Linda stared at him for a moment, and then reached out for her cup and checked the side.
‘They got my name right,’ she said. She turned the cup and her face broke into a smile. ‘Oh, and they drew a little cat! Look!’ She twisted the cup round so Peterson could see.
‘I thought you’d like that.’ Peterson grinned.
Linda’s eyes narrowed. ‘I see what you’re doing,’ she said. She sat back and pushed the cup away. ‘I’m not that easy.’
‘I never thought you were,’ said Peterson. He read out his name and the time and the interview tape started recording.
‘Linda, you said yesterday you didn’t have a cat.’
‘No. I don’t,’ she said, cautiously sipping at her coffee.
‘Did you?’
‘Yes, I did,’ she said softly. ‘His name was Boots.’
‘Boots?’
‘Yes, he was black, but he had four white paws, like he was wearing boots . . .’
The minutes ticked by, and Linda became quite animated, talking about Boots. She was just telling Peterson about how Boots used to sleep under the covers with her, with his head on her pillow, when the solicitor interrupted.
‘Look, DI Peterson, what has this got to do with your investigation?’
‘I’m talking about my cat, thank you very much,’ Linda snapped back.
‘I’m working for you here, Miss Douglas-Brown . . .’
‘Yes, you are, and I’m talking about my fucking cat, okay?’
‘Yes, very well,’ said the solicitor.
Linda turned back from the solicitor to Peterson. ‘I’m sick of people who think cats are just pets. They’re not. They’re such intelligent, beautiful creatures . . .’
Back in the observation room, Moss and Crane were watching. ‘Keep her talking about Boots,’ said Moss into a microphone. Inside the interview room her voice came quietly through the earpiece Peterson wore.
‘Did Boots have a middle name? I had a dog called Barnaby Clive,’ said Peterson.
‘No. He was Boots Douglas-Brown; that was quite enough. I wish I had a middle name, or even a nicer name than just boring old Linda.’
‘I dunno; I like the name Linda,’ said Peterson.
‘But Boots is so much more exotic . . .’
‘And, what happened to Boots? I take it she’s not still with us?’ asked Peterson.
‘He, Boots was a HE. . . And no. He’s not with us,’ said Linda. She gripped the edge of the desk.
‘Are you okay? Is this upsetting to talk about how Boots died?’ pressed Peterson.
‘Of course it was upsetting. He DIED!’ shouted Linda.
There was a silence.
‘Okay, this is good, Peterson, keep on at her. We’re breaking her down,’ said Moss, in his ear.
74
The Douglas-Brown house was silent, and felt heavy and oppressive with secrets and unanswered questions. Erika hadn’t noticed how long she’d spent in Linda’s bedroom, staring at the family photos and absorbing the sadness emanating from Linda’s possessions. She was now moving down the corridor, still clutching the photos of Boots the cat, and checking to see what was behind the doors. She passed empty guest bedrooms, a large bathroom, a huge linen closet, and two picture windows in the corridor which looked onto the bare back wall of the house next door.
At the other end of the floor, at the furthest point from Linda’s room, Erika found David’s bedroom. The door was open.
In comparison to Linda’s, it was stylish and bright with a large metal-framed double bed, and a long mirrored wardrobe. A poster of Che Guevara was framed on one wall, next to a Pirelli calendar showcasing a beautiful blonde for January, her arms crossed over her bare chest. There was a faint smell of expensive aftershave, and on a large desk was a silver MacBook laptop, which was open, and beside it an iPod, docked into a large speaker set. On the wall above was a rack with six pairs of Skullcandy headphones in assorted bright colours. Erika spied a phone charger snaking out from behind the desk, and she pulled out her iPhone and hooked it up. A few moments passed and, when she saw it starting to charge, she switched it on. She went to the open MacBook, and brushed her fingers over the trackpad. The screen lit up, showing that a password had to be entered. Large black-and-white prints of Battersea Power Station, The National Theatre, and Billingsgate Fish Market adorned the remaining wall space. A large set of shelves was stuffed with books on architecture, ranging from paperback guides to enormous coffee table photo books.
As Erika glanced along the bookshelves, a bright blue cover caught her eye: Swimming London: London's 50 Greatest Swimming Spots. Erika pulled the book out and began to leaf through photos of swimming pools and lidos in London. A creeping feeling began to emerge from the pit of her stomach.
75
Back at Lewisham Row, Moss and Crane were watching the interview unfold on the video screens. Peterson was listening as Linda talked about Boots, her beloved cat. There was a knock, and Woolf put his head round the door.
‘This just came through for DCI Foster,’ said Woolf. He handed Moss a piece of paper. She scanned it quickly.
‘This is from Linda Douglas-Brown’s private Harley Street physician. He states she is mentally unfit to be questioned by the police.’
‘Jeez, what are we dealing with here?’ said Crane.
‘Who brought this in?’ asked Moss.
‘Diana Douglas-Brown; she’s shown up with another lawyer,’ said Woolf. ‘You need to stop this interview.’
‘We’ve been told she knows nothing, and yet this document is hand-delivered just before seven in the morning?’ said Moss.
‘You know I have your back, but this goes high up. Establishment stuff. I can see the edge of the cliff approaching,’ said Crane.
‘Just a few minutes more, Woolf. Go back out, come back in ten.’
Woolf reluctantly nodded and left.
‘Okay, Peterson, push her harder,’ said Moss, into the microphone.
‘How did he die, Linda?’ asked Peterson, back in the interview room. ‘How did Boots die?’
Linda’s bottom lip was now trembling and she gripped the coffee cup, running her finger over the tiny cartoon cat. ‘None of your business.’
‘Were your family upset when Boots passed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Andrea and David, they must have been younger, too?’
‘Of course they were younger! Andrea was upset, But David . . .’ Linda’s face clouded over; she bit down hard on her lip.
‘What about David?’ asked Peterson.
‘Nothing. He was upset too,’ said Linda, flatly.
‘You don’t look too convinced. Was David upset, or wasn’t he, Linda?’
She started to breathe fast, sucking in air and blowing it out, almost hyperventilating. ‘He . . . was . . . up . . . set . . . too,’ said Linda, her eyes wide, looking at the floor.
‘David was upset?’ pushed Peterson.
‘I JUST SAID HE WAS! HE WAS FUCKING UPSET!’ shouted Linda.
‘I think this is getting—’ started the solicitor, but Peterson went on.
‘David’s away at a stag party, isn’t he, Linda?’
‘Yes. I was surprised at how hard it was to let him go,’ she said. She froze, and frowned.
‘He’s only gone for a few days, hasn’t he?’ asked Peterson.
Linda was now crying, tears pouring down her cheeks.
‘It’s okay . . . He’s coming back, Linda . . . David is coming back,’ said Peterson. Linda was now gripping the desk and her face was red, her mouth curled up.
‘My client is . . .’ started the solicitor.
‘I don’t want him back,’ Linda hissed.
‘Linda, why don’t you want David back? It’s okay, it’s me; you can tell me,’ said Peterson. He could feel the air almost prickling with intensity in the interview room.
‘Far away,’ said Linda darkly. ‘I want him gone far away . . . Gone . . . GONE!’
‘Why, Linda? Tell me why; why do you want David gone far away?’
‘BECAUSE HE KILLED MY CAT!’ she suddenly cried. ‘HE KILLED BOOTS! Killed Boots! No one believed me! They all thought I was making it up, but he killed my baby cat. He killed Giles’s cat too, and made it look like it was me! That fucking bastard . . .’
‘David? David killed your cat?’ said Peterson.
‘Yes!’