the heat dogs me into the lobby like a fierce breath on my neck. “It’s a jungle out there, Charlie,” I tell the guard behind the desk, though I just have the tropics in mind. I’m stepping into the nearest lift when a gust of hot wind crosses the lobby, and two policemen make for the desk.
I shut my eyes while the lift sails upwards, because the red-hot digits above the doors feel capable of snagging my hangover. At last the indicator finishes playing with its splinters and the cage wavers to a standstill. I give Shilpa a smile and drag out my badge. As I fumble to cover the plaque on the wall with my photograph the other lift opens, and the two policemen approach Shilpa. “Is Graham Wilde on the premises?” one says.
“That’s me.” I swing around rather too vigorously—the hangover drills between my eyes again, making me squint—and let my badge recoil on its wire. “How can I help?”
The policemen aren’t much older than I am, but they look resolved to seem it. Both are thin and keen-eyed. One has a long sharp nose, while his colleague’s lips are so prominent I could fancy they’ve been thickened in a fight. The beaky man’s mouth forms a line as neutral as his gaze before he speaks. “We’d like a word with you about Kylie Goodchild.”
15: An Interrogation
Of all the thoughts that feel like my headache transformed into language, one is so painful that I have to spit it out. “Don’t tell me Frank Jasper sent you.”
The beaky policeman gazes at me—Nosey from Beak-on-the-Dial, I might dub him. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private, Mr Wilde?”
I’m anxious to learn what they want, however much my headache tugs my brows together. “Is the conference room free, Shilpa?”
“It should be.”
“Let me find out,” I say and unlock the newsroom door with my badge, only for Lippy from Labia-upon-the-Puss to follow. “I’ll come along,” he says. “Make sure it’s suitable.”
Some of my colleagues seem unsure whether I’m in custody as I lead him across the newsroom. I open the door beside Paula’s and watch him appraise the conference room, where the long table is attended by a dozen straight barely padded chairs, one more of which has been sent to stand in a corner. A sign on each double-glazed window declares they won’t open more than six inches, and could Lippy be ensuring I’ve no way out? The thought provokes me to go for a quip. “Looks like a good spot for the last meal, don’t you think?”
Lippy lets me glimpse a frown as fleeting as a line of invisible ink. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He needn’t think I was condemning myself. “It could be the room for the last supper.”
If his face could grow blanker it’s clear that it would. I can’t tell whether I’ve offended his beliefs or just his sense of humour. “If you’ll wait here, Mr Wilde,” he says.
I should tell Paula about the situation—the little I can tell, at any rate. As Lippy heads for Reception I knock on her door. “Advance and be recognised,” she calls, which is presumably one of her few jokes—I’ve certainly heard it before. She gazes over the bowl of sweets as if she thinks I’ve come to earn one. “Ready for all comers?” she says.
“Just a couple for the moment. I’ll be next door having a chat with the police.”
“Police.” She gazes past me, which seems to attract their tread along the office. “What’s brought them here, Graham?”
“I suspect Frank Jasper.”
“Well, please keep me up to date.”
As I shut her door I’m aware of having neglected to mention Hannah Leatherhead’s approach. The suppressed information might be struggling with the painkillers to expand my headache. I dodge to the water cooler and fill a paper cup as the policemen reach the conference room. “Is it drinks all round?” I try offering.
“We don’t need anything,” Beaky says, and they stand like guards on either side of the doorway until I’m in the room.
When
I shut my eyes while the lift sails upwards, because the red-hot digits above the doors feel capable of snagging my hangover. At last the indicator finishes playing with its splinters and the cage wavers to a standstill. I give Shilpa a smile and drag out my badge. As I fumble to cover the plaque on the wall with my photograph the other lift opens, and the two policemen approach Shilpa. “Is Graham Wilde on the premises?” one says.
“That’s me.” I swing around rather too vigorously—the hangover drills between my eyes again, making me squint—and let my badge recoil on its wire. “How can I help?”
The policemen aren’t much older than I am, but they look resolved to seem it. Both are thin and keen-eyed. One has a long sharp nose, while his colleague’s lips are so prominent I could fancy they’ve been thickened in a fight. The beaky man’s mouth forms a line as neutral as his gaze before he speaks. “We’d like a word with you about Kylie Goodchild.”
15: An Interrogation
Of all the thoughts that feel like my headache transformed into language, one is so painful that I have to spit it out. “Don’t tell me Frank Jasper sent you.”
The beaky policeman gazes at me—Nosey from Beak-on-the-Dial, I might dub him. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private, Mr Wilde?”
I’m anxious to learn what they want, however much my headache tugs my brows together. “Is the conference room free, Shilpa?”
“It should be.”
“Let me find out,” I say and unlock the newsroom door with my badge, only for Lippy from Labia-upon-the-Puss to follow. “I’ll come along,” he says. “Make sure it’s suitable.”
Some of my colleagues seem unsure whether I’m in custody as I lead him across the newsroom. I open the door beside Paula’s and watch him appraise the conference room, where the long table is attended by a dozen straight barely padded chairs, one more of which has been sent to stand in a corner. A sign on each double-glazed window declares they won’t open more than six inches, and could Lippy be ensuring I’ve no way out? The thought provokes me to go for a quip. “Looks like a good spot for the last meal, don’t you think?”
Lippy lets me glimpse a frown as fleeting as a line of invisible ink. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He needn’t think I was condemning myself. “It could be the room for the last supper.”
If his face could grow blanker it’s clear that it would. I can’t tell whether I’ve offended his beliefs or just his sense of humour. “If you’ll wait here, Mr Wilde,” he says.
I should tell Paula about the situation—the little I can tell, at any rate. As Lippy heads for Reception I knock on her door. “Advance and be recognised,” she calls, which is presumably one of her few jokes—I’ve certainly heard it before. She gazes over the bowl of sweets as if she thinks I’ve come to earn one. “Ready for all comers?” she says.
“Just a couple for the moment. I’ll be next door having a chat with the police.”
“Police.” She gazes past me, which seems to attract their tread along the office. “What’s brought them here, Graham?”
“I suspect Frank Jasper.”
“Well, please keep me up to date.”
As I shut her door I’m aware of having neglected to mention Hannah Leatherhead’s approach. The suppressed information might be struggling with the painkillers to expand my headache. I dodge to the water cooler and fill a paper cup as the policemen reach the conference room. “Is it drinks all round?” I try offering.
“We don’t need anything,” Beaky says, and they stand like guards on either side of the doorway until I’m in the room.
When
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