“How long have you known Elizabeth Uriel?” the woman asked, leaning forward, her face uncomfortably close to mine.
“I’ve never heard of her. Who is she?”
My interrogators looked at each other.
“We found your photograph in her flat. You’d signed it. To Liz with all my love, Jack.”
I closed my eyes. Had I known a Liz Uriel? Or any Liz, come to that? I’d met one once at my publisher’s office, but I was sure her surname was something quite different. And I certainly hadn’t given any woman a signed photograph. That’s not the sort of thing I normally do.
I took a deep breath, trying to keep calm. “As far as I know, I’m not acquainted with anyone of that name. Have you consulted a handwriting expert?” I asked hopefully. “Because as far as I can remember, I’ve never signed a photograph in my life.”
When there was no answer, I sensed they were on shaky ground and I felt a fresh wave of confidence. “Look, I really don’t think I’ve ever met this Liz Uriel, but if you show me a picture of her, I’ll be able to tell you for sure.” I tried to sound helpful, playing the cooperative citizen with nothing to hide.
Another glance was exchanged between my interrogators and the woman, a plump mouse-blonde with too-perfect teeth, produced a photograph like a conjurer producing a rabbit from a top hat. She slid it towards me, face down. I reached for it and turned it over.
My hands began to shake. It was the shock of seeing that dreadful image of the dead woman with her discoloured face and staring, blank eyes. At first I looked away in horror, then I forced myself to study the face. It was the face of a stranger. I was as sure as I could be that I’d never seen her before.
The two detectives looked at me expectantly.
“I don’t know her. Who is she? Where does she live? Where did she work? How was she killed and where? If you tell me about her, I might be able to prove I’m innocent.”
The woman took the photograph from my trembling fingers. “She lived near you in a flat just off Bootham. She was twenty-five years old and she worked in the box office at the theatre. She was killed in her flat... strangled. Her body was found the next morning by a friend who’d arranged to call round for coffee. We found various items in her flat indicating that you and she were...”
My heart began to pound. I didn’t know Liz Uriel. And I hadn’t been to the theatre for at least seven years. “What items?” I heard myself asking.
“A couple of utility bills. Your passport. Your credit-card statement.”
I was half aware of my mouth falling open in amazement. As far as I knew my passport was stashed safely at the bottom of the chest of drawers in my living room. I hadn’t bothered looking at it since I’d put it there for safety after my last trip to the States six months ago. As for the credit-card and utility bills, I’d paid them and filed them away in a kitchen drawer as usual.
“Now we have your fingerprints and a sample of your DNA, we’ll see what turns up at the murder scene.”
I began to feel the first flutterings of panic. “Look, this is ridiculous. I’ve no idea how those things came to be in this woman’s flat. I didn’t know her. And why should I have taken my passport and an assortment of bills round to her place if I was going to kill her anyway?” Suddenly I saw a ray of hope in the darkness of that windowless interview room. “It’s a setup. I’m being set up. Someone must have stolen those things from my flat to incriminate me.”
“And who would do that?”
I shook my head. It was a question I couldn’t answer. I had no enemies as far as I knew. Certainly nobody who’d go to all this trouble. “When exactly was she murdered?” I asked. Surely there must be some way to prove my innocence.
“The pathologist reckons she’d been dead for roughly twelve hours when she was found, so death probably occurred sometime on Saturday night between nine and midnight.”
I felt my lips twitch upwards in a smile. “I was at a school reunion that night. Lots of witnesses. You can check.”
This time the glance between the two police officers was one of deflated disappointment. “We will,” the man said before pushing a notepad and pen towards me.
I scribbled down some names and the woman left the room with the pad. Then I sat back in my chair, arms folded, awaiting her return and my inevitable release.
But when she came back, I was in for a shock.
I had been in the cell for over three hours before they came for me again, and I realised that I hadn’t known true boredom until that day. How long, I wondered, could a man sit on a blue plastic mattress in a small room staring at four blank walls before going insane? The time dragged, and each minute seemed like an hour. When they came to take me to the interview room again, I felt an unexpected rush of relief.
But my elation was short-lived. The same two officers were waiting for me and the young man had a smug look on his face.
“We’ve been speaking to some of your old school pals.” He let the sentence hang in the air, as though he was about to impart a juicy piece of news.
“And?” I prompted. “They confirmed I was at the reunion all evening?”
The man sat back, a self-satisfied smile on his face. For a few moments I felt like punching him, but I knew I’d come off worst. “Nobody saw you after ten, and everyone presumed you’d left early. Apparently you were so drunk you could hardly walk straight. Someone saw you being helped outside, but they can’t remember who you were with.”
“I didn’t. I...” I found myself stuttering, my heart sinking with despair. I didn’t remember leaving the reunion. In fact, I didn’t remember anything of that evening after around nine-thirty. Had I left alone? How had I got home? Suddenly I realised I had no idea. “I want a lawyer,” I heard myself say before giving them Robbie’s name. My old classmate, Robbie Galton, had missed the reunion because of a prior engagement, but he had been a good friend over the years. And he was a partner in one of the city’s leading law firms.
If anyone could get me out of there, it would be Robbie Galton.
I waited in the cell for two endless hours for Robbie to turn up, and when he did he looked worried. Robbie was still lean as a ferret, with sharp features and restless hands. At school he had been good at games — the one picked for all the teams — and he had been an amiable, easygoing boy who had grown into an amiable, easygoing man. I liked Robbie, and we met up often... usually in far better situations than the one I found myself in now.
Robbie sat down beside me on the blue mattress, a concerned frown clouding his face. “So what happened?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember a thing after about half-nine. They say I was drunk, but I can’t remember having that much to drink. And I know I couldn’t have killed this woman. I didn’t even know her.”
Robbie thought for a few moments. “From the evidence I’ve seen, I tend to agree with you, mate. Who’d take utility bills and a passport round to their victim’s flat so they can be discovered conveniently by the police? It doesn’t make sense. Have you had a break-in recently?”
I shook my head.
“But if the killer found you unconscious, he could have taken your keys and helped himself. You’re sure you can’t remember having a lot to drink at the reunion?”
“A few glasses of wine. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Could someone have spiked your drink?”
I felt my heart lift. Of course. I had felt awful the next morning — certainly worse than a normal hangover. Why hadn’t I thought of it earlier? “They can do blood tests for traces of drugs, can’t they?” I said hopefully. “If they...”
But Robbie interrupted. “I’m afraid some of these so-called date-rape drugs leave the bloodstream pretty quickly, and it’s over thirty-six hours already so it’s going to be hard to prove. But it’s worth a try. Can you remember who you were talking to?”