“That shows remorse, David,” Gibson said. “Remorse is good. Remorse could really help you. But you have to tell us.”
“Your lawyer will tell you to keep quiet,” Harris said. “But he doesn’t have to live with this thing. You do.”
“So, if you were sorry, if you were trying to put things right-tell us about it,” Gibson said. “You’ll feel a whole lot better.”
“And save yourself a whole lot of jail time,” Harris said.
“Because if you don’t talk to us, we’ll have to pull in that witness,” Gibson said. “And with a description of you like he gave on the phone, he’ll pull you out of a lineup in a second.”
“And that would change the game, David,” Harris said. “Big-time.”
“Make what you did look premeditated,” Gibson said.
“Self-defense would be out of the window,” Harris said.
“Manslaughter would be out,” Gibson said.
“We’d be talking about murder,” Harris said. “Think about that.”
Gibson slid his pen and a pad of paper toward me.
“Write what happened, the way we told you,” he said. “Or write your lawyer’s number. Your choice.”
I wrote down a number.
FIVE
The first thing I do in the morning, if I’m not in jail, is read the papers.
I enjoy them well enough from Monday to Saturday. Sundays aren’t so good, though. There’s too little news. Too much opinion. And a huge sheaf of magazines to deal with. Like the ones I picked up at Charles-de-Gaulle on my way over to start this last job. There was a whole supplement about people’s attitudes to work. Why had they taken their jobs? What did they like about them? What did they not like? What would make them leave? The answers had been spun out into four pages of bar graphs and diagrams and pie charts. All the usual reasons were there-money, status, promotion, hours, travel. But according to the journalists, the biggest factor was “interaction with colleagues.”
Not something you’d expect to see in my profession.
Although, just once, I met someone who made me wish it was.
Tanya Wilson looked pretty much the same as the day I first met her in Madrid, three years ago. She was five feet eight, slim, with an elegant blue suit that combined perfectly with her plain white blouse and low-heeled navy shoes. Her dark shoulder-length hair was pulled back from her face, as usual. She’d always preferred that style, despite the way it emphasized the sharpness of her features. I remember thinking at our original meeting that she looked like a lawyer, and today, with a battered leather briefcase and narrow metal-framed glasses, the impression was stronger still.
For a moment neither of us spoke.
In our profession, when it comes to relationships, there’s a line you don’t cross. Or at least, you don’t if you have any sense. Tanya and I both understood, but we’d come close to crossing it anyway that spring. Perilously close. Maybe a couple of toes had actually crept over to the other side. I’m pretty sure mine had. I think hers had, too. But before we could abandon reason altogether and leap right across with both feet, fate intervened. I was sent to Morocco, to collect someone.
It should have been a routine trip. Four days, maximum, there and back. Tanya was handling the arrangements so I had no reason to worry. And as you’d expect, the job started flawlessly. Travel documents, flights, currency, accommodation, vehicles. Everything went exactly according to plan. There wasn’t even the slightest hint of a hitch until the end of day two. Then, when we were thirty minutes away from our rendezvous, that all changed. There was an incident with our Jeep. It was caught in an explosion. Some sort of improvised roadside device, I assume, but there was no proper investigation into what kind. I never found out who planted it. How it was triggered. What happened to our contact. Who cleaned up the mess. Or how the remains of the driver-someone I’d known for ten years-ended up back in Scotland for a memorial service I couldn’t attend. All I can remember is waking up in a hospital in Rabat, two days later. It was a dismal place. The lights were down low and I thought I’d been left there alone, but as I drifted back into consciousness I realized that someone else was with me. It was Tanya. She was standing at the end of my bed, silently watching me, with a single tear glistening in the corner of her right eye.
Tanya visited me every day after that. First in Morocco, then in Spain when I was sent back to recuperate. Some days she could only grab a few minutes. Others she was with me for hours on end. But however long we were together, all we could think about was getting some real time to ourselves. Alone. Away from doctors and nurses and squeaky hospital furniture. It was becoming an obsession. Rules and conventions and protocols wouldn’t have stood a chance. Nothing would, if fate hadn’t showed its hand a second time.
The same day I was discharged from the hospital, Tanya was transferred. I never heard where to. She was just there one day, gone the next. That’s the way it goes in our world. There was nothing either of us could do. But she’s been on my mind a lot since then. I often wondered, if our paths crossed again, would I feel the same? And that old question was just raising its head when Tanya broke eye contact and turned to close the interview room door. She checked it had latched and then came over toward the chair Gibson had been using. A subtle hint of sandalwood and bergamot drifted over to me as she moved and I felt a tiny shiver ripple the skin between my shoulder blades.
I guess I had my answer.
“Sorry, David,” she said as she sat down. “I got here as quickly as I could. Have you been waiting long?”
“One thousand and forty-nine days,” I said.
Tanya looked blank for a moment, then broke into a shy smile.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I only flew in yesterday. Started here this morning. Didn’t know you were even in town till I heard the call come in from the detectives. Then I had to check a couple of things. It’s been a while since I crossed swords in the American courts.”
“You’re fresh in and they gave you the case?” I said.
“I took it. I didn’t give them a choice. My stock’s risen a little, these last couple of years. And I couldn’t leave it to anyone else. Not once I realized they were talking about you. I’m the only here who knows what you’re really like.”
“What am I really like?”
“Oh, no. I’m not answering that one. So. I haven’t seen you for a while. How’ve you been?”
“Can’t complain. Still in one piece. You?”
“Fine. Or I will be, once I get you out of here.”
“Heard the latest?”
“Think so. I spoke to the detectives before I came in. They have one dead body and a pretty strong impression you’re responsible for it. Plus lots of circumstantial evidence. And a recording from an eyewitness. It sounds like a mess, David, quite frankly.”
“It’s bogus, is what it is.”
“I know that. But the point is, we’ll have to work a lot harder. Knowing they have that kind of testimony will make you more of a flight risk. And with you being a foreign national, it could be a problem.”
“Flight risk? What do you mean?”
“When we ask for bail. The judge won’t agree if it looks like you could run.”
“Sorry, Tanya-what bail?”
“To get you out of here. Oh, hold on. Wait a minute. You weren’t going to ask London for…?”
“Tanya,” I said, nodding toward the observation mirror.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “They can watch us, but not listen. Not while I’m present. They wouldn’t risk it. So, tell me you weren’t about to mention the d-word?”
I didn’t answer.
“You were, weren’t you?” she said. “You were going to ask to be hooked out. From the U.S.A. Are you mad?”
“Is that a problem?” I said.
“Don’t you get operational bulletins anymore, David?”