It isn’t Amazon.
‘Good afternoon, madam. I’m Detective Sergeant Birch and this is Detective Constable Mattoo.’
‘Oh God, what’s she done now?’ I say, instinctively, staring at the two plain-clothed police officers holding out their badges for inspection, although the name Jason Mercer jumps to the front of my mind.
‘Who?’
‘My daughter. I thought she might have run away from school again.’
‘This isn’t about your daughter,’ says DS Birch, an athletic woman of indeterminate age with bleach-blonde hair. ‘Are you Mrs Lalla Rook?’
‘Yes, how can I help?’ I say.
‘May we come in?’ she says assertively. ‘We need to speak to you about a missing person case.’
‘If you must,’ I say, but my mind is trying to work out why they’re back here. Do they want to ask every adult directly about Mercer or is it something else? If Cait has broken down and blabbed, I have little sympathy for any repercussions that may occur in a moment of blind rage. It’s unfortunate because I’ve yet to find someone to sand the floors, and, although I’ve done a deep clean, they only need one tiny speck of blood these days.
I lead them into the living room and they sit on the sofa, their feet on a new Persian rug which Liberty delivered only yesterday. I angle myself towards the detective sergeant and ignore her gangly assistant who seems to have no purpose whatsoever.
‘Now, what’s this about?’ I say, and tilt my head to one side. ‘I’m in the middle of making cupcakes for the school charity bake.’ This is a lie, but I want to inject pace into proceedings.
‘What’s the smell in here?’ says DC Mattoo, sniffing quite rudely.
‘It’s paint,’ I say, with as kind an expression as I can muster.
‘Doesn’t smell like paint,’ he says, doubling down.
‘Well, it’s not Dulux, if that’s what you mean. It’s non-toxic – made from antique horse dung and the ground-up bones of Victorian philanthropists.’
‘Posh paint,’ says the woman, dryly. ‘Mrs Rook, we’re making enquiries about a missing person, you may have heard. His name’s Jason Mercer.’
‘Yes, my husband spoke to the police, but what does this have to do with me?’ I say, scanning their faces and finding nothing revealing.
‘Did you have any visitors here on the morning of the fifteenth of November?’
‘Yes,’ I say, bluntly. ‘All of Nathan’s friends, average age four, and my friends, Sophie, Aisha and Cait.’
She looks at me, unblinking, possibly waiting for me to add another name. If so, she will be waiting a long time.
‘Did Jason Mercer visit you on that day?’ says the detective sergeant, finally.
‘Why would he? I don’t know who he is,’ I say, watching the woman’s face, which expresses disdain and suspicion at once.
While I enjoy the feeling of risk, I do recognize the jeopardy of this situation. If Detective Sergeant Birch were to glance to her right, she might notice a tiny drop of blood on the velvet cushion. If she moved the new rug with her foot, she might notice a faint pink blush where blood seeped into the wood.
‘Perhaps this picture might help jog your memory. He might’ve called on another day or used another name. Any information would be helpful.’ DS Birch hands me a photograph of the man I stabbed to death, wrapped in trampoline packaging and buried in my friend’s concrete footings. I decide not to mention this.
I shake my head, squint as people do in films, hold for a moment, as if I’m searching my memory bank, then shake more emphatically. I’ve always enjoyed pretending more than expressing what I feel, and am happy with my performance.
‘No, I’ve never seen him before in my life. Can I ask why you think he would visit me?’
‘We have information to suggest he was here on the fifteenth of November.’
‘What information?’ I say, trying to prevent my hands forming a fist as I seethe at Cait’s deviousness. Is anyone honest any more?
‘We’re not able to reveal the source at the current time,’ says Birch.
‘An anonymous source,’ says DC Mattoo, helpfully. DS Birch gives him a withering glance.
