‘Caroline killed herself and Jo took an overdose. I’m not responsible for either.’
‘I’m sure that’s how it is for you, Jack, but is that right? At some time you just have to stop the ride and ask whether it’s right.’
I watched her walk away and after a couple of minutes followed, head down as I negotiated the corridors. In the car I sat huddled against the door. I thought of nothing.
TWELVE
The simplest way of dealing with Bebe was to lie. I could have said I’d been to see Dad, or gone shopping, but it never entered my head to deceive him. I never lied to Bebe for two reasons. First, when someone knows everything about the worst of your nature, what’s left to hide? Second, I accept that he will always find out. I learnt at the very beginning of our relationship that he possessed an unsurpassed nose for detecting bullshit. In his present state of heightened anxiety there was no question he would debrief my driver, so, with a drop of the head, like a boy whose father has found condoms in his sock drawer, I confessed to Bebe that I had visited Jo in hospital.
Bebe passed quickly through the anger barrier and soared to rage. He lectured me on every conceivable reason why I should have stayed clear of the hospital but he saved the best for last. The police, in the shape of Detective Ryan, had already visited Bebe and wanted to interview me before I left Auckland for the Wellington show. The piece of news lanced Bebe’s rage boil and I watched him deflate in the same way an imperfectly tied balloon loses air on a party wall until he finally sank to the nearest chair. His chest heaved with the emotion of the moment. We sat in silence for ten minutes in almost total darkness. I wanted to draw Bebe out of his despair, but I knew deep down that if I sank he’d go down with me, so I let him be until he was ready to resurface. And ready he had to be, because like all the greatest conspiracies it wasn’t the crime that sent you down, it was the cover-up and that was where Bebe was in the shit up to his neck. Oh yes, it’s always the lie that gets you—that’s the lesson of Watergate, of Clinton. The moment they lied they were dead meat: the public can tolerate weakness; what they can’t stomach is lying. Bebe knew this simple rule, and that’s why he was so angry.
We spent thirty minutes going through the story. It was of vital importance, Bebe said, that I understood completely what needed to be said at the coming police interview. I learnt my script and then we left.
Detective Ryan met us at the front desk and we followed him down polished corridors to an interview room where I was asked to wait while he showed Bebe to another room. There had been a discussion about a lawyer, but Bebe and I had agreed to refuse one because nothing could be added to what needed to be said. This was confirmed to Ryan, who accepted the information politely and chatted to me as he set up for the interview. There was an odd institutional smell in the room, the smell of old plaster and damp metal. The only furniture was a table with two chairs on each side and a tape machine. A second officer entered and sat next to Ryan, who meticulously peeled cellophane from the tape case and precisely placed it in the second deck. I liked Ryan. He’d been polite, courteous and apologetic throughout the whole process. I felt he was on my side, that he was rooting for me and that he knew what an imposition this was. Normally they wouldn’t tape a conversation like this, he told me, but because I was leaving Auckland and then New Zealand they wanted to ensure they covered everything. He smiled as he spoke. The second detective, whose name was Orton, was less forthcoming, but I sensed no hostility from him either.
Once the system was set, Ryan opened a folder he’d brought with him. He was a big man in his mid-forties. Once his frame would have been impressive, definitely a rugby player, a flanker probably, given his height. The athleticism of his younger days had lost the battle with age, though, as muscle had turned to fat and he looked as if much of his body had slipped from its frame. His face was marked with a large birthmark on his left cheek. Red spider veins spread from either side of his nose like small river tributaries as seen from space.
‘This is Detective Ryan, with me is Detective Orton, we are interviewing Mr Jack Mitchell. He has declined a lawyer. Mr Mitchell, I would like to ask you some questions about an incident concerning Jo Thompson last night at the Hilton Hotel. Can you confirm whether you know Ms Thompson?’
‘Yes, I know her.’
‘How do you know her, Mr Mitchell?’
‘We went to school together.’
‘Did you see her the night before last?’
‘Yes, yes I did. After the show I was doing at the Aotea Centre I returned to the Hilton Hotel where I’m staying. There was an end of show party being held there and Jo came along.’
‘How did she know about the party?’
‘The night before I’d been to a school reunion dinner. I met Jo there and I invited her to come along to the Hilton party.’
‘This dinner would have been at a restaurant in Mission Bay, would it?’
‘That’s right, yes.’
‘Did you leave the dinner with Ms Thompson?’
‘We did leave together.’
‘And can you tell us what happened?’
‘My assistant, Bebe, and my driver collected us from outside the restaurant and we dropped her off in the middle of town, by Borders bookshop.’ Did Ryan detect the shake of my voice as I told the first lie? I couldn’t help but think of the driver as we talked. Bebe would be rock solid with this if asked, but the driver? ‘You can ask Bebe and the driver if you want to check.’
‘We’ve been told you two looked…close when you left the restaurant. Why did you drop her off? Why didn’t you go on somewhere?’
‘Go on somewhere? Look, it was never like that, Detective Ryan. Sure, we were having a laugh, but there was never any question of sex or anything like that if that’s what you’re suggesting. We were just old friends. She had something to go on to and so I dropped her off. Then I went back to the hotel.’
‘Where was she going?’
‘A club, she said, but I don’t think she said which one, she just asked to be dropped off.’
‘What time did you drop her off?’
‘Midnight.’ I felt a trickle of sweat on my back. Every question was deepening the lie and now I was lying to every question.
‘And the next night she came to the party?’
‘Yes.’ I felt the warm relief of being able to answer truthfully.
‘At what time?’
‘Look, I really don’t know. There were a hundred plus people there and I had to talk to all of them—that’s what I have to do at those bloody things.’ Ryan nodded as though he spent many of his free evenings at celebrity parties. ‘I’d been talking to this Russian woman and when I turned back to the party I saw Jo already there and that’s the first time I saw her, I mean noticed her.’
Ryan paused and flicked through some notes in the folder. He glanced at Orton. They didn’t speak, but there was a hidden conversation between them. ‘And this Russian, do you know her name?’
Until now the interview had gone as anticipated by Bebe and I’d run to script, but for the first time I sensed a loss of control. Keep to the story, I heard Bebe say, whatever they throw at you, just keep to the story, don’t deviate for any reason. ‘Sorry, I really don’t think I asked her name.’ I kicked myself—a simple no would have done. Keep to the script.
‘Really?’
‘I meet hundreds of people at these parties. I can’t remember their names so I make no attempt to know them.’
‘Could it have been Claudia?’
‘I really don’t know.’