I Know What I Saw

‘Picking up from the last interview we had, I wanted to clarify whether you have now had a chance to consider whether you did know the victim, Michelle Mackintosh?’ asks Conway.

That word ‘victim’ lies heavy in the air. I look across at Jan and she shakes her head almost imperceptibly.

‘I did know her,’ I say.

‘I just want to remind you of my advice, Mr Shute,’ Jan says, her voice brittle.

‘And were the two of you in a relationship?’

I take a breath. I badly want to explain this part. There is no harm in this part of my story. Jan’s eyes are steel.

‘No comment,’ I say. She relaxes slightly in her seat.

‘Actually, there’s not much point denying it. At the time of your last interview, officers carried out a search of your bail address and found some interesting things. For the tape I am showing the suspect exhibit RG/9, a selection of photographs. Have a look at these, Mr Shute. These are pictures of you and the deceased. And just so you’re aware, these are just a few of the ones we have.’

I didn’t know that Seb had photographs. Of course, he must have had some. I think of the one on the mantel.

‘Is that a question, Officer?’ Jan says.

‘No, the question is just whether you are prepared to accept there was a relationship between you both?’ he says, flaring.

I don’t know how it can harm my defence if I accept this but I follow the advice. ‘No comment.’

‘Okay then. Let’s do this the hard way,’ he says.

‘Exhibit RG/10 is a letter written by hand on light blue notepaper.’ I stare at it and remember it immediately. There are yin and yang signs on each corner. This was Grace’s trademark paper. She always wrote to me on that paper.

‘Do you recognise this letter?’

My letter. How do they have my letter? And then I remember: the belongings that Seb stored in his loft. This must have been part of the stuff that was taken. And then I think of the money and the thought passes through my mind that they might have taken the dollars. But Seb was sure they didn’t.

‘Officer, I gather this was taken in the course of a search without a proper warrant,’ Jan says.

‘We can argue about that later, Miss Cullen. For now, let me just ask you, Mr Shute, if you recognise the letter?’

‘No comment,’ I say, fighting against the urge to explain.

‘I’m just going to read it out. It’s got a date written on it: November 2nd 1989. My dear Xander, it says. I am not sure whether I am going to send this letter to you or whether it’s going to join the others I’ve started and crushed into balls. I want you to know I never meant to hurt you even though all we seem to end up doing is hurting each other over and over again. This time—’

I am whipped back three decades. I don’t remember the letter and what it said but I remember everything else. What I wore then – an old tweed jacket from a second-hand shop. Which brand of cigarettes I smoked – Consulate. I remember the colour of the walls in the room in which I read it – apple-white. I remember the twisting feeling in my gut. The hopelessness.

‘Stop,’ I say. ‘Yes. I knew her. We were in a relationship.’

Jan is angry but more at Conway than me.

‘By the looks of this letter, your relationship ended at her choice, so to speak,’ he says.

‘Yes,’ I say, my jaw tightening.

‘How did you feel about that?’ he asks.

‘I’m going to repeat my advice, Mr Shute.’

‘It’s okay, Jan. I felt how anyone would feel. I loved her. I didn’t want it to end. But it was beyond my control.’ I am articulating something I haven’t had a chance to become familiar with yet.

‘That’s an interesting phase you’ve used though, Mr Shute, isn’t it?’

‘Is that a question?’ Jan says. She is shifting in her seat. Coiled.

‘It will be, Miss. You see we also found these at your bail address, Mr Shute. At the bottom of a cardboard box we lifted from the loft. Is that your handwriting? For the benefit of the tape, I am showing the suspect exhibit RG/11, a letter without a date on it.’

I look at what he is showing me. It is still in a plastic police bag but I can make out the writing easily enough. It is my writing, or was.

‘No comment,’ I say.

‘It’s easy enough to get a handwriting expert in, Mr Shute, if you’re denying it as your writing but it has your name at the bottom. In it you use that same expression you’ve just used to me now. It’s beyond my control, you say in a letter you have written to the deceased.’

I am straining my memory to remember this but it is a fog. I look across to Jan who is incensed. Thankfully, she speaks for me as I grope around in my head for memories.