Somehow it’s on the tip of my tongue, the question people have asked me for years, a casual inquiry with the potential to slice through scar tissue and re-open old wounds. ‘Do you have children of your own?’
‘Four girls,’ he says. ‘Twelve, fifteen, eighteen and nineteen.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘That must be—’
‘How are you really, Ellen? Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?’
‘I’ve been better,’ I say. ‘But it’s all superficial. Nothing they’d do at the hospital that I can’t do for myself.’
He gives me a sympathetic smile. ‘You’ve had a rough week.’
‘What’s going on, Stuart?’
‘I thought you were owed an apology. For us giving you such a hard time in the interview the other day. And for the way DS Holt behaved with you.’
‘I thought giving people a hard time was what you did every day of the week?’
He shakes his head and places both hands palm-down on top of a black leather folder. His hands look strong, broad and tanned.
‘And I just wanted to see how you were doing.’ He looks suddenly reticent, as if he might be having second thoughts about coming here. ‘And to reassure you that we will do everything we can to catch the person who did this to you.’
Being here with him feels a million miles away from the airless grey room at the police station. That little interview room – much the same as a wood-panelled courtroom or a high-vaulted cathedral – felt like it was designed to make you feel small, insignificant, to intimidate you into honesty. But Tara’s dining room is neutral ground and it’s almost as if Gilbourne’s just a regular guy, someone’s husband, a friend, a colleague, and we’re simply having a chat.
‘I appreciate your concern,’ I say, grateful that he’s changed his tune since Tuesday night. ‘But you didn’t come here just to tell me that, did you?’
Gilbourne leans closer, elbows on the pine tabletop. He smells of chewing gum, minty, the cigarette smoke a musky undertone, not unpleasant. He unzips the black leather folder on three sides and opens it out on the table.
‘We’ve got hold of CCTV images which corroborate certain elements of your story.’ He pulls a sheet of paper from the folder and slides it across the table to me. A colour image of a man, dark jacket and jeans on a train station concourse. ‘Do you recognise this individual?’
I study the image. The quality’s not great but it’s clear that he’s thin, wearing a black jacket, black beanie hat, rucksack, para boots. A flash of memory from this afternoon, his hand coming up to my neck, agonizing pain lighting up every muscle in my body. I suppress a shiver.
‘That’s him.’ I push the paper away. ‘He was on the train on Tuesday and he attacked me at my house today.’
‘You’re one hundred per cent sure it was the same man at your house?’
‘Ninety-nine per cent.’ I swallow hard on a dry throat. ‘How did he find me?’
‘We’re looking into that, but let’s just say he’s got form for it.’
‘So you know who he is?’ I feel a glimmer of relief that finally,finally, he believes me. ‘What’s he got to do with Mia?’
He stands up, goes to the dining room door and opens it a crack. Looks out into the hallway and closes the door again before coming to sit back down at the table.
He holds out a hand. ‘Can I have your mobile?’
‘Why?’
‘Please?’
‘I’m not recording this conversation, if that’s what you think.’
‘Just indulge me,’ he says with a shrug. ‘For two minutes. I’m getting paranoid in my old age.’
I take my phone from the pocket of my jeans and hand it over to him. He studies it for a second and finds the power button, switches it off. Lays it face down on the table between us.
‘What I’m about to tell you is strictly off the record, OK?’
33
