Dana let the silence linger, openly studying him, watching the reaction it produced. As she’d expected, he turned away, as though she’d bullied him in a schoolyard.
‘You’re finding the number of people around you disturbing, Mr Whittler.’
She didn’t ask; she stated. He didn’t reply.
‘I thought about this as you were brought in. I can’t necessarily reduce the number of people around you, but perhaps some explanation will give you a little context.’
No response. Although he shivered: seemingly involuntarily, judging by his slight grimace. Any body language, any inflection – let alone any comment – appeared to him an unconscionable degree of exposure on his part. Perhaps he would prefer total darkness, or to be a disembodied voice: being visible and tangible was apparently unfamiliar, worrying. She sensed that dealing with Nathan Whittler would be like walking on coral – sharp, unsteady, desperately fragile; wanting to explore but fearing that, with every step, she would be destroying what she sought to understand.
‘You’re being held in a glass-fronted cell, for now. I apologise for that, but we’re guided by the advice of our specialist doctor. He’s concerned – as we all are – that you’re finding this situation difficult, and this makes you… vulnerable. We’ll play that by ear, Mr Whittler, but the current situation is medically guided, and for your own welfare.’
Nathan scratched his ear with a shaking hand, which he then enclosed with the other. Dana looked for a sign of some kind that she was helping. She found nothing.
‘My aim in speaking to you, Mr Whittler, is to restrict ourselves to short stretches of conversation so that you’re not tired out.’
While Dana was talking he gazed around the room, as if this were the first time he was truly cognisant of it. She followed his gaze. Blank blue walls drew the eye to the mirror. She wondered if he’d seen enough television to know there were people beyond.
‘I sense that your unease goes beyond being in a police station and being interviewed. So allow me to clarify. I’ll be the only person you need to speak to, unless you choose to talk to anyone else. So you needn’t try to work out, or work on, dealing with anyone else. It’s only you and I, Mr Whittler.’
The silence seemed to shift in some intangible way: a little more amiable.
‘We often have wilfully gabby people in here,’ she continued. ‘They talk and talk but say nothing. Frankly, it’ll be nice to speak to someone who measures and values words.’
His features softened and his lips twitched. Dana felt her skin flush slightly at the realisation that she had her technique for the coming interviews. This time, he knew the microphone would pick him up without leaning forward.
‘I think that I will speak to you, Detective, but not to anyone else. That is my preference.’
It was soft and sharp at the same time: it made Dana stop for a moment. Responsibility, opportunity. Pressure.
‘Mr Whittler, we haven’t found an address for you as yet. Could you tell me your current address, please?’
‘I cannot, Detective Russo.’
She paused, waiting for him to fill the space. The tape spooled on.
‘I see. Are you currently homeless, Mr Whittler?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I’m not. I have a home, but not an address.’
Riddles. Unlike most detectives, she liked suspects who talked elliptically, who danced around and made the police do the work. In her experience, the suspect gave her credit when she worked it out – it took their communication to a different level.
‘The logical inference’ – she glanced at him and thought she spotted a gold star for using the word – ‘would be some form of mobile home – a caravan, or a motorhome, or a boat.’ She watched him carefully. Not a flicker. ‘But I don’t sense that’s correct.’
Just a small shift in his chair, maybe ten centimetres. He hid it with another scratch at his arm, which she could see held five or six insect bites. But he did move.
‘Would you like some calamine for those bites, Mr Whittler? I’m sure we could find some.’
‘No, thank you, Detective. I’m quite used to them.’
She made sure he noticed her scribble on the pad. She was certain he couldn’t read her scrawl upside down – few could read it at all – but he watched her take note of something significant.
Dana needed to see that he wanted to know.
‘So, your accommodation. We’ll come back to that, if we may. I’ll write “undefined” for now.’
His stony expression affected disdain for whatever she was recording, but again she saw him inching towards her.
She changed tack. ‘I’m sorry about the jumpsuit, by the way. It’s standard issue. We needed your clothing for forensic analysis.’
He shook his head a little sadly.
‘Mr Whittler? Something about the jumpsuit?’
He risked – and it felt like a risk to her – a quick glance at her face. Then he shied away, as if he’d stared at the sun. He recomposed himself with some deep breaths: she recognised the technique as a stomach-settling, centring exercise from her youth. It took her inside herself: deep down, away from whatever she was facing.
‘The jumpsuit is not problematic, Detective. I think the process, however, was unnecessary.’ He was talking to the table leg.
‘The process? Please explain, Mr Whittler.’
He folded his arms and for a second Dana thought he’d clam up entirely. Her heart yelped as she thought she’d blown it, and blown it early. In the split-second that followed she realised how much she had already been drawn into him.
‘To wear this jumpsuit, Detective, I had to take off my own clothes. As you say, they’re needed for forensics, and I understand that. But it meant I had to undress… well… in front of other people. I assume you make everyone do that; but still… I found it… uncomfortable.’
He sat back a little. She paused before replying. His fear of people seemed deep, defining. She needed to understand more about where it came from and what it implied – it suffused everything he did.
‘Yes. Yes, Mr Whittler, I can understand that. I apologise. Unfortunately, we have a standard procedure we have to follow with everyone, regardless of circumstance. The courts demand that we do it the same way each time.’
‘Hmm. You’re someone who values her privacy, Detective. Yes?’
People had accused her of projecting that. She had been charged with being introspective, a deep thinker; a non-sharer. And it had come with that pejorative tone.
‘Yes, very much so. It’s a dying art, don’t you think?’
He seemed unable to actually smile, but capable of a smirk.
She paused again, sizing up what she needed to do at this point.
‘The court’s demand: it’s intended to protect your rights, in part. But I can see how it would… affect your privacy. I’ll try to ensure it’s done more respectfully if it’s needed again.’
He nodded sagely at the floor and his reply was almost a whisper. ‘Thank you, Detective Russo.’ He sipped at the water; his hand shook a little. He reached with one finger and lightly touched the bottle cap.
‘May I ask you about your early life, Mr Whittler?’
He scratched at his bites again, but absent-mindedly, as though he did this so often it was subconscious. She took his silence as not quite assent, not quite dissent: she edged across the highwire in between.
‘You were born near here?’
He looked up towards the ceiling momentarily; the information appeared to be a reach, and she wondered why. Again, she thought of Bill and his view that Nathan would be hard to catch in a lie. But this information could be – was being – checked.