‘No, I don’t know who they are.’
‘OK, well, they live in the house across the street where you say you saw a figure on the night of the fourteenth.’
He nods. ‘Right.’ He knows who they’re talking about now. That family. The Lycra dad and the nervous wife and the over-confident daughter and the gangly boy. ‘The ones with the kids?’
‘Yes, the ones with the kids, that is correct. How would you say your relationship with them is?’
‘I don’t have a relationship with them.’
‘Dr Fours says that you once accosted him in the street when he was out for a run; he said you were rather drunk and asking him strange questions.’
Owen repositions himself in his chair. ‘What has this got to do with …?’
‘Well, nothing directly, Mr Pick. But tangentially, we are forming a picture here.’
Owen breathes in sharply as he realises what is happening. He is being led by this pair of bland, blond, cookie-cutter human beings down an opaque, twisting path towards incriminating himself.
‘You know what,’ he says. ‘I think maybe if you’re not going to be asking me anything to do with actual evidence of me having done anything wrong and you’re just going to talk about things I may or may not have said to my neighbours three weeks ago, then maybe I should have a lawyer. Please.’
The blond twins look at each other and then back at him. ‘Of course, Owen. Absolutely. Do you have a number I could call?’
‘Mr Barrington Blair. Barry. I think he works in the West End somewhere. Soho, that sort of area.’
‘Great, we’ll get someone to call him now. In the meantime, maybe we’ll take a short break.’
They shuffle their papers together. DI Henry straightens his jacket, his collar. DI Currie touches the back of her complicated hairstyle, pressing a loose strand into place. Owen wonders if they’re real people, or very sophisticated androids.
‘Someone will bring you something to eat, Owen. Just hold tight.’
And then Owen is alone. He stretches his legs out and crosses them at the ankle. He scrapes a piece of encrusted food off the cuff of his jumper. He suddenly thinks that there may be a row of police officers and detectives sitting on the other side of the plate glass watching him so decides to move about as little as he possibly can.
A moment later a young uniformed policeman comes in with a couple of sandwiches and a paper cup of tea.
‘Tuna,’ he says. ‘Or chicken Caesar wrap?’
‘I’m not hungry,’ Owen replies.
‘I’ll leave both,’ he says. And then he gives him the tea and leaves the room.
‘How long?’ Owen calls towards him through the crack in the door.
The boy reappears. ‘No idea,’ he says chirpily. ‘Sorry.’
There’s nothing in this room to look at. Nothing to distract him. He looks at his fingernails, he fiddles with his hair, tries to straighten his stupid asymmetric fringe. He touches the scab on his forehead. He crosses and uncrosses his legs. Time passes in long, hollow moments, stretched out of all shape by the weirdness of the scenario.
He pulls one of the sandwiches towards him. Tuna mayo and cucumber. He hates tuna and he hates cucumber and it’s brown bread, which he’s never actually eaten. He doesn’t even look at the other one; he knows he won’t like it.
He sips the scalding tea gingerly. His heart jumps about again at the thought of the police rifling his bedroom, the pills in his sock drawer. He tries to work out what he’s going to say about the pills when they inevitably find them. How will he explain Bryn? How will he explain his relationship with an insane incel who wants to incite mass rape of women?
Owen taps his fingertips against the tabletop and tries to control his breathing. He can feel a red ball of panic hurtling towards him, threatening to swallow him up. He pictures the police behind the reflecting glass again. He cannot freak out, he cannot. Barry will be here soon. Barry will tell him what to do.
He takes another sip of tea, too quickly, feels it scald the inside of his mouth, winces and saysfuckunder his breath.
Finally the door opens again and the two detectives return. The woman says, ‘We’ve contacted Mr Blair. He’s on his way. We can carry on talking while we wait – that could get you home quicker? Or you can wait until he’s here. It’s up to you.’
He thinks again of the pills in his underwear drawer.
He says, ‘I think I’ll wait.’
