I sit at the head of the table they take the nearest seats on each side. The direct sunlight falls short of my chair, and the air conditioning more or less holds back the heat, but I swallow a mouthful of water that chills my teeth before I feel ready to speak. I’m nervously amused by the idea of blurting out the monikers I’ve invented for the policemen, and so I say “Can I know your names?”
Beaky looks not far from affronted but says “Rudd.”
“Linley,” says his colleague.
I’m disconcerted by how much this resembles the name I found for him; some of my listeners might think it proves I’m psychic after all. I don’t know what kind of team the duo sounds like—comedians or undertakers? “I always like to know who I’m talking to,” I say. “I don’t know if you’re wondering what I meant about Frank Jasper. He’s the character from round here who pretends he’s a psychic from America.”
“Go on,” says Rudd.
“He had a photo I signed for Kylie Goodchild. I couldn’t tell you how many I signed for her class when they came for a visit, but he tried to make out it meant something.” The policemen are keeping their thoughts to themselves, and I have a sudden unwelcome one of my own. “Is his father still with the police?”
Neither man appears to want the question. After a pause Linley says “Who do you mean?”
“Right enough, his name was never Jasper. It’s Patterson.”
“Chief Inspector Patterson.”
Presumably that’s a yes to my question, and it could be a warning too. My headache jabs me between the eyes as if to prod out a response. “I don’t suppose you’re here to talk about him,” I say. “Just tell me how I can help.”
Linley sits forward and rests his elbows on the table, but it’s Rudd who says “Can you tell us where you were on the night of the twelfth of last month?”
He could almost be reverting to a script from more old films than I can count or name. “I couldn’t even tell you what day it is without looking.”
“It was a Thursday,” Linley lets me know.
‘Any particular time?”
“Between nine and eleven in the evening.”
“I was working here.”
What kind of silence greets this? In a moment Rudd says “You’re sure of that.”
“I am now I’ve been reminded. It was the day before Better Luck Day and I was doing some research for my show.”
“What sort?” Linley says.
‘Just about how many good things have happened to people on Friday the thirteenth. We don’t need superstition.”
Surely this can’t trespass on anyone’s beliefs here, but the policemen give me time to wonder before Linley says “How were you doing your research?”
“How does anyone these days? Online.”
“Why weren’t you doing it at home?”
“I’m not online at home. No need when it’s free here.”
Whatever they think of that, I’m not expecting Rudd to ask “Are you with anyone, Mr Wilde?”
“In a relationship, you mean? She produces my show.”
“‘Doesn’t she have access either?”
“To the Internet, you mean?” I’m increasingly less sure what they’re trying to discover, and the uncertainty has lodged between my eyes. “She’s got it at her place,” I say, “but we don’t live together. I wasn’t looking at anything I wouldn’t want her to see if that’s what you’re after.”
Perhaps they weren’t, in which case I’ve put the notion in their heads. I could invite them to check my computer, or would that sound like a bluff? They can check it if they like—I’ve nothing to hide—but it’s well past time I asked the question my hangover has been obstructing. “What’s all this to do with Kylie Goodchild?”
“We have reason to believe,” Linley says, “that she was here when you were.”
I’m instandy convinced that the source is Frank Jasper, and my headache swells behind my eyes, so fiercely I feel close to going blind. I don’t know whether I’ll be in control of my words until I hear my
Beaky looks not far from affronted but says “Rudd.”
“Linley,” says his colleague.
I’m disconcerted by how much this resembles the name I found for him; some of my listeners might think it proves I’m psychic after all. I don’t know what kind of team the duo sounds like—comedians or undertakers? “I always like to know who I’m talking to,” I say. “I don’t know if you’re wondering what I meant about Frank Jasper. He’s the character from round here who pretends he’s a psychic from America.”
“Go on,” says Rudd.
“He had a photo I signed for Kylie Goodchild. I couldn’t tell you how many I signed for her class when they came for a visit, but he tried to make out it meant something.” The policemen are keeping their thoughts to themselves, and I have a sudden unwelcome one of my own. “Is his father still with the police?”
Neither man appears to want the question. After a pause Linley says “Who do you mean?”
“Right enough, his name was never Jasper. It’s Patterson.”
“Chief Inspector Patterson.”
Presumably that’s a yes to my question, and it could be a warning too. My headache jabs me between the eyes as if to prod out a response. “I don’t suppose you’re here to talk about him,” I say. “Just tell me how I can help.”
Linley sits forward and rests his elbows on the table, but it’s Rudd who says “Can you tell us where you were on the night of the twelfth of last month?”
He could almost be reverting to a script from more old films than I can count or name. “I couldn’t even tell you what day it is without looking.”
“It was a Thursday,” Linley lets me know.
‘Any particular time?”
“Between nine and eleven in the evening.”
“I was working here.”
What kind of silence greets this? In a moment Rudd says “You’re sure of that.”
“I am now I’ve been reminded. It was the day before Better Luck Day and I was doing some research for my show.”
“What sort?” Linley says.
‘Just about how many good things have happened to people on Friday the thirteenth. We don’t need superstition.”
Surely this can’t trespass on anyone’s beliefs here, but the policemen give me time to wonder before Linley says “How were you doing your research?”
“How does anyone these days? Online.”
“Why weren’t you doing it at home?”
“I’m not online at home. No need when it’s free here.”
Whatever they think of that, I’m not expecting Rudd to ask “Are you with anyone, Mr Wilde?”
“In a relationship, you mean? She produces my show.”
“‘Doesn’t she have access either?”
“To the Internet, you mean?” I’m increasingly less sure what they’re trying to discover, and the uncertainty has lodged between my eyes. “She’s got it at her place,” I say, “but we don’t live together. I wasn’t looking at anything I wouldn’t want her to see if that’s what you’re after.”
Perhaps they weren’t, in which case I’ve put the notion in their heads. I could invite them to check my computer, or would that sound like a bluff? They can check it if they like—I’ve nothing to hide—but it’s well past time I asked the question my hangover has been obstructing. “What’s all this to do with Kylie Goodchild?”
“We have reason to believe,” Linley says, “that she was here when you were.”
I’m instandy convinced that the source is Frank Jasper, and my headache swells behind my eyes, so fiercely I feel close to going blind. I don’t know whether I’ll be in control of my words until I hear my
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