I Know What I Saw

‘Well, how can I put this?’ she says slyly. ‘Not all defendants maintain at trial the account they give at the police station. Often things are said at times of considerable pressure that on reflection aren’t intended. Do you see? I mean here, for example, there is the admission on the one hand that you saw the deceased being murdered. And on the other hand, the fact that in your account you only visited that house on that street for the first time just weeks ago. On one view, you and the police are at cross purposes. You are talking about different things.’

I shift in my place. These are the same clothes I slept in, though I have washed in a public lavatory. My procedure is that I take a sock and wash it thoroughly in hot water and soap. Once it is clean I use it as a flannel before drying it again under a hot-air dryer. But clean skin under dirty clothes still makes me squirm a little.

‘But, as I told Jan, I think I did go there. In 1989, I mean. She gave me a key. I’m sure that’s what happened. I must have been there. It must have been her that I saw being killed.’

She tucks a biro behind her ear and darts a look at Jan who catches it deftly.

‘Forgive me for being blunt, Mr Shute. But it’s not a very confident account of yourself. I wonder whether on reflection you didn’t in fact see Ms Mackintosh being killed. I wonder whether the years of being in the wilderness, shall we say, have dulled your memory somewhat? I mean it’s not unheard of for people to become highly prone to suggestion when under stress. Can you be sure that this officer, DI Conway, is it, didn’t take advantage of your suggestibility?’

Jan drops her head, bracing for what she knows is coming.

‘I am not suggestible, Mrs Khan. It was me. I was there. I did not kill her and I saw her being killed.’

Nasreen pushes herself back from the table and exhales. ‘Is that what we’re going with?’ she says, more to Jan than me.

‘That’s what we’re going with,’ I say, and then add, ‘but I have some more information.’ I am about to reach into the pocket of my coat when I am stopped.

‘Don’t worry about any of that for now,’ Nasreen says. ‘Why don’t you start by telling me everything that you remember about that night?’ She takes up her pen and writes in a soft-backed blue notebook as I talk.

I tell her how the door had been unlocked, and step by step what I had told the police about Ebadi’s flat. Nasreen is deaf to the nuances of the drama. Instead she listens as if she is a hawk looking for mice, scurrying through the narrative. Describe him. Everything you can remember. What did you see? What was he wearing? What was she wearing? Where were they standing or sitting? What was in his hand? Where were they when the argument started? Exactly where? What was playing on the radio?

‘The record player,’ I say, correcting her. I want to tell her about how I think I know him, the killer, and that I know something about him. But I can’t. I can’t tell her what has happened to the cash. But I can tell her how Grace gave it to me. I reach into my pocket for the letter but I am held back by Nasreen’s hand.

‘The record player then, could you see who changed the record or switched the player off?’

‘It wasn’t switched off exactly. He, the guy, took the record and threw it against the wall. It broke in two,’ I say, holding the letter out.

‘How do you know that?’ she says, suddenly alert.

‘Because I heard it,’ I say.

‘You heard it break?’

‘Yes.’

‘In two? Pieces?’

‘Yes. Why?’ I say, puzzled by something that is obviously hiding in the question.

‘In two,’ says Jan. ‘You couldn’t have heard it break, in two.’

I feel my eyes roll. ‘Then I saw it. What’s the difference?’

‘Where was it when you saw it later on?’ Nasreen says.

‘I don’t know. On the floor, I think. Yes, on the floor. I think it ended up by the window somewhere.’

‘And the sleeve. Did you see that?’ she says quickly.

I close my eyes and try to claw the memory closer to the foreground. ‘On the sofa maybe. Yes, leaning against the base of the sofa. I think.’

Nasreen looks over at Jan and beckons her over to her laptop which she opens.

‘Look at these scene pictures they uploaded to the Digital Case System,’ she says to Jan.

Jan looks over Nasreen’s shoulder and then a look of realisation crests over her.

‘Exactly where he says it was,’ Jan mutters.

‘Looks like he was there, all right,’ Nasreen says.

‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,’ I say.

‘But hang on, I can’t see the record itself. Is there a picture of the room by the windows?’ Jan asks.

‘No, the photos only go to here,’ Nasreen says, pointing to the screen. ‘Okay. Jan, can you get a request to the Crown over please? Tell them that we want that record sleeve examined for prints and compared against our client’s arrest dabs.’