The Perfect Lie

Chapter 6

6 Saturday 4 August, 12.55pm.

The interview room is exactly how it looks on TV. A small-ish space, with one door, one table and four chairs around it. Brian and I sit on one side of the table, and two plain-clothes police officers — a man and a woman — sit on the other.

‘Ready?’ the female officer asks. I say nothing, but Brian nods gently on my behalf. She presses a button on the recording equipment on the table, and it emits a loud, long beep.

‘Interview with Amy Walker, in the presence of myself, Detective Inspector Jane McKenna, Detective Constable Mark Brennan and Amy’s solicitor, Brian Conway. Amy, you’ve been arrested and detained on suspicion of the murder of Roger Walker. Can you explain your relationship to him please?’

I look at Brian. Surely he doesn’t want me to no-comment this question, too? He gives me a nod to indicate that I should go ahead, but that doesn’t tell me whether he wants me to go ahead and answer the question or go ahead as planned. I decide not to take any risks.

‘No comment.’

McKenna flashes a look at Brian.

‘Alright. We understand he’s your father-in-law. Do you have any objections to us making that assumption?’

‘No comment.’

‘The arresting officers said you expressed some surprise when you found out that Roger had died. Can you tell us about that?

‘No comment.’

‘When did you last see your father-in-law, Amy?’

‘No comment.’

‘Where were you this morning?’

‘No comment.’

‘Were you at his house?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did you kill Roger, Amy?’

My throat catches as they hit me with the direct question, and I can feel my eyes fluttering. The accusation is like a sucker punch to the gut.

‘No comment,’ I say, my voice weak.

‘Do you know how he died?’

I don’t. But I want to. I think. ‘No comment.’

‘He was attacked with a blunt instrument while he sat at his kitchen table. We don’t know what was used yet, but there wasn’t a whole lot left of his skull. There are some defensive wounds, but not many. He was probably dead within seconds. It looks to me as if he was sitting at his kitchen table, enjoying a nice cup of tea, perhaps having a chat with someone he knew, when this attack came out of the blue. Who do you know who’d do that, Amy?’

I try to hold back the bile in my throat. Just hearing how Roger died is making me feel sick. ‘No comment.’

‘I mean, presumably it was someone he knew. There’s no sign of forced entry, for example. And if a complete stranger or unexpected visitor walked into his kitchen while he was sitting at the table you might reasonably assume he’d stand up, no? Perhaps confront the person. But he didn’t. That tells me he knew his killer. Let them into his house. Welcomed them inside. A friend, perhaps. Or a family member.’

McKenna lets this hang in the air. She hasn’t asked me a question, so I don’t speak.

‘Do you know a man by the name of Eric Black?’

I look at McKenna. ‘No. No… no comment.’

‘No? He’s your father-in-law’s next-door neighbour. Have you met him before?’

I think for a moment. I don’t think I have, but I imagine I’ve probably seen him in his front garden at some point when we’ve turned up at the house. I doubt I could pick him out of an identity parade.

‘No comment.’

‘Only he seems to know you. He recognised you earlier today. He says he saw you coming out of your father-in-law’s house following what sounded like an altercation. He said you seemed “harried and distressed”,’ McKenna says, reading from her notes. ‘Why were you harried and distressed, Amy?’

My heart is racing and I can feel my whole world closing in on me. None of this makes any sense. None of it. I’ve never even heard of Eric Black. I haven’t been to Roger’s house in days. Probably a week. I wasn’t there earlier today; I was in my garden, reading a book. Why would anyone say otherwise?

I can prove it. I must be able to prove it. Brian told me I don’t need to. He told me it’s up to the police to prove I was there. I know that. And I know they can’t prove I was there, because I wasn’t. But that still doesn’t stop the feeling of complete and utter dread, of absolute injustice.

Why would Roger’s neighbour say that? Maybe he’s insane. Perhaps he’s delusional. Eric. He sounds old. Maybe his eyesight’s going. Alzheimer’s, perhaps. That can be proven, if so. I’m sure they can do a test on him, and when it gets to court they’d…

Oh god. Court. Just the thought of the word sends a bolt of ice down my spine. It won’t get that far. It can’t. They’ll soon realise it’s all a dreadful misunderstanding and I’ll be let out, allowed back home to my kids and my husband. My husband whose father is dead and who will forever have the nagging doubt, the slightest lingering suspicion that maybe I did it.

‘Amy? Why were you harried and distressed?’

I look at Brian. He flicks his eyebrows at me, another imperceptible piece of code which I now assume only solicitors and hardened criminals are meant to decode.

‘No comment.’

‘Amy, I know your solicitor will have briefed you to no-comment your way through this interview, but I do have a duty to inform you that, if this goes to court, a jury won’t look too kindly on you not cooperating with the investigation. Judges have been known to give harsher sentences in these situations, too.’

Brian interjects. ‘Detective Inspector, you know full well that my client has the right to answer in any way she wishes. If she wants to let you know that she has no comment, that is her prerogative. Any mentions of court cases are completely unfair and misguided, too. You’ve not yet displayed any evidence which would result in a recommendation to charge, so you’re not within a million miles of a court case. Please don’t try to intimidate my client in this way.’

‘I’m not trying to intimidate anyone, Mr Conway. I’m letting Amy know — as is my duty under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act — that anything she says or doesn’t say in a formal interview situation will have an impact on any future trial.’

‘Nonsense. You know she’s never been in trouble with the police before, and you’re throwing insinuations of trials, judges and juries around as if they’re a foregone conclusion. Now, if you could please return to the matter in hand.’

McKenna looks at him for a few moments, then smiles.

‘Certainly. Amy, do you own a mobile phone?’

‘Yes,’ I say, without even thinking. I look at Brian. He purses his lips. I look away. I don’t see any way in which I can incriminate myself by admitting I own a mobile phone. Who doesn’t? They can check that sort of stuff anyway. And above all else, I just want to get out of here. I know Brian said it’s up to them to prove it, but the sooner I can prove I had nothing to do with it, the sooner we can end this whole mess.

‘What sort of phone is it?’

Again, all stuff they can check. ‘An iPhone 7 Plus.’

‘Is that the big one?’

I nod.

‘Out loud, please, Amy.’

‘Yes,’ I say. Brian doesn’t know the background, doesn’t know for sure I’m innocent. He’s playing it safe. I get that. But I didn’t do anything, and the sooner I cooperate with the police, the sooner they can discover I’m innocent and I can go home. Saying no comment to everything is only going to make me look guilty. I’ve got nothing to hide.

‘Where is it? It wasn’t bagged with your belongings when you were brought in.’

I swallow. ‘Uh, I lost it.’

‘You lost it? Where?’

‘I don’t know. Sometimes I forget and leave it places. At work, usually.’

‘Would you say you’re a careless and disorganised person, Amy?’

Brian puts his hand on my arm and looks at me, shaking his head slightly. He’s indicating that I shouldn’t answer, shouldn’t be drawn into this.

‘No. Not especially.’

‘But you regularly forget or lose a smartphone worth a few hundred pounds?’

‘I don’t use it much. I don’t do social media or anything like that. And the signal at home is crap anyway.’

‘So you don’t know where your mobile phone is at the moment?’

I blink a few times, then shake my head. ‘No. No, I don’t.’

McKenna smiles and nods. ‘I see. Well, I think that’ll be all for now.’