‘Okay. Maybe to just change gear a bit. I want to ask you about the money. For the tape I am showing the suspect RTG/6, a copy of a bank statement for an account in US dollars. You would agree that this statement shows your name and the name of the deceased, Michelle Mackintosh?’

Jan’s eyes begin to widen but I can’t read why.

‘No comment,’ I say, gasping for air.

‘Well, it’s there anyway on the document. And as we pointed out in the last interview, we can see there that two hundred and fifty-three thousand dollars and twenty cents vanishes out of that account a couple of weeks before her death. Can you tell us who withdrew that sum in cash?’

‘No comment.’

‘It must have been her or you, since it’s a joint account. Was it her?’

‘No comment.’

‘Was it you?’

‘No comment.’

‘We have done some investigating since our last interview and according to the bank’s microfiche records, the person that withdrew this money was you. What was the reason for that? Did she agree to you withdrawing it?’

‘No comment.’

‘Actually, we know that she didn’t countersign the withdrawal. So, my question is, why did you take this money out before she died?’

My mouth has dried and I have a desperate urge to swallow. But the sheer cliché of it, gulping like a cartoon character, stops me.

‘Did you have money problems, Mr Shute?’

‘No comment.’

‘If you don’t mind me saying, you look as if you have money problems.’

‘That’s not a question,’ Jan says before I can say my two words.

‘Okay, well, here’s a question. What did you do with it?’

‘Enough. I am requesting a break in the interview at this point.’

I’m not sure why Jan is so edgy about these questions but I am myself desperate to stop. I need to get out of the room, even for a few minutes. I pull my shirt away from my neck and take a deep lungful of sticky air.

‘Certainly,’ says Conway with a sneer. ‘We are pausing this interview to allow you to have a consultation with your solicitor, Mr Shute. The time by my watch is fourteen thirty-nine.’

37

Thursday

‘Why did you stop the interview?’ I say.

I think I know why – I am just too embarrassed to accept it. I was foundering. Every question was another rock, every answer a lurch into peril. This bland room we’re in makes me queasy. My breathing is still a toil.

‘I need to make sure about this,’ she says seriously. ‘The money. What happened to it?’

‘What?’

‘The money. What did you do with it? Where did it go?’ she says. Whatever patience there was in her voice is hanging on by a fingernail.

‘I haven’t got it,’ I say in the end.