Maslin gestured for me to join him in the unmarked car they had arrived in, and I meekly followed. The man was so broad and tall that he created not just a shadow as he walked but a small eclipse. He opened the door to the back seat for me.
After I got in, he shut it with an almost imperceptible click.
His giant dinner plate hands were capable of subtlety.
He got in the driver’s seat and reversed around the cars and tents, and then turned and drove out of the car park.
We said nothing. Maslin gave me filthy looks in the rear-view mirror as he drove, his big hands sitting lazily on the steering wheel. I stared out the window and slumped down in my seat.
How was this happening again? Why hadn’t I kept walking?
Sittingston Police Station was no more than a third of a mile away, and we were there in a few minutes. It was a small and phenomenally ugly prefab beige building sitting in the middle of a car park that never seemed to get sun. It was behind a large church off the High Street, with the only block of flats in the town to the other side.
We pulled into a space in the dark, cool car park, and Maslin went through the same rigmarole of letting me out like we were inDownton Abbeyand I was the duke. Wait, was he a duke in that show? A lord? I laughed to myself. Maslin gave me a look like I was insane.
I probably was.
He led me into an interview room. I sat and waited. He brought me a glass of water. I waited some more.
Then I waited more. How long was I in there? Who knew. I could’ve reached for my phone; it had a few per cent battery left, but if I did that, then the rest of the world was invited back into my little palace of quiet, and I would have to deal with everything.
The last time I found a body, at least I got laid. Wait, I just got laid.God, what was wrong with me? Did sex mean death in my world? Was I a sex addict? Did someone die every time I got another notch on my bedpost?
After what seemed like days of solitude, where my thoughts began to take increasingly bizarre turns, the door opened, and Neuberger and Maslin entered.
“Mr Forrest,” Neuberger said. “I’ve brought you a sandwich. Thought you might appreciate it as we’re assuming it’s your breakfast that we found a few metres away from the crime scene?”
I nodded and accepted the sandwich. It hadn’t been my breakfast. When did I last eat?
“Please go through the specific details of this morning. All in your own time.”
I breathed out shakily and took a bite of my sandwich – egg and cress – and chewed slowly, then gave them the short spiel of my walk across Sittingston.
“And where did you spend the night?”
“Cock and Feather. They have rooms for rent above.”
Maslin noted this, presumably to check out later.
“And can anyone corroborate that?”
I swallowed. “The barmaid served me a few times. If they have cameras, then I’ll be on them.”
Neuberger paused. “Anyone else confirm this?”
I eyed him.
“C’mon, Arden, not like you’re short of companionship.”
I closed my eyes to stop from screaming at him. After a long pause, I spoke again. “Errol Mottley.”
Maslin wrote that down, then paused. “The bloke managing Suzy Rabbit’s campaign?” he asked in a proper cockney accent. Not a hint of estuary or mockney. No, he was old-school Bow Bells.
I nodded.
Neuberger eyed me steadily. “Are you dating?”
I startled. “Is that relevant?”
