so shall we get started?’
Nicholson nodded, smiling a little, feeling reassured. Feeling better.
‘Constable, would you do the honours?’ Logan passed Watson two brand new audiotapes and she unwrapped them, sticking one in each side of the recorder bolted to the wall before doing the same with a pair of videotapes. The machine clicked and bleeped as she pressed ‘R ECORD ’.
‘Interview with Mr Duncan Nicholson,’ she said, going through the standard names, date and time.
Logan smiled again. ‘Now then, Mr Nicholson, or can I call you Duncan?’
The man on the other side of the table cast a nervous glance at the camera in the corner of the room, over Logan’s shoulder. At last he nodded his shaved head.
‘So, Duncan, you found the body of David Reid last night?’
Nicholson nodded again.
‘You have to say something, Duncan,’ said Logan, his smile getting wider by the minute. ‘The tape can’t hear you if you nod.’
Nicholson’s eyes darted back to the staring glass eye of the video camera. ‘Er. . . Oh, sorry. Yeah. Yeah, I did. I found him last night.’
‘What were you doing down there in the middle of the night, Duncan?’
He shrugged. ‘I wis. . . takin’ a walk. You know, had a row with the wife and went for a walk.’
‘Down the riverbank? In the dead of night?’
The smile started to fade. ‘Er, yeah. I go down there sometimes to, you know, think an’ stuff.’
Logan crossed his arms, mirroring the PC sitting next to him. ‘So you went down there to think. And just happened to fall over the murdered body of a three-year-old boy?’
‘Er, yeah. . . I just. . . Look, I. . .’
‘Just happened to fall over the murdered body of a three-year-old boy. In a waterlogged ditch. Hidden beneath a sheet of chipboard. In the dark. In the pouring rain.’
Nicholson opened his mouth once or twice, but nothing came out.
Logan left him sitting in silence for almost two minutes. The man was getting more and more fidgety by the second, his shaved head now as sweaty as his upper lip, the smell of second-hand garlic oozing out of him in nervous waves.
‘I’d been. . . drinking, OK? I fell down, nearly killed myself goin’ down that bloody bank.’
‘You fell down the bank, in the pouring rain, and yet when the police arrived there wasn’t a speck of mud on you! You were clean as a whistle, Duncan. That doesn’t sound like someone who’s just fallen down a muddy bank and into a ditch, now does it?’
Nicholson ran a hand over the top of his head, the stubble making a faint scritching noise in the oppressive interview room. Dark blue stains marked his armpits.
‘I. . . I went home to call you. I got changed.’
‘I see.’ Logan switched the smile back on again. ‘Where were you on the thirteenth of August this year, between half past two and three in the afternoon?’
‘I. . . I don’t know.’
‘Then where were you between the hours of ten and eleven this morning?’
Nicholson’s eyes snapped open wide. ‘This mornin’? What’s goin’ on? I didnae kill anyone!’
‘Who said you did?’ Logan turned in his seat. ‘Constable Watson, did you hear me accuse Mr Nicholson of murder?’
‘No, sir.’
Nicholson squirmed.
Logan produced a list of all the children registered missing in the last three years and placed it on the table between them.
‘Where were you this morning, Duncan?’
‘I was watching the telly.’
‘And where were you on,’ Logan leant forward and read off the list, ‘the fifteenth of March between six and seven? No? How about the twenty-seventh of May, half-four to eight?’
They went through every date on the list, Nicholson sweating and murmuring his answers. He wasn’t anywhere he said. He was at home. He was watching television. The only people who could vouch for his whereabouts were Jerry Springer and Oprah Winfrey. And they were mostly repeats.
‘Well, Duncan,’ said Logan when they’d got to the end of the list, ‘doesn’t look
Nicholson nodded, smiling a little, feeling reassured. Feeling better.
‘Constable, would you do the honours?’ Logan passed Watson two brand new audiotapes and she unwrapped them, sticking one in each side of the recorder bolted to the wall before doing the same with a pair of videotapes. The machine clicked and bleeped as she pressed ‘R ECORD ’.
‘Interview with Mr Duncan Nicholson,’ she said, going through the standard names, date and time.
Logan smiled again. ‘Now then, Mr Nicholson, or can I call you Duncan?’
The man on the other side of the table cast a nervous glance at the camera in the corner of the room, over Logan’s shoulder. At last he nodded his shaved head.
‘So, Duncan, you found the body of David Reid last night?’
Nicholson nodded again.
‘You have to say something, Duncan,’ said Logan, his smile getting wider by the minute. ‘The tape can’t hear you if you nod.’
Nicholson’s eyes darted back to the staring glass eye of the video camera. ‘Er. . . Oh, sorry. Yeah. Yeah, I did. I found him last night.’
‘What were you doing down there in the middle of the night, Duncan?’
He shrugged. ‘I wis. . . takin’ a walk. You know, had a row with the wife and went for a walk.’
‘Down the riverbank? In the dead of night?’
The smile started to fade. ‘Er, yeah. I go down there sometimes to, you know, think an’ stuff.’
Logan crossed his arms, mirroring the PC sitting next to him. ‘So you went down there to think. And just happened to fall over the murdered body of a three-year-old boy?’
‘Er, yeah. . . I just. . . Look, I. . .’
‘Just happened to fall over the murdered body of a three-year-old boy. In a waterlogged ditch. Hidden beneath a sheet of chipboard. In the dark. In the pouring rain.’
Nicholson opened his mouth once or twice, but nothing came out.
Logan left him sitting in silence for almost two minutes. The man was getting more and more fidgety by the second, his shaved head now as sweaty as his upper lip, the smell of second-hand garlic oozing out of him in nervous waves.
‘I’d been. . . drinking, OK? I fell down, nearly killed myself goin’ down that bloody bank.’
‘You fell down the bank, in the pouring rain, and yet when the police arrived there wasn’t a speck of mud on you! You were clean as a whistle, Duncan. That doesn’t sound like someone who’s just fallen down a muddy bank and into a ditch, now does it?’
Nicholson ran a hand over the top of his head, the stubble making a faint scritching noise in the oppressive interview room. Dark blue stains marked his armpits.
‘I. . . I went home to call you. I got changed.’
‘I see.’ Logan switched the smile back on again. ‘Where were you on the thirteenth of August this year, between half past two and three in the afternoon?’
‘I. . . I don’t know.’
‘Then where were you between the hours of ten and eleven this morning?’
Nicholson’s eyes snapped open wide. ‘This mornin’? What’s goin’ on? I didnae kill anyone!’
‘Who said you did?’ Logan turned in his seat. ‘Constable Watson, did you hear me accuse Mr Nicholson of murder?’
‘No, sir.’
Nicholson squirmed.
Logan produced a list of all the children registered missing in the last three years and placed it on the table between them.
‘Where were you this morning, Duncan?’
‘I was watching the telly.’
‘And where were you on,’ Logan leant forward and read off the list, ‘the fifteenth of March between six and seven? No? How about the twenty-seventh of May, half-four to eight?’
They went through every date on the list, Nicholson sweating and murmuring his answers. He wasn’t anywhere he said. He was at home. He was watching television. The only people who could vouch for his whereabouts were Jerry Springer and Oprah Winfrey. And they were mostly repeats.
‘Well, Duncan,’ said Logan when they’d got to the end of the list, ‘doesn’t look
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