Bloodline

The detective remained sitting in his chair and looked up at me.

‘Mr Shillingford,’ he said, ‘have you read today’s Daily Gazette?’

I sat and looked back at him. ‘Am I under arrest?’ I asked.

‘No, of course not,’ the detective said, smiling. ‘We just need you to remain here a while longer, to help us with our enquiries.’

‘And how about if I say I’m going home anyway?’

‘That wouldn’t be wise,’ he said.

No. Then I probably would be arrested.

I thought back over the interview.

‘You haven’t asked me why I think Mr Woodley was attacked.’

‘No, sir,’ said the detective without elaborating.

‘Why not?’ I asked.

‘All in good time, sir,’ he replied.

We sat in silence for a while and I wondered what the police were doing that took so long. Looking for a knife, I supposed. That’s it, I thought, they couldn’t arrest me for stabbing Toby unless they could find the knife because otherwise there was no way I could have done it.

And maybe they wouldn’t ask me why I thought Toby had been stabbed until they knew whether I could have done it or not. Perhaps it would affect how they asked their questions.

I sat there hoping the killer had taken the murder weapon away with him. Knowing my luck, he’d have thrown it away under my car.

Someone came into the cubicle carrying a folded tracksuit and a pair of trainers. Thank goodness, I thought. My feet had lost all feeling.

I was left alone briefly to change but the detective and his sidekick soon returned, accompanied this time by another man who was clearly their boss — the superintendent.

‘Mr Shillingford,’ he said. ‘Detective Superintendent Cullen.’ He held out his hand towards me and I shook it. ‘I’m sorry you have been asked to stay here for so long. I hope my boys have been looking after you?’ He smiled.

No knife, I thought.

‘They have been charming,’ I said, smiling back. Two could play at this game. ‘And thank you for the tracksuit.’ We both smiled again.

Another chair was brought in and we all sat down, although the cubicle was hardly big enough for the four of us.

‘Can you think of any reason why Mr Woodley would be murdered?’ the superintendent asked.

‘Other than over today’s front page of the Daily Gazette?’ I said. There was little point in not mentioning it, and I thought it would be better if I did so first.

‘Exactly. Other than that.’

‘Lots of them,’ I said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I can think of lots of reasons why someone might want to murder Toby Woodley. He was a horrible little man who preyed on other people’s weaknesses.’ I paused briefly. ‘I’d have happily stuck a knife into his back.’

‘And did you?’ he asked seriously.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Someone else seems to have done it for me.’

‘Is that an admission of a conspiracy?’

‘No, of course not,’ I said. ‘But if you’re expecting me to grieve over Toby Woodley, you’ll be disappointed. I hated the little creep.’

‘I understand,’ he said slowly, ‘that you have been telling people here this evening that he was nothing more than an insect that needed stamping on. Is that right?’

‘Quite right,’ I said. ‘Because he’s been trashing my late sister’s reputation with his lies and I couldn’t do anything about it.’

‘Someone may have.’

‘Well, it was not me.’

‘What were the revelations about you that Mr Woodley was going to write about?’

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ I said. ‘I was rude to him at Stratford races yesterday and I expect he was planning to make up some nonsense about me in revenge.’

‘How were you rude to him?’

‘I basically told him he was a little shit,’ I said. ‘Because he was.’

Superintendent Cullen looked down at his notebook, then up at me.

‘Are you happy he’s dead?’

I sat there and looked at each of the three policemen in turn.

‘I tried to save his life, didn’t I? I put my mouth over his — over the mouth of someone I hated and despised — and I breathed into him.’ I instinctively wiped my mouth with the sleeve of the tracksuit. ‘Of course I’m not happy he’s dead. But, equally, I’m not especially sad about it either.’

They finally let me go at about half past midnight after I had agreed and signed a full account of the incident, as I remembered it. But they kept hold of my clothes, my shoes and, much to my annoyance, my car.

‘I need my car,’ I said.

‘None of the cars close to the white van have been moved,’ the superintendent said to me. ‘We need to search the area again properly in daylight and I’m not prepared to damage any forensic evidence that may be present by moving the cars.’

‘But how am I going to get home?’ I asked. ‘Especially at this time of night.’

‘I’ll get a car to take you.’

‘Thank you. How about my clothes?’ I asked. ‘And my shoes?’

I was rather fond of those shoes.

‘You’ll get them back in due course.’

I didn’t like to ask how long ‘in due course’ might be. Years, probably, particularly if they provided evidence that was pertinent to a prosecution.

‘I’ll need my car tomorrow morning,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to get to Warwick races.’