10. A Date with the Police

10

A Date with the Police

 

Lying is something that we do a lot. Psychological studies suggest that the average person lies around seven times a day. Most of these lies are relatively small and are what’s commonly referred to as ‘white lies’ or ‘comb-over lies’. Things like; “yeah, your hat looks great.” Or “hey boss, you look like you’ve lost weight.” If you’ve ever nodded along when you’re not really listening or agreed with something you don’t understand because you didn’t want to look stupid, then you’ve deceived someone. Even if you’re so angelic you’ve never even done those things, the chances are you’re delusional and therefore you’re still lying. You’re just lying to yourself. The fact is that whatever our views on lying we all do it and when it comes to these basic white lies, these small deceptions we’re all good at it too.

               Lying becomes difficult, not necessarily when the lie itself grows in significance but when you know the person you’re lying to is looking for it. Under these circumstances even telling the truth becomes more problematic. The speaker becomes conscious of his facial expressions, eye movements, hand movements and even voice intonation. So much so; that even when being honest, the words come out stiff, robotic and with all the hallmarks of deception. It’s because as soon as we overthink something we remove muscle memory from the equation. Like a racing car driver that successfully navigates a turn, forty six laps in a row but on the forty seventh lap his engineer tells him over team radio to “be careful on turn sixteen.” He inevitably puts his car into the barrier. By overthinking anything you turn something natural into something difficult.

               Of course the problem with overthinking something is that as soon as you say to yourself Ok, don’t overthink this, you already have. An infection in the brain that can’t be shifted has taken hold.

I’m already swimming against the tide then as I sit opposite two police officers in the back room of my workplace. If anything, ever, will make you overthink your words it’s having two detective inspectors asking you about a man you’ve secretly killed. My throat is dry, I’m sweating and my head feels like it’s twitching. I have no idea if these symptoms are visible to the men in front of me but to me it feels like I might as well have ‘guilty’ tattooed on my forehead.   

            “So first of all Mr. Evans” the younger of the two begins “I’d like to thank you for coming in to chat with us on your day off.” Ok so this one’s good cop I think to myself meaning you must be bad cop. I look at the older of the DI’s, his face is haggard and weary and his eyes have almost no life left in them. He looks like he’s seen more than his fair share of the darker things life has to offer. “My name’s DI Taylor.” The younger one continues, he’s wearing a smart crisp suit. His tie is tied up to the collar, his hair is styled with product and he still has hope in his eyes. His older counterpart however, is far scruffier and has an air of ‘hope is for newbies’. “And this is DI Allen.” Taylor introduces his older colleague, no doubt his superior.

                 DI Allen doesn’t acknowledge what’s being said he just stares at me coldly. DI Taylor continues his monologue; “we shouldn’t take too much of your time today, we just need to ask you a few questions about one Paul Fletcher. We believe you were one of the last of the employees here to have spoken with him.” I need every ounce of control I have to keep my face and body still. The mention of Paul’s name brings horrible images flashing through my mind. Images of his eyes as I killed him, of his caved in face in the boot of his car and of his carcass burning in the middle of a disused business park. Shame and guilt wash over me, I know DI Allen is analyzing my every micro expression and do well to keep from moving a muscle. “We’re trying to find the whereabouts of Mr. Fletcher as he’s been missing for a few days.” Taylor continues “so please don’t feel any pressure but my colleague DI Allen is going to ask you some questions about the last time you saw him. I’d like you to answer as accurately as you can, ok?” He’s consulting me as though I’m a small child, which I don’t mind at all under the circumstances. I address the friendlier younger cop Taylor and ask, “Do you think something bad has happened to him?” My voice sounds genuinely questioning, the pitch heightening at the end of a sentence in an understated and natural way. Stop overthinking it. Taylor glances at his colleague, the glance is left unreciprocated by Allen who remains set on me. Taylor straightens his already straight tie and unsure of himself says “We’ve no reason to think that, we’re looking for Mr. Fletcher in order to question him in regards to a separate missing persons case.” My guard slips momentarily, this is good news. I feel my shoulders drop, an obvious display of relief. The words “we have no reason to think that” mean that they don’t know Paul is dead and there can’t be murder suspects without a murder. DI Allen raises an eyebrow, he clearly detects the relief. He leans forward and stares me down. “Stewart,” his voice is gruff and authoritative. “When was the last time you saw Paul Fletcher?” I compose myself; I’d spent the last four to five hours practicing for these sorts of questions. As rehearsed, I look up to the left, squint a little and speak slowly and carefully as though recalling a memory I never thought I’d need. “About a week ago, he gave me a lift home after I’d worked in the shop he manages, on rare occasion I do shifts there to help out.” Taylor has produced a notepad and pen and is jotting down my words. Allen continues his questioning, “Did he tell you what his plans were that evening?” I force additional blinking, a sign of cognitive activity. “Not that I can recall” I say shaking my head “it’s a little fuzzy to tell you the truth, I was really tired and not completely listening to everything he said.”

            Allen pauses for a moment, the room falls silent but for the sound of pen on paper. Taylor furiously penning the events as they happen. “Did Mr. Fletcher talk about plans with a girl perhaps, perhaps he’d have called her his girlfriend?” DI Allen asks. I force my bottom lip forward for a second and shake my head, “don’t think so.”

        “Look kid.” The older officer begins with a sigh. “We have good reason to believe that Mr. Fletcher was spending a lot of time with a young girl up until recently.” He sighs again and rubs his stubble with his well-worn hands. “That young girl is now missing and Mr. Fletcher is a suspect in her disappearance. Do you know anything that might be useful to us in either locating Mr. Fletcher or helping us establish his relationship with the missing girl?”

