able to confirm that you attended?’
‘Yes and no,’ said Amber. ‘We were asked to bring our driving licences for ID, so it’ll be recorded on some form somewhere that I was there, but I’m not sure anyone’ll actually remember me. I can’t remember any faces, not this long afterwards.’
‘What do you remember about the day?’ Waterhouse asked.
‘It was mind-numbingly dull. Full of arse-lickers promising to change their driving habits as of that moment.’ Seeing that he’d been hoping for more, Amber said, ‘You want me to tell you something that proves I was there and not killing Katharine Allen? Something memorable?’
Gibbs watched her internal struggle with interest. She didn’t want to tell them, whatever it was. Would she succeed in forcing herself?
‘There was a man there called Ed, in his late sixties. I don’t remember any of the others’ names, only his. When the windbag guy in charge asked us if any of us had personal experience of a traffic accident – us or someone we knew – about five people put their hands up. There were twenty of us altogether. Windbag asked for details. Most weren’t serious. Ed’s was. He told us that his daughter had been killed in a car crash in the early seventies, and that he’d been driving when it happened. It was pretty awful. No one knew what to say. I think he said it was before there were seatbelts in the backs of cars, but I’m not sure. His daughter wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, anyway, whether one was there or not. Ed collided with a driver who came out of nowhere and his daughter went headfirst through the windscreen and was killed. Louise – I think that was her name. Or Lucy. No, I think it was Louise.’
‘Louise or Lucy,’ Proust summarised impatiently. ‘Let’s wrap this up. DC Gibbs, would you arrange transport home for the various parts of Ms Hewerdine’s mind and their warring hypotheses?’
Gibbs’ nod was a lie. He wouldn’t, because he didn’t need to. Anticipating that Proust would want Amber Hewerdine sent home prematurely because he wasn’t the one who’d given the order for her to be brought in, Waterhouse had arranged for Charlie to be waiting in her car in the car park to offer a lift and continue the interview more informally. Would the Snowman see her on his way out of the building and work it out?
Did it matter? Gibbs and Waterhouse would both be getting their marching orders anyway.
As if he’d read Gibbs’ mind, Proust said, ‘Waterhouse, I’ll see you in my office at nine o’clock on Thursday morning – I’m not in tomorrow. I’ll see you at nine fifteen, Gibbs.’
‘What’s wrong with now, sir?’ said Gibbs, keen to have it over and done with.
‘I’m tired now. Thursday, nine fifteen, after I’ve seen Waterhouse at nine. That clear enough for you, second time round? Should I issue you both with brightly coloured rubber wristbands, like they do at public swimming pools?’
The Snowman left the room, slamming the door behind him.
‘I’m going to have nightmares about that man,’ Amber Hewerdine said.
One way to approach a mystery is to try to solve it. If that doesn’t work, another fruitful approach is to look and see if there’s a second, more fathomable mystery hiding behind the mystery you can’t solve. Often there is, and that’s your way in.
Anything aiming to achieve invisibility hides behind the visible. We can go even further and say that invisible things hide behind their own visible equivalents, because they provide the most effective cover. Let me prove the point using an absurd analogy: you might move your bread bin and expect to see breadcrumbs on the pantry shelf behind it, but you wouldn’t move it and expect to see another bread bin behind it.
That’s why it is always wise, where difficult human situations are concerned, to look for the motive behind the motive, the guilt behind the guilt, the lie behind the lie, the secret behind the secret, the duty behind the
‘Yes and no,’ said Amber. ‘We were asked to bring our driving licences for ID, so it’ll be recorded on some form somewhere that I was there, but I’m not sure anyone’ll actually remember me. I can’t remember any faces, not this long afterwards.’
‘What do you remember about the day?’ Waterhouse asked.
‘It was mind-numbingly dull. Full of arse-lickers promising to change their driving habits as of that moment.’ Seeing that he’d been hoping for more, Amber said, ‘You want me to tell you something that proves I was there and not killing Katharine Allen? Something memorable?’
Gibbs watched her internal struggle with interest. She didn’t want to tell them, whatever it was. Would she succeed in forcing herself?
‘There was a man there called Ed, in his late sixties. I don’t remember any of the others’ names, only his. When the windbag guy in charge asked us if any of us had personal experience of a traffic accident – us or someone we knew – about five people put their hands up. There were twenty of us altogether. Windbag asked for details. Most weren’t serious. Ed’s was. He told us that his daughter had been killed in a car crash in the early seventies, and that he’d been driving when it happened. It was pretty awful. No one knew what to say. I think he said it was before there were seatbelts in the backs of cars, but I’m not sure. His daughter wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, anyway, whether one was there or not. Ed collided with a driver who came out of nowhere and his daughter went headfirst through the windscreen and was killed. Louise – I think that was her name. Or Lucy. No, I think it was Louise.’
‘Louise or Lucy,’ Proust summarised impatiently. ‘Let’s wrap this up. DC Gibbs, would you arrange transport home for the various parts of Ms Hewerdine’s mind and their warring hypotheses?’
Gibbs’ nod was a lie. He wouldn’t, because he didn’t need to. Anticipating that Proust would want Amber Hewerdine sent home prematurely because he wasn’t the one who’d given the order for her to be brought in, Waterhouse had arranged for Charlie to be waiting in her car in the car park to offer a lift and continue the interview more informally. Would the Snowman see her on his way out of the building and work it out?
Did it matter? Gibbs and Waterhouse would both be getting their marching orders anyway.
As if he’d read Gibbs’ mind, Proust said, ‘Waterhouse, I’ll see you in my office at nine o’clock on Thursday morning – I’m not in tomorrow. I’ll see you at nine fifteen, Gibbs.’
‘What’s wrong with now, sir?’ said Gibbs, keen to have it over and done with.
‘I’m tired now. Thursday, nine fifteen, after I’ve seen Waterhouse at nine. That clear enough for you, second time round? Should I issue you both with brightly coloured rubber wristbands, like they do at public swimming pools?’
The Snowman left the room, slamming the door behind him.
‘I’m going to have nightmares about that man,’ Amber Hewerdine said.
One way to approach a mystery is to try to solve it. If that doesn’t work, another fruitful approach is to look and see if there’s a second, more fathomable mystery hiding behind the mystery you can’t solve. Often there is, and that’s your way in.
Anything aiming to achieve invisibility hides behind the visible. We can go even further and say that invisible things hide behind their own visible equivalents, because they provide the most effective cover. Let me prove the point using an absurd analogy: you might move your bread bin and expect to see breadcrumbs on the pantry shelf behind it, but you wouldn’t move it and expect to see another bread bin behind it.
That’s why it is always wise, where difficult human situations are concerned, to look for the motive behind the motive, the guilt behind the guilt, the lie behind the lie, the secret behind the secret, the duty behind the
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