The Invisible Assassin(39)

There were no windows, just lights set into the ceiling, their bulbs protected by wire mesh, just like the bulbs in the cell. Jake assumed this was to protect them against people suddenly standing up and throwing a chair at them. He guessed that the table was fixed to the floor. He was tempted to see if it moved and test his theory, but the very grim expression on the face of the detective inspector sitting opposite him told him that would not be a good idea.

‘Do you know the dead man?’ asked Edgar.

‘No,’ said Jake.

‘But you had seen him before?’

Jake hesitated, then he answered: ‘Yes.’

Edgar nodded. He consulted his notes and said, ‘You were involved in an incident earlier today at the roundabout by Marsham Street. You gave a statement in which you said you had been the victim of an attempted mugging. Is that right?’

They know, thought Jake.

‘Yes,’ he said, numbly.

‘You described one of the men who attacked you as: about five feet six inches tall, almost shaven head, wearing a black T-shirt with a brown zip-up casual jacket. And with a scar down the left-hand side of his face, from his eyebrow to the corner of his mouth. Is that correct?’

Jake nodded.

‘Is the man that was discovered dead in your living room that same man?’ asked Edgar.

Jake gulped, then nodded.

‘Please answer for the recording,’ prompted Edgar.

‘Yes,’ said Jake.

‘Yet you say you don’t know this man?’

‘That’s correct,’ said Jake. ‘I’ve never seen him before today. I don’t know his name, or anything about him.’

‘Yet he was found dead in your flat.’

‘That’s right.’

The inspector paused, then said, ‘Did you invite him into your flat?’

‘No,’ said Jake. ‘I’ve already told you, he was there when I got home.’

‘Alive?’

‘No, dead! I’ve told you that already!’

Edgar remained calm.

‘The reason I ask is because there were no signs of a break-in at your flat,’ he said. ‘Which means either the man was let into the flat by yourself, or someone else.’

‘Or he picked the lock,’ said Jake.

Edgar looked questioningly at Jake.

‘You’re suggesting he was burgling your flat?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Jake.

‘And someone killed him while he was doing it?’

‘Possibly,’ said Jake. ‘Or he was killed elsewhere and his body dumped in my flat.’

‘Why would anyone want to do that?’ asked the inspector.

‘I don’t know,’ said Jake again.

The inspector shook his head.

‘It’s not much of a defence, is it?’ he said.

Before Jake could reply, there was a knock at the door, then it opened and a uniformed officer looked in.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said.

He gestured towards the door. The inspector got up and walked over to the uniformed policeman, who whispered something to him. Edgar gave a sigh, and a nod.

‘Tell her I’ll be out in a moment,’ he said.

The uniformed officer nodded, then left, shutting the door behind him.

‘Seems like your lawyer’s here,’ Edgar told Jake.

Jake frowned, puzzled. Lawyer? He didn’t have a lawyer.

‘Keep an eye on him, Sergeant,’ said the inspector. ‘I’ll be back shortly.’ He walked to the desk, said, ‘Interview halted at six fifty p.m.’ Then he switched off the recorder and walked out of the room.

Jake looked after him, still puzzled. What lawyer?

He stared across the desk at Sergeant Club. Club returned his gaze, his expression impassive. Jake turned towards PC Omulu, on the chair by the door. The constable also looked back at Jake blankly.

No one’s giving anything away, thought Jake. They think I killed that man and they want a confession. They’re not going to say anything to me that might give me an excuse in court to claim I was pressurised by them. No friendly smiles, no menacing scowls. Nothing. Just blank expressions.

He turned to studying the dark wall nearest to him. There were bumps and creases in the plaster, and he could make out different shapes. Or, at least, things that looked like shapes. And faces. An eye here, then a nose, and a crack in the plaster that could be a mouth. It was the kind of game he hadn’t played since he was a boy at school and the lesson was boring: seeing if he could make faces out of things. A wall. The trunk of a tree. Gravel. He was just starting to see other faces in the dark paint, when the door of the interview room opened and Edgar returned. With him was a young woman in a smart suit, carrying a neat black briefcase. Jake guessed her to be in her late twenties. What there was no mistaking, however, was the angry expression on her face. She strode across the room and stopped by Jake.