like lukewarm dishwater. Beneath the table, his knee bobbed as nerves seemed to set in.
‘We have your fingerprints in Libby’s home. Jahmelia’s too.’ Richie remained cool. ‘Can you tell me how they got there?’
‘I’m an estate agent,’ Christian said quietly, staring at the plastic cup. ‘I’ve been in lots of homes.’
Sarah watched him closely. He was nervous, but she sensed he was telling the truth. The image of the car they had captured on CCTV showed the driver had been wearing what appeared to be leather gloves. She rubbed the back of her neck. This wasn’t going well.
Richie picked up a clear plastic bag from the floor. ‘Then why did you burn a black balaclava in a barrel at the back of your home?’ He pointed to the photo of the CCTV image of a man in a balaclava driving his car. Richie reeled off the exhibit number for the benefit of the recording as he waited for Christian to reply. All Christian had to say was that he was burning some old clothes. Lots of people owned balaclavas. It wasn’t strong enough evidence to pin the crime on him. But Christian was glaring at the bag, his lips parted in surprise.
‘I … I don’t know. That’s not mine.’ He looked at Richie. ‘Mom’s in hospital. I was clearing the house of some of her old clothes.’
‘Well, I seized it myself from your back garden,’ Richie replied.
Officers had attended after the arrest and carried out a complete search. It was fortunate the item hadn’t burnt away completely. But it was the look on Christian’s face that had come as a surprise.
‘I swear … I’ve never seen it before,’ Christian reiterated, beginning to gnaw his thumbnail.
‘I’m now showing you exhibit DR02.’ Richie picked up another exhibit bag from the floor. ‘An ivory-handled knife, found in your bedroom. Believed to be the same murder weapon which ended Angelica Irving’s life. Is this yours?’
‘No!’ Christian’s voice broke mid-way as it echoed around the room. ‘It’s not mine. I’ve never seen it before.’
‘Then I would also like to bring your attention to these photographs of Elsie Abraham’s injuries.’ Again, Richie reeled off the exhibit numbers. ‘Did you push your mother down the stairs?’
Christian shook his head vehemently. ‘No! I love my mom. She fell down the stairs when I was at work. Ask her.’
‘Did you kill Angelica Irving?’ Richie fired another question.
‘No!’ Christian’s response was louder this time. Sarah squirmed in her chair as she watched the interaction. If Christian was lying, he was putting on a hell of a good show. He looked as if he was about to cry.
‘What have you done with Jahmelia?’ Richie continued, before being stalled by the knock on the interview-room door. Sarah peered at the screen as the door opened. People weren’t meant to interrupt interviews like this. Sarah recognised the officer from the custody block. He introduced the solicitor who stood behind him. He did not appear best pleased. Richie paused the interview as he dealt with the interruption. It seemed Simon Irving had hired legal advice. There would be no confession today.
46
Elliott didn’t like the woman with the drawn-on eyebrows. She told him to call her Yvonne, and she said she was Sarah’s boss. She acted all nice to Maggie, but she had sharp edges and cold eyes. She looked at Elliott warily, as if he was going to jump out at her and take a bite. They’d had to leave school during lunchtime to come and see her in the police station. Sitting on the sofa, he gazed around the room. This was a different part of the police station, Yvonne explained. He wasn’t in trouble. He was just being helpful and this was the place where victims and witnesses came to speak.
Except there were cameras in each corner of the ceiling watching him. Elliott squirmed, feeling the heat of their gaze. At least his mum was sitting beside him. He scooted up closer to her on the squishy blue sofa. She put her arm around his shoulders and gave him a squeeze. The room was cold, and he shrank his hands up into the sleeves of his jumper. There were pictures on the wall and flowers on a table, but it didn’t feel homely. It felt like he was on stage.
‘You’re not in any trouble,’ Yvonne said again, crossing one leg over the other. ‘We just want to ask you a few questions.’ Yvonne had already told his mummy that they had rested someone, although Elliott wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. At least they were trying to find Jahmelia, and that meant talking to everyone she knew.
And so the questions came. How did Elliott know about the Midnight Man? How did he know where Angelica had been buried? Who told him? Had someone put him up to it? Did he know where Jahmelia was? Had he heard them talking when they were babysitting? Had anyone told him to keep a secret? On and on, the same questions in different ways. But Yvonne didn’t seem to like his answers, as she kept asking more. ‘So nobody mentioned the Midnight Game to you? Are you sure?’
Elliott sighed. ‘I’m sure.’ His throat was scratchy and he was tired of talking. He just wanted to go home.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she replied, without really listening. ‘So howdidyou know about the Midnight Man, Elliott?’
‘I dreamt it,’ he said again. She wouldn’t understand if he told her about the pictures that filled the spaces of his head. He stared at his school shoes. While other kids thought about computer games, he had flashes of feelings and pictures that he could not understand.
He hadn’t realised that he’d been rocking until the detective asked if he was OK. He looked at her with curious eyes. She had darkness in her too. Maybe they were all fighting their own demons.
A rush of blood painted Yvonne’s cheeks as she looked away.
‘We need to get back to school,’ Maggie said. ‘He’s answered all your questions.’ Elliott was glad his mummy was there to stand up for him. He didn’t want to think about Jahmelia. He wasn’t sure that he’d see her alive again. If he did, she would be like Libby, not the same. Like one of his puzzles but without the best pieces. Blackhall Manor took the best from everyone who went there. He looked around the room, past the people and past the walls.
He could feel Jahmelia sleeping now, dreaming of a family she may never see again. Outside, a police siren blared, making him blink thoughts of her away. Yvonne was still asking questions, as if Maggie hadn’t spoken up at all. ‘I don’t know where Jahmelia is,’ he answered when the detective asked about her. ‘Somewhere dark. And small. She’s cold and thirsty and it smells …’ He lifted a finger to his nostrils as the stench became too much. ‘Smells bad. Like poo.’
‘Yeah? Go on …’ Yvonne smiled as she scribbled on her notepad.
