unyielding.
I nodded. She pressed the record button, and told the machine where she was, and who she was talking to. Then she turned to look at me.
‘I should just say here at the start that you are by no means a suspect at the current time.’
‘At the current time? What are you saying?’
‘That you are not a suspect.’
‘You had me worried.’
This time there was more understanding in her smile.
‘We appreciate that the form of wording we use can seem vague. I hope you understand why we have to speak in these terms.’
‘Sure. Sorry.’
‘I need to start by asking you a little about your professional life, Mr Mercer.’
‘I’m a TV producer.’
‘And you work for?’
‘Myself.’
‘And what does that involve?’
‘It used to be said that you employed everyone else on set.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Now I pretty much just do what I’m told,’ I said.
These were her warm-up questions; my answers didn’t matter. She was establishing a pattern of question-and-answer, she was making it clear that she was in control.
‘I interview people on camera, so I know how this bit of your job feels.’ I smiled, but she didn’t smile back. She wasn’t trying to establish a rapport with me.
‘Do you have any imminent travel plans?’
‘I plan the shooting, and the editing. I have responsibility for the budget.’
‘Thank you. Duly noted. Your travel plans?’
‘There’s a whole lot of other stuff too. I also direct.’
‘All right, Mr Mercer,’ she said. ‘And do you plan to work outside the country in the next twelve weeks?’
‘New York. Next week. And Chicago. And LA. And San Francisco.’
‘Hmm. OK.’
‘Series with Dee Effingham. Her twelve favourite men in comedy.’
‘Duly noted.’ If she was impressed, she didn’t show it.
The real questions began. She asked me to tell her about finding the dead neighbour. She was patient and very thorough. She asked open-ended questions, never trying to anticipate my answer. From time to time she would produce a small notebook from her inside pocket, write single words in block capitals.
WATER. CRACK. ERECTION
. If I started to interpret what I had seen, she would gently lead me back to the facts. All the while, the voice recorder sat at her side, bearing witness to my testimony.
Twenty minutes into our conversation, Millicent and Derek came in from the garden. Millicent was guarded, on edge. I tried to catch her eye, but she looked away, her attention focused on the detective, who nodded to his colleague but didn’t look at me.
I reached for Millicent’s hand, and she let it rest in mine for a moment. Then she was seeing the detective out of the room and to the front door.
As June and I talked, I heard water running in the bathroom upstairs, heard Millicent’s footfalls on our bedroom floor. Then I heard her coming down the stairs and quietly letting herself out of the house.
‘I’d really like to know what that was about now, please, if you don’t mind.’
‘And I’ve explained to you that I can’t discuss that with you, Mr Mercer. I’m sorry, I really am.’ She meant it, the sorry part. For the first time the professional distance dropped away; I could see something like sympathy in her eyes.
‘Would you mind if I had a cigarette? I could leave the back door open.’ She smiled. ‘And can I make some more coffee?’
‘Of course. I’ll have a cup too, if I may.’
This was worse. I didn’t want her pity, didn’t want there to be a reason for her to feel sorry for me. My hands shook as I made the coffee, shook as I lit my cigarette, shook as I handed her a cup.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Lack of sleep. And the fags probably don’t help. We both know we need to stop. For our son if nothing else.’
She gave me her sympathetic smile again, left her coffee cup untouched. I drank my own coffee and smoked in silence. I wondered where Millicent was.
‘Are you all right, Mr Mercer?’
‘Yeah, can we get this
I nodded. She pressed the record button, and told the machine where she was, and who she was talking to. Then she turned to look at me.
‘I should just say here at the start that you are by no means a suspect at the current time.’
‘At the current time? What are you saying?’
‘That you are not a suspect.’
‘You had me worried.’
This time there was more understanding in her smile.
‘We appreciate that the form of wording we use can seem vague. I hope you understand why we have to speak in these terms.’
‘Sure. Sorry.’
‘I need to start by asking you a little about your professional life, Mr Mercer.’
‘I’m a TV producer.’
‘And you work for?’
‘Myself.’
‘And what does that involve?’
‘It used to be said that you employed everyone else on set.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Now I pretty much just do what I’m told,’ I said.
These were her warm-up questions; my answers didn’t matter. She was establishing a pattern of question-and-answer, she was making it clear that she was in control.
‘I interview people on camera, so I know how this bit of your job feels.’ I smiled, but she didn’t smile back. She wasn’t trying to establish a rapport with me.
‘Do you have any imminent travel plans?’
‘I plan the shooting, and the editing. I have responsibility for the budget.’
‘Thank you. Duly noted. Your travel plans?’
‘There’s a whole lot of other stuff too. I also direct.’
‘All right, Mr Mercer,’ she said. ‘And do you plan to work outside the country in the next twelve weeks?’
‘New York. Next week. And Chicago. And LA. And San Francisco.’
‘Hmm. OK.’
‘Series with Dee Effingham. Her twelve favourite men in comedy.’
‘Duly noted.’ If she was impressed, she didn’t show it.
The real questions began. She asked me to tell her about finding the dead neighbour. She was patient and very thorough. She asked open-ended questions, never trying to anticipate my answer. From time to time she would produce a small notebook from her inside pocket, write single words in block capitals.
WATER. CRACK. ERECTION
. If I started to interpret what I had seen, she would gently lead me back to the facts. All the while, the voice recorder sat at her side, bearing witness to my testimony.
Twenty minutes into our conversation, Millicent and Derek came in from the garden. Millicent was guarded, on edge. I tried to catch her eye, but she looked away, her attention focused on the detective, who nodded to his colleague but didn’t look at me.
I reached for Millicent’s hand, and she let it rest in mine for a moment. Then she was seeing the detective out of the room and to the front door.
As June and I talked, I heard water running in the bathroom upstairs, heard Millicent’s footfalls on our bedroom floor. Then I heard her coming down the stairs and quietly letting herself out of the house.
‘I’d really like to know what that was about now, please, if you don’t mind.’
‘And I’ve explained to you that I can’t discuss that with you, Mr Mercer. I’m sorry, I really am.’ She meant it, the sorry part. For the first time the professional distance dropped away; I could see something like sympathy in her eyes.
‘Would you mind if I had a cigarette? I could leave the back door open.’ She smiled. ‘And can I make some more coffee?’
‘Of course. I’ll have a cup too, if I may.’
This was worse. I didn’t want her pity, didn’t want there to be a reason for her to feel sorry for me. My hands shook as I made the coffee, shook as I lit my cigarette, shook as I handed her a cup.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Lack of sleep. And the fags probably don’t help. We both know we need to stop. For our son if nothing else.’
She gave me her sympathetic smile again, left her coffee cup untouched. I drank my own coffee and smoked in silence. I wondered where Millicent was.
‘Are you all right, Mr Mercer?’
‘Yeah, can we get this
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