I Know What I Saw

What am I expecting to see engraved there? Her name? Would he be that bold? And then other questions begin to rain down around me. How did he get a space here? Would there have been a death certificate? What about a ceremony? A service of some kind? Immediately behind me I feel the weight of a person, not quite pressing, but following. There is no sense in turning around.

I know it’s Rory.

I stand before the stone and stare.

It has started to drizzle again and the mist feathers my face as the wind blows. Droplets trickle down the lettering and the engraved dates:

MISHAL ALI

1971–2019

I remember. The name he called out at her as she lay there, dead – was that Mishal? There is something below it in what looks like Arabic lettering but could just as easily be South Asian. But it’s that name, Mishal, that stills me. She has a name. Whatever else he might have done to her, he didn’t bury that.

When I crouch to touch the stone, I notice how clean the grave itself is. There is a slab on the ground matching the headstone. But where the other graves are fringed in grass, this one isn’t. There is only bare soil, darkening in patches as the rain continues to fall. This grave is newly dug.

My head is spinning as I walk towards the path. There are gaps in my understanding of what has happened. I don’t know how exactly he has managed to bring her, Mishal, here. I don’t know whether it was money or influence or subterfuge. At least I know she is here, and I know who she is. I just don’t know what to do about it.

I make my way back to the Tube. In less than an hour I am walking up the road to Seb’s house. I have to do something about this but to understand what, I need to talk to someone about it. Opening up to Amit feels as though it has opened a sluice gate.

I haven’t told Seb about any of this and he has just let me be when I have been there with him, politely, as if to ask would have been an intrusion. He’s stayed out of my way, even though I have been living under his roof and in his clothes.

As soon as I knock on the door, I realise he won’t be home. It’s midday. He won’t be home for another two or three hours. But just as I turn away, I see shadows behind the glass of the front door. A beat later, the door opens.

‘Seb,’ I begin to say, ‘I didn’t think you’d be home.’

He is still in his work clothes, pink silk tie knotted tight. He hasn’t been home long. He gives me a serious look and puts a finger to his lips. I widen my eyes at him for an explanation.

He calls out to somewhere behind his shoulder. ‘Whoever it is, they’ve gone, Detective.’ He gives me a look that says go.

He is trying to help me evade the police, but I need to speak to them about what I have just learned.

‘It’s okay,’ I say to him, and push past him towards the kitchen. ‘Detective Conway,’ I say, rushing in. He turns to face me with a cup of tea in his hand. His suit looks cheap next to Seb’s and pouches under his eyes tell me he is tired.

‘Mr Shute,’ he says gravely.

‘What’s happened?’ I feel suddenly as if I can’t breathe.

‘Happened?’ he says. ‘Nothing’s happened as such. We wanted to talk to you about Mr Squire, as you know.’

‘Oh,’ I say, suddenly remembering. ‘Okay.’

‘But there’s one other thing.’

I look at him expectantly. He puts his cup down and strides towards me.

‘Xander Shute. I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything. But it could harm your defence if you fail to mention when questioned anything you later rely on in court.’

‘Murder?’ Suddenly the air around me has become thin. Too thin. ‘He’s dead?’ I say, steadying myself on the door frame. He says nothing but takes out handcuffs from his pocket and methodically tightens them on my wrists. Seb follows me as I am led to an unmarked car.

‘A solicitor – can I get you a solicitor?’ he says breathlessly.

‘No,’ I say. ‘But—’

‘What is it?’

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I just wanted to say that. For being here when I needed you.’ He stands there by my side, helpless as I am put into the back seat of the car. He takes out his phone as we are waiting to leave and dials a number but then hesitates and replaces the phone in his pocket. He stares at me through the glass as if he is trying to tell me something.

The car smells of new plastic and makes me feel ill. Conway climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the engine with a button. He looks over his shoulder at me before he pulls away but says nothing.

My heart thumps in my chest. As the car races, so too does my pulse. All of this space is shrinking, pressing down on me. I don’t want to be in a cell. I can’t be in a cell again. There is no way of connecting to myself under this pressure of space. My hands become cold and clammy and then my face. The blood is redirecting itself. I know that’s all it is but knowing doesn’t help the crushing sensation that I am having a heart attack. And now I wonder whether that is what is happening.