        I’m instantly filled with a sensation of being torn. What DI Allen had just said meant that Sarah is missing; that she’d probably suffered the same gruesome fate as Izzy. This obviously fills me with a deep sadness; she was sixteen at most and had so much life in front of her. On the other hand however, it meant that I’d been right about Paul. What I’d known in my heart of hearts was true he was a pedophile and a killer and the blood on my hands now felt fully justified, a palpable sense of relief comes over me. The two strong emotions of sadness and relief pull me in each direction and it’s hard to hide this from the watchful eyes of the detectives.

           DI Allen stares at me, awaiting my answer to his question. I sigh, shift in my seat slightly and look up at him, giving him a strong eye contact. I’d read in a favorite psychology book of mine that a sure-fire way to tell if someone is lying is if they give you unbreakable eye contact. When someone is telling the truth they will give you eye contact but not too much, however because eye contact is widely socially considered as a form of honest body language; a liar will lock their eyes onto yours and keep them there, unmoving. I make sure then to give the police officers just the right amount of eye contact, occasionally darting my eyes elsewhere in a more natural act of recalling memory. “Look” I say, “I’m really sorry, I wish I could be more helpful but the fact is, I hardly ever worked with Paul. I barely know him from Adam.” Taylor jots my words; Allen examines me as I speak. “He wouldn’t tell me about his girlfriend or any personal stuff, you’d probably be better talking to someone he worked with more regularly.” This is a blatant lie and I’m pleased no one else that had met Paul even once was in the room.

           “Mr. Evans.” DI Taylor butts in. “Did Mr. Fletcher seem odd to you the last time you saw him? Anything at all that was out of the ordinary?” “No” I reply, “I mean Paul’s always a little strange but nothing stands out as being… weird or anything.” There’s a pause, neither of the detectives bother to ask about my ‘Paul’s always a little strange’ comment. They’ve obviously heard it a few times already in their investigation.

          DI Allen stands up and addresses his younger colleague. “C’mon Taylor, this is a waste of time.” Taylor stands up with him; he puts his notepad back in his pocket and retrieves a card. “If you do remember anything that could be useful to us Mr. Evans or if Mr. Fletcher gets in touch or anything like that, please give us a call.” He hands me the card, on it a mobile phone number is scribbled in pen. DI Taylor smiles and thanks for me my time. He exits the room leaving just DI Allen and myself. He’s still staring at me in his cold way, I smile and expect him to say his goodbyes but he doesn’t. He leans in close to me and in a growl-like whisper says, “You’re hiding something Stewart.” I look back at him, expressionless. This time the look isn’t out of practice but out of shock. “I hope for your sake, that whatever it is, it’s not important to this case.” His voice is almost threatening; he leans back and peers at me. He gives me time, gives me the rope. All I need to do is hang myself but I don’t bite the bait. I merely look back and confidently tell him “if I knew anything, I’d tell you.” His lip curls, he’s old fashioned, a relic and I can tell he longs for the days when he could beat the answers out of someone on nothing more than a hunch. Those days are gone however and he knows it as well as I do, without another word he leaves.

            Left alone in the back room of the shop, my shoulders drop. Relief fills my every crevice and I smile uncontrollably. My kitchen floor was now clean; my chair had been hacked up and burned. I’d got rid of both Paul’s body and car and I now know the police suspect me of nothing. I’d murdered a man that deserved to die and I was getting away with it. All the pent up nerves from the meeting with DI’s Allen and Taylor comes out in the form of an excitable laugh. Just as I laugh, Steve enters and I’m forced to suppress the sound, turning it into a sort of cough. “Hi Steve.” “So what did they want?” Steve asks, his face has a curious expression on it. “They were just asking about Paul, they think he might be involved in a missing persons case.” Steve raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything so I presume the conversation is over and head for the door. Just as I’m about to open it, Steve exercises his annoying knack of stopping me just as I think I’ve left the place. “I presume you’ll be in tomorrow Stewart, now that you’re all better?” I turn wearily and mutter “Yeah of course.” “Good.” Steve says firmly “And Stewart, if you pull that s**t again, I don’t care how ill you are… if you leave half way through a shift again without telling anyone, I’ll fire you.” I turn and leave muttering inaudibly f**k off Steve.

               Upon getting back to my flat, I tingle with elation. The worst really was behind me now and my entire body is celebrating. I feel overwhelmed with relief, my body and mind had been through so much in the last few days and I’d come through it, I feel strong and revel in the surprise of what a man is capable of. What I’m capable of, when pushed, when needed. If I can get through this, I can get through anything.

                After a few hours, I’d decided that I’d earned a drink and put my jacket on to head out to ‘The Pump & Truncheon’ and I’m on my second beer with Dan when my phone rings. I thought my day had peaked, that it couldn’t get any better but when I look at my phone my happiness levels increase further. For on the screen are the words ‘Incoming Call �" Rachel’. She’s calling me, she’s thinking about me. I walk outside and into the quiet to answer the call. I’m positively beaming and answer by saying “Hello you, I met a couple of your church friends yesterday.” I expect her to reply with something like, “So I heard.” Or “Really? That’s great!” But instead the line is virtually silent but for one faint sound. I feel my heart sink, the faint sound; the only sound I can hear is the sound of her crying.  

 

 

 

Reviews

[Jennie Baron]

Yes, I like a police drama too, and the unexpected ending, just as April said.

You have a technique of starting a chapter with a generalization, then applying it to Stewart's situation, that is most effective, and I don't recall having seen it done the exact same way before.

[AprilRN1210]

just when I thought it couldn't get any better... This has a "law and order" feel to it... much like my favorite criminal intent series.... love the good cop/bad cop... as always the internal dialogue is genius and the cliff ending is something that doesn't disappoint... good job.. loving it!