Sunday, 29 October

Evening

The interview room in Keswick police station has the look of a nuclear bunker, and the hostile expressions of the two detectives sitting across from me only add to the bleakness. I have already revealed to them my position at the Met; my ID lies on the table between us. But it seems professional courtesy in these parts extends no further than providing me with a cup of muddy water masquerading as coffee.

On the right of the two sits Detective Inspector Hewitt in a polo-necked sweater and tracksuit trousers. She hasn’t aged a day in the past five years. As she chews a stick of gum, she makes no effort to keep her mouth closed.

Beside her sits the young man who surprised me at the Posthouse earlier—DC Daniel Knox. Knox has a heart-shaped face and floppy hair, and his round, wire-rimmed glasses make him look like a university lecturer. His crumpled suit and crooked tie suggest that he, unlike his boss, has put in a full shift today.

The silence drags out. Hewitt must have spent too much time reading the Idiots’ Guide to Intimidating Interviews, for she glares at me as if she expects me to crumble under the weight of her gaze. In reality I am grateful for this pause because it gives me a chance to consider how I will answer her questions. Whilst telling the truth is out of the question, I don’t want to get caught in an outright lie either. That leaves me a narrow line to tread, especially since I have no idea how much the detectives already know about my reasons for coming to the Lake District. Was it bad luck I bumped into Knox at the Posthouse? Or did McGrath tell him I was in town?

Knox sneaks a look at his watch. Apparently, I am not the only one with places I would rather be. Hewitt hasn’t arrested me, so I am within my rights to get up and leave. Yet I know I must be on my best behaviour. I may not have broken any laws at the Posthouse, but Hewitt could make my life awkward for as long as I remain in Keswick. In any case, if I play this right, I could learn what she has found out about Mystery Woman.

Finally the DI tires of her own game. “Mrs Greenwood—” she begins.

“Ms Greenwood,” I correct her.

“You’re divorced? Oh, I am sorry to hear that. Aren’t you sorry, Constable?”

Knox nods.

I take a breath and count to ten. Best behaviour, remember. “Thank you.”

“So, Ms Greenwood,” Hewitt continues. “It’s good to see you again after all these years. What brings you to the Lake District?”

Predictably, she hasn’t dived straight into what I was doing at the Posthouse. First she will no doubt lay a trap for me. “Unfinished business,” I reply. “It was the anniversary of Ben’s death a few days ago. I came to pay my respects.”

Hewitt shakes her head in mock sadness. “A tragedy, that affair. Don’t you think it was a tragedy, Constable?”

Knox nods again.

I count to twenty this time. At this rate we could be here for a while.

“Is that when you came to Keswick?” Hewitt asks. “A few days ago?”

“No. I arrived yesterday.”

“Yesterday,” Hewitt repeats. From her tone you would think I have admitted something unsavoury.

“You know, the day before today,” I say.

Okay, so that one slipped out.

Hewitt shows no reaction. “Was that why you were at the Posthouse earlier? Because you were looking for somewhere to stay?”

I’m guessing the DI already knows the answer to that, so I say, “I’m staying at the Old Rectory.”

“Is that so? It’s odd, then, that Knox should find you at the Posthouse earlier. Unless you had some other reason for being there . . .”

She leaves the sentence hanging.

I do not respond straight away. What can I say I was doing at the guest house? “I was curious.”

“Curious?”

“About the fire. I heard about it on the radio and thought I’d take a look.” I shrug. “I blame my police background.”

Hewitt reaches for my ID on the table. “Yes, about that,” she says. “This isn’t a warrant card, is it? It says you’re a consultant for the Met.”

“That’s right.”

“What do you consult on?”

“Advanced interrogation techniques.” It’s the answer I usually give when I don’t want people knowing about my psychic abilities.

“Wow, sounds impressive. Are you impressed, Constable?”

Another nod from Knox.

“But you’re not actually a policewoman, are you?” Hewitt says. “You haven’t taken the oath.”

“No.”

“So to suggest to someone you were a police officer . . . well, that would be wrong, wouldn’t it?”

“Correct.” I wonder where this is heading. Somewhere with a hidden pit and spikes, most likely.

“The thing is,” Hewitt goes on, “DC Knox here spoke to Ron Bailey at Firwood Cottage earlier. Just checking in with the other guest houses after the fire, you understand. Seeing if the owners had noticed anything unusual. And the only unusual thing Bailey could remember was you. He said you told him you were police.”

“I said I was with the police,” I respond. I don’t know if that is true or not, but it’s my word against Bailey’s.

“He also told us you were looking for two women. Which is funny because you said you were here because of your son.”

Hewitt leaves a silence for me to fill, but I say nothing. Since she hasn’t asked me a question, I am not about to volunteer information.

“Who are these women you are looking for?”

I reckon I have humoured her long enough to warrant asking a question of my own. “May I ask why this is important? I’m not even clear why we’re speaking now.”

“Really? Well, let me put it this way. Twenty-four hours ago you arrived in the Lake District and started asking questions at Firwood Cottage. Half an hour later a different guest house goes up in flames. Then today we find you sneaking around the Posthouse for reasons I can best describe as flimsy. And you’re telling me there is no connection to any of this?”

“Are you accusing me of starting the fire?”

“Did you hear me accuse her of anything, Constable?” Hewitt asks Knox.

The nodding dog shakes his head for a change.

“Then who did start the fire?” I say.

“I’ll ask the questions,” Hewitt replies. She sets her fists on the table. “What were you doing at the Posthouse?”

I keep silent.

Hewitt smiles as she chews her gum. “Exercising your right to silence, eh? Let me try you with an easier question, then. Where were you at 8pm yesterday?”

Hewitt says it casually, but I notice Knox go tense. His anticipation is tangible. He thinks he is about to catch me lying, and that must mean he and Hewitt already know the answer. But how? “I had just left Firwood Cottage,” I tell Hewitt. “I was probably on the road to the Posthouse at that time.”

A pursing of the DI’s lips betrays her disappointment.

And then I see it. “You were in the car behind me,” I say. “You were the one who almost ran me off the road.” The timing makes sense. The Posthouse was in flames at that point. Hewitt and Knox must have been in the area when they received a call to investigate. A glimpse at Knox’s memories confirms it. He is sitting beside Hewitt in the front passenger seat of a car, watching my taillights swerve and bounce through the darkness. I look from Knox to Hewitt, then back again. “You remember my car, don’t you? Did you recognise it when you saw it at the Posthouse?”

It is the detectives’ turn to stay silent.

“Well, this is a stroke of luck,” I say. “I couldn’t ask for a better alibi.”

“How’s that?” Hewitt snaps.

“When you overtook me yesterday, I was driving towards the Posthouse. If I had started the fire, I would have been heading in the opposite direction—away from the scene of the crime.”

The DI shrugs as if that means nothing. Clearly she isn’t about to let a small thing such as facts get in the way of her theory. “And why were you going to the Posthouse? Why did you go back there tonight?”

I do not reply.

We repeat the same conversation three times before the DI loses patience and bangs her hands on the table. My cup of muddy water jumps but does not spill. I get the impression Hewitt knows I didn’t start the fire, but she does know I am holding something back. She jabs a finger at me and says, “I’m going to nail you to the wall, Ms Greenwood. You hear me?”

“To the wall. Got it.”

Hewitt storms out and slams the door behind her.

I think that went well. I wait a few seconds, then get up to leave.

DC Knox raises a hand to forestall me. He shoots a glance at the door before speaking for the first time. “We’re not finished yet,” he says.