They watched it climb up into the air and join the others overhead, circling the house. Neither of them said anything. But as Valentine finally shut the door and took out his notepad, Irene couldn't help noticing the hallway was empty.
"So then, Mrs. Daley," Valentine said hopefully, breaking into her daze, "perhaps you could explain to me what all this is about."
Chapter Three
"Tell me again just why we're holding him?"
Detective Chief Inspector Robbins, a long thin streak of a man with cropped hair and a chin that was so lantern shaped people expected to see a flame flickering in his mouth whenever he talked, was leafing through PC Wilson's notes on their new arrival. He'd been woken early that morning by a phone call from his third ex-wife asking him if he'd taken the hedge trimmer with him when he left the previous summer, and if so, could she please have it back as her new boyfriend would quite like to make a start in the garden that weekend. There were several cases waiting for him on his desk when he arrived, which looked in no rush to solve themselves. And his acid indigestion was playing up again, making it feel like someone was stirring his guts around with a red-hot poker. So he was not in the best of moods, and definitely not in the mood for his time being wasted.
"We're not exactly holding him as such, sir," replied the bearded man, "I just thought it best to place him in an interview room before coming to you with it... while we figured out exactly what had happened."
"So?"
"Looked like a simple case of forced entry, except he claims he was let in, and even made Mrs. Daley a cup of tea."
The DCI's eyebrows shot up. "Your average hardened criminal then. Why are you bothering me with this?"
"Also claims to be her long lost son."
"Long lost, as in Australian soap opera plot?" said Robbins with a sarcastic smirk.
"No. As in deceased, sir."
Robbin's smile faded. "All right, you've got my attention. Maybe we should bring up a few records on our..." He read from the notes. "...Mr. Matthew Daley. Where's the mother now?"
"Valentine's with her, going over what exactly happened." Wilson opened his mouth, then shut it again.
"Go on, you looked like you were about to say something."
Wilson nodded. "It's just that there's something funny about this whole thing, that's why I came to you with it. There's something about him that gives me the creeps."
"How do you mean?"
"I can't put my finger on it," Wilson scratched his beard. "He just doesn't seem right to me." The veteran policeman had come across many people in his time, from all walks of life, and Robbins knew this. You got a sense about them, whether they were lying, whether they were about to punch you. When he said something wasn't right about this business, Robbins would be a fool to just dismiss it.
"You think he might have a screw loose, that it?"
"I don't know."
Robbins shrugged. "All right, what the hell. Let's see what we can find out about him. Then we'll have a nice little talk with our deceased friend."
~
The chair was uncomfortable, nothing like those in the house earlier. In fact this one was designedto make people uncomfortable, ill at ease. But if hefelt any discomfort at all he didn't show it.
Police Constable Frank Wilson stood by the wall as Robbins took a seat opposite the man. Wilson thought about the drive over to the station, how he'd kept looking in the rear view mirror, how the man had seemed to stare right back at him in the reflective surface. He hadn't said a word until they were halfway there, and then it was only to reiterate that he was Mrs. Daley's son, that he had made her a drink to calm her nerves, and he couldn't understand why he had been taken away. It was a thread that was picked up again when Robbins sat down, placing a manila file of papers on the table between them, and turning on the tape recorder to the left of him.
"Why have you brought me here? Am I being charged with something?" His words were even and considered.
Robbins turned it back on him. "Why do youthink you're here?"
The man sighed. "My mother rang you."
"And why do you think she did that?"
"She couldn't accept----"
"Accept who you are," Robbins finished for him.
There was no reply.
Robbins took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. "And who exactly are you?"
"Her son."
Robbins shook his head. "According to her, and..." He tapped the files in front of him. "...according to this, Matthew Daley died seven years ago. With the best will in the world, you can't be him... trust me."
"How do you know?"
"It was before my time here, but I've read the medical reports, seen the photos," Robbins said, narrowing his eyes.
"Photos?" asked the man.
"From when they brought him in. You don't know, do you?" Robbins looked back over at Wilson.
"Know what?" asked the man, leaning forward.
"That's interesting." The DCI faced him again. "You don't know how Matthew Daley died. Why is that?"
The man said nothing for a moment, then, "I can remember some things, but... others are a bit hazy."
"Well, there is no way on Earth that you can be him, I assure you. There's a resemblance, I'll give you that, but Mr. Daley..." Robbins stopped himself, unable to continue. "You can't be him; simple as that. Which begs the question, who are you? Who are you really? And what did you want with Mrs. Daley? Money, was that it?"
"Money?" The man seemed confused by the accusation.
"Yes, were you hoping to get money from her?"
"Why would I want her money?"
"You're telling me her money wouldn't interest you?"
"Course not."
"Were you hoping she'd be so confused and upset that she'd just hand over whatever savings she had to you?"
The man shook his head violently, slamming his fist on the table. "I didn't want her money," he insisted. "I... I just needed to see her. She's my mother."
"I don't think we're getting through to him, Wilson," said Robbins. "As I said before, Mr. Daley is dead. He's been in Westmoor Cemetery, in the ground, for seven years. You, sir, on the other hand, appear to be remarkably spry." Robbins folded his arms and sat back in his marginally more comfortable chair. "Surely you can see how we----and Mrs. Daley----would have a problem with that?"
"I can't explain it, I just know that----"
"Listen to me!" shouted Robbins, "I don't know what your game is, but in this station we don't take very kindly to men who scare little old ladies out of their wits for kicks."
"I never meant to frighten her. I just----"
"You just needed to see her, yeah you said."
The man was wriggling about now, agitated. "Isn't there some kind of test you can do? You said you had medical reports there----"
"The reports from the autopsy," clarified Robbins.
"Isn't there something you can----"
Robbins laughed. "Why should we, when we already know the answer? You're not Matthew Daley, sunshine. Live with it." He realized the significance of what he'd just said and a mocking grin creased his face again.
"But----"
The DCI took something out of his pocket and placed it on the desk. "Care to tell me why you had this about your person when you were picked up?"
The man went rigid. His eyes were glued to the little red car now on the table.
"Thought it might be worth something?"