‘Professionally. He’s a defence solicitor and I work in the field of criminology at the university, so our paths have crossed a few times.’
‘And personally?’
Edgar sighs. He gets up and walks to the mantelpiece, leaning his elbow against it as he turns back to face them. ‘I presume you know, otherwise you wouldn’t be asking the question. On a personal basis, if you can call it that, I know him because he represented the person who was convicted of killing my late wife.’
Lucy jumps. She can’t help herself. Rachel turns her head to look at her, and she hunches herself back down, desperate to disappear.
The second police officer joins the conversation again. She’s got bright, beady eyes. Lucy has found herself watching her far more than the copper doing the questioning. His face is too smooth, giving nothing away, whereas there’s an attentiveness in the female officer’s face, a sense that she might be about to raise an eyebrow as if in disbelief. Lucy warms to her, despite herself.
‘Your wife. Ten years ago, wasn’t it, she died? Around the time you say Mr Machado returned to Bolivia?’ the female officer says.
‘Correct,’ mutters Edgar.
‘So you might feel some hostility towards Mr Wright?’ she says.
‘He was just doing his job. I’ve always thought highly of him. As did Victor, even though he was also close to Gabriela. They were friends.’
‘How very . . . objective of you both,’ the female police officer says, writing something down in her notebook.
‘He’s built a career around it,’ Rachel says.
Lucy hunches smaller. She didn’t expect her to be so supportive.
‘Interesting. Not the usual response.’
‘Not the usual kind of case,’ Edgar says. ‘Look, I don’t understand what the relevance of any of that is here. It was a decade ago.’
‘True, very true. You’ll maybe see why it sparked our interest, though. A man on death’s door with your name in his pocket, another man – the man who represented the killer of your wife, no less – dead. Coincidental, maybe. But I don’t like coincidences.’
With that, the police officers glance at each other and rise to their feet.
‘I don’t think we need anything else from you at this stage,’ the woman says. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
‘Can I go and see Victor? Make sure he’s all right?’
‘That won’t be possible, I’m afraid.’ She sounds anything but sorry.
A couple of minutes later, and they’ve gone. Lucy is left alone with Edgar and Rachel. He’s still standing at the mantelpiece, his face as pale as she’s ever seen it, mask-like.
‘Edgar,’ Rachel says, but he holds up his hand.
‘Just give me a minute,’ he says.
‘Are you—’ she starts to say, but is interrupted by wailing, the cries climbing fast in intensity. Rachel rocks the baby in her arms, but the cries don’t cease. Lucy peers over, without wanting to look as if she’s staring. She can’t tell the gender from the clothes, sludgy beiges and cream, topped off with a mop of fine, dark hair.
‘Not now, Rachel. Not now. Please. I need to think,’ Edgar says.
Rachel nods. She puts the child against her shoulder and leaves the room. The cries seem to get louder still before there’s a sudden calm.
‘You didn’t tell me about the baby,’ Lucy says. ‘And why did you lie to the police just now?’
Edgar looks at her, his face still. The face of a stranger. ‘I will explain everything. But this is not the time.’
Lucy sits uncomfortably. She can tell the room is normally warm, inviting, its decorations all in the best possible taste, but it feels so cold. Rachel comes back in, without the baby. She switches the light on at the wall as she enters, but instead of rendering it more inviting, the space seems more clinical still, harsh shadows cast now across Edgar’s face. He looks old.
‘Nap time,’ Rachel says.
‘Good,’ Edgar says. It sounds automatic.
