‘Well, your informant is wrong,’ I say. Anonymous source! I can’t believe Cait’s gall. ‘Look, is this man dangerous, is that what this is about?’
‘Jason Mercer is a police officer,’ says Birch, her stern expression moving from iron to steel. ‘We have no reason to believe he’s a threat to the public.’
‘A police officer?’ I feel my eye twitching and can’t quite understand what I’m being told. ‘My husband said he was a criminal. On the run.’
Birch stares and says nothing. An old interrogation technique, I imagine, to encourage me to fill the silence with a sudden confession. It doesn’t work.
‘Jason Mercer was not on active service. He was due to stand trial on Friday afternoon and didn’t show up. There’s a warrant out for his arrest, but he’s not been found guilty as yet.’
‘On trial for what?’
‘The charges were for intimidation and various alleged criminal activities.’
‘Not a poster boy for the Met, then? Why would a disgraced police officer be here?’ I say, although I marvel at his time-management in fitting in a little bit of burglary on the same day as his trial.
‘We think he’s hiding out with someone, and we found your name and address in his desk drawer.’
I feel a strange sense of disorientation as they are leaking information piece by piece and watching me like hawks. ‘Why did he have my name and address?’ I ask.
‘We were hoping you’d know the answer to that. From mobile phone records, we know his last known location was in this area, and that he’d been here several times in the last month.’
‘So he’s stalking me? Is that it?’
‘His wife believes that he’s having an affair and is likely to be with his latest girlfriend,’ she says, and looks me up and down with the expression that mothers use when their teenage daughters go out for the night. ‘I therefore have to ask – are you or have you ever been in a relationship with Jason Mercer?’
‘You think I’m his lover? Oh, dear me.’ I laugh at the ridiculous assumption that I’m an adulterer indulging in a bit of rough. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I wouldn’t consider anyone below chief inspector level.’
‘It’s not a laughing matter,’ DS Birch says coldly.
I’m about to assure her that it’s not a joke, but I sense she thinks very poorly of me already, so I smile sweetly.
‘You can look around, if you like. No secret lovers here, I can assure you,’ I say. ‘Just cat, rabbit, children, husband and nanny. If you think I also have time to conceal a fugitive, I fear you underestimate the demands on my time.’
‘Perhaps you can explain why he had your address?’ says DS Birch.
‘I have no idea. Never seen him in my life,’ I say. ‘You found my name and address in his desk, his phone shows he was a regular visitor to Muswell Hill, and some shadowy informant says he was at my house... is that it?’ She nods slowly, and I can’t resist adding, ‘I mean, you’re just guessing, Detective.’
She doesn’t like being patronized and stares at me. DC Mattoo leans forward as if to get up, then clocks his boss and leans back again.
‘Not guesswork, madam, a carefully considered hypothesis based on the available evidence and key assumptions.’
‘Well, your assumptions are faulty. If he failed to turn up to court, I imagine he had good reason to run, dump his phone and drive to darkest Scotland.’
‘His car is still in his driveway, madam, which suggests he may have access to another vehicle. Do you have a car, yourself?’ she says, and takes out her notebook.
‘I do. It’s outside, so no, I haven’t lent it to a runaway policeman.’
DS Birch takes the registration number of my Porsche and tells me, with some glee, that they can track registration numbers.
‘Will that be all?’ I say abruptly. The good news is that they don’t seem to be looking for the blue Toyota, which is full of my DNA, most probably. I can only surmise that it was stolen or borrowed.
‘You understand that it’s a criminal offence to assist an offender and help them evade prosecution?’
‘That’s not relevant,’ I say, just as my son wanders in, face covered in soil he’s been digging. I am, however, concerned by DS Birch’s persistence, and the anonymous tip-off.
‘Nathan, these police officers are looking for someone.’ I take Nathan on my knee. So useful to present oneself as a loving mother, but Nathan disagrees, wriggles away and stands in front of DC Mattoo.
‘You don’t have a police helmet,’ says Nathan.
