CHAPTER ONE
They show me into the small, windowless room and the older guy must see the look of horror on my face because he says, “You do know you’re not under arrest, right?” and I just smile and nod because yes, I do know that, but at the same time this room is somewhat scary. I’d assumed how they show it on TV was all over the top, for dramatic effect, but it turns out it’s not. The room is bare, with grubby white walls and four plastic chairs around a small table with metal legs and a wooden top, into which someone has scraped the words “EAT YOUR GREENS”.
Eat your greens? Sure, it’s all very community-spirited to graffiti a public health message in a police interview room, but—
It hits me. It’s code. It’s got to be. Some sort of warning, an anagram maybe, about how I shouldn’t trust them, they’ll stitch me up, don’t drink the water they poison it, get out while you can, that type of thing.
But then I think, never mind that, this is actually all very serious and perhaps there are even worse things to worry about. Example: what if they do a … you know, a cavity search?
But then, why would they even do that anyway? It can’t be a routine thing.
It’s not a routine thing, is it?
I swallow hard, palms sweating, as I sit down, Dad pulling up the chair next to me, the two police officers on the other side of the table – an older white guy with a craggy face, and a slightly younger black guy, forties maybe, who’s the one in charge. I wish they could have put me with a kindly, cardigan-wearing officer with a gentle voice, in a room with sofas and a few pot plants, or something. Why haven’t they done that?
BECAUSE THEY ARE GOING TO STRIP YOU AND CAVITY SEARCH YOU, THAT’S WHY! THEY’RE GOING TO BEND YOU OVER AND RAM THEIR LATEX-GLOVED HANDS UP YOUR—
“Sure you don’t want a drink?” Craggy Face asks.
I lamely hold up my plastic bottle of Lucozade and hope they don’t notice how much my hand is shaking. A sure sign of guilt.
Dad chuckles. “He has way too much sugar!”
Oh yes, very funny. Aren’t kids just the worst?!
The policemen both laugh too, as Craggy Face tips four sachets of demerara into his plastic cup of vending machine coffee, with absolutely no hint of irony. He stirs his drink, then looks up at me and smiles. Maybe he’s playing “nice cop”. Maybe it’ll be the other guy who ROUGHLY SHOVES HIS HAND UP MY— “So, I’m DS Hunter, and this is DI Griffin,” he says.
DI Griffin smiles too, then he leans forward and says, “Nice T-shirt, Alex.” It’s a distorted chequered design, in black and lime green, and it is quite nice. I like it. I love it, actually. “Don’t think I could get away with it, but it looks good on you,” DI Griffin continues.
I give Dad a glance and a little raise of my eyebrows, which I know is smug, but I’ve been proven right, so. Dad wanted me to wear a proper shirt. I refused. Too hot for that, plus I felt it made me look like I was trying too hard. And that might look … well, guilty. By way of compromise, I’d agreed to wear my tan chinos, rather than some shorts. You know it’s serious when Dad insists on the chinos. Or at least, you know Dad thinks it’s serious. He responds to me being right by rolling his eyes a little and sitting back in his chair, like he thinks my victory is meaningless. He would have been here in a full-on dinner suit if he could have been.
DI Griffin is still acting all mesmerized by my T-shirt. “Where’s it from?” he says.
My eyes widen. Something in his voice makes me feel he thinks I stole it. “I bought it,” I say, immediately worrying that makes it sound like I didn’t. And in actual fact, I didn’t. So, here we are, first question in, and I’m already LYING TO THE POLICE. There are good reasons for this. And it’s not just about my ineptitude in any situation where I have to be in close proximity to another human being. The T-shirt was actually a present, it’s just I don’t want to say who from, not in front of Dad. Not yet. If I say, it’ll raise questions, and now isn’t the time to tell him all about that. Especially when I don’t even know if … well, anyway. This is a new low, even for me. But in for a penny: “Online,” I mutter, looking down at the “EAT YOUR GREENS” on the table and wondering if it’s actually a clever reminder that you shouldn’t try to challenge the system. Do as you’re told, eat your greens, brush your teeth, be a good boy, and don’t tell lies. But the lies are mounting up. They’ll impound my computer, forensically examine it, and when they do, aside from the sites you know I visit but we all know I shouldn’t, they’ll also find no evidence I’ve ever bought a T-shirt online.
DI Griffin nods. He’s not an idiot. No way is he buying this platter of crap I’m serving him.
I clear my throat, give my messy blond hair a scratch, look at him, look away, look at my fingernails and look back again. It’s an assortment of nervous tics that must read: GUILTY AS SIN. Why are we talking about my T-shirt, anyway? This is some clever psychological tactic, isn’t it? He’s buttering me up, being all nicey-nicey, so that I relax and incriminate myself. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” I add.
“Alex, we’re not suggesting you have,” DI Griffin says. “You’re here voluntarily and you’re free to go at any time.”
I think about going. It would be pretty nice to go, right now. But going would look weird. It would look guilty. If I was innocent, I would just be all “La, la, la! Of course I’ll help with your enquiries!” and everything would be fine and we’d probably have a laugh and stuff.
DI Griffin runs his tongue over his lips. “Why don’t you just tell us everything? The whole thing.”
“Everything?”
DI Griffin nods. “From start to finish, Alex. Don’t leave anything out. You might not think something important, but any tiny detail, some insignificant thing, it might just help us.”
“OK.” I guess that sounds fine. It’s not like I have to hide anything. I mean, there are some bits to this that I’d like to hide. Especially with Dad sitting next to me and two blokes that I don’t even know opposite. But the trouble with hiding stuff is that then other bits don’t make sense and you end up lying, like I’ve already lied. Frigging twice. Little connections and motivations are lost, and expert interviewers, like DI Griffin surely is, would spot that a mile off. Then he’d be all, “If you’re hiding that, WHAT ELSE ARE YOU HIDING MISTER MAN?! SPREAD YOUR GODDAMN LEGS AND BEND OVER RIGHT NOW,” as he snaps those gloves on and— I swallow again. “Everything, then?” My voice sounds squeaky.
DI Griffin nods, smiles at me and flips open a notepad. “Everything, Alex.”
CHAPTER TWO
She told me via text because she’s a coward.
Hey Alex! How you doing?
OK thanks. You?
Cool. So don’t know if Will told you, but we’re off on holiday tomorrow! Yay!
She doesn’t know if Will told me? Jesus, why didn’t she just ask Will, since she was dating him and he was probably sitting next to her as she typed this serious-made-to-sound-casual rubbish. Will had not told me. At least, not officially. Nor had she. And they were both supposed to be my mates. Although I did know something was going on, because I saw them both shopping in the chemist’s the week before. Actually, I heard them first – discussing the merits of different brands of suntan lotion, just the other side of the shelving from where I was looking for any sort of shower gel that wasn’t aggressively masculine and full of weird ingredients like silver or charcoal.