The Perfect Lie

Chapter 4

4 Saturday 4 August, 11.10am.

‘Okay Amy, we’re going to need to take your clothes from you now. Can you take off what you’re wearing, please, and put these on.’ The female officer gestures to what looks like a pair of grey jogging bottoms and matching t-shirt. ‘There’s a rather fetching jumper to complete the set, but I thought it might be a bit warm for that,’ she says, smiling. I don’t see what there is to smile about.

‘When will I get them back?’ I ask. They’re not items I’m particularly attached to, but it would be nice to know when I’m going to see them again.

‘Impossible to say, I’m afraid. They’ll be checked for any forensic evidence, so it depends what they find.’

I look at her for a moment, then realise I have no option. I take my clothes off and watch as she puts each item of clothing into individual bags. She even bags each shoe and sock separately. It’s both impressive and incredibly scary how meticulous and organised the whole operation is.

Once she’s finished sealing each bag and labelling them, she hands them over to another police officer.

‘Right, if you follow me through here,’ she says, opening the door, ‘we just need to finish booking you in.’

I walk through the door and across the corridor, into the room she indicated.

‘Now we’re going to take your fingerprints and a sample of your DNA, as well as some photos, alright?’

I nod. It doesn’t sound like I have much choice.

‘What… what is it used for?’ I ask.

‘The fingerprints and DNA? For our records, and to cross-reference with any fingerprints or DNA found at the scene of the crime.’

‘But it’s my father-in-law’s house,’ I say. ‘We’re there every week.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m sure the investigation will take all that into account.’ She guides me over to a machine that looks like an old office photocopier. ‘If you just place your thumbs in these little squares here,’ she says, manoeuvring my hands into place. ‘That’s great. Okay, hold it there for a moment.’ She repeats the process for my other fingers. I wonder how long it’s been since they stopped using ink pads.

‘Okay, now can you stand just behind that white line on the floor, please, facing me.’

Before I realise what she’s doing, the camera clicks three times.

‘Now turn to face that wall over there, please.’

Another three clicks.

‘And spin round to face this wall over here, please.’

Click. Click. Click.

‘Okay, that’s great. Now I’m going to take a couple of samples of DNA from you. That’ll be in the form of a swab from the inside of your mouth. It’s very quick and totally painless. Do I have your consent for that?’

I stumble and stammer for a minute. I didn’t even realise this was a thing.

‘Do I have any choice?’ I say.

She smiles. ‘Yes and no. You can decline, but then I’d have to get the authorisation of an Inspector, at which point reasonable force can be used to obtain the samples, so it’s probably easier this way.’

I swallow. ‘Alright.’

I can’t explain how dehumanising and degrading it feels to be in this anonymous room, in someone else’s clothes, having my whole identity reduced to a double helix; a chemical strand which could determine my whole future.

I open my mouth when she tells me to, and she scrapes the cotton bud around the inside of both cheeks, before popping it into a sealed container.

‘Okay, that’s it. I just need to take some fingernail scrapings from you now,’ she says.

‘Why?’

‘It’s been requested by the on-call SIO.’ She registers my blank look. ‘Senior Investigating Officer. The detective in charge of the investigation.’

Detective. Jesus Christ. In the space of less than ninety minutes I’ve gone from sitting in my garden with a good book to having my fingernail scrapings requested by a murder detective. My brain can’t even begin to comprehend what’s going on.

‘Uh, okay. Fine,’ I say.

She gives me that smile again — the one that’s meant to disarm and reassure me, but which actually just gives me the creeps.

Once she’s done, she bags everything up, hands it over to another officer and leads me to my cell.