Chapters (49)
- Cover
- Table of Contents
- Also by Graham Hurley
- LIMELIGHT
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- AFTERWARDS
I gaze at him for a moment. I’d love to say that this last exchange in the interview room hasn’t frightened me, but I’d be lying. It takes very little to fabricate a plausible story, as I’m only too aware. In the theatre, or on screen, fictions of one sort or another have served me very well, but just now the lure of a made-up story feels very different. Conspiracy to murder is a very ugly phrase, and I’m suddenly aware that the next twenty-four hours could put me inside for a very long time.
‘Don’t worry, my darling.’ Tony’s hand has closed over mine. ‘These are early days.’
The next episode of this developing nightmare takes place mid-afternoon. Bullivant and a different detective join us in the interview suite. This is a face I haven’t seen before. She’s young, and overweight, with a fall of reddish hair and rather fetching dimples. Lose a few pounds, I think, and you could transform your prospects. Bullivant introduces her as DC Annie Leadbetter.
‘Do you recognize this item of furniture, Ms Andressen?’ he says.
I’m looking at a photo of Bill Penny’s exquisite chaise longue. My instinct is to say yes but Tony Morse has his shoe on my foot.
‘No comment.’
‘Have you seen it before?’
‘No comment.’
‘Are you aware that it used to belong to Sir William Penny but ended up in Andy McFaul’s bungalow?’
‘No comment.’
‘I’m asking these questions, Ms Andressen, because we believe this chaise may have been a crime scene. We recovered more dog hairs, and there were also traces of Ms Beaucarne’s DNA. Might you be able to account for those? Given that the chaise ended up in McFaul’s bungalow?’
Bullivant’s use of Christianne’s surname chills my blood – so formal, so cold. But far more important is the chronology here.
‘He’s got it wrong,’ I whisper to Tony. ‘I need to tell him.’
‘No way.’ Tony shakes his head.
‘But—’
‘I said no.’
I stare at him, and then blink. Just whose liberty is on the line here? In the interests of the next fourteen years of my life, shouldn’t I correct this gross mistake?
‘My client declines to answer that question,’ Tony murmurs.
‘Ms Andressen?’ Bullivant’s eyes haven’t left my face.
‘No comment.’