7 Crows

Chapter Eight | 09:07

Chapter Eight

09:07 am. New Year's day.

There was a peremptory stillness.

Loxley slumped into the straight-back chair as she soaked in Kanwaljit's words. Though the preceding tension in the atmosphere attenuated, her face was no different than before. She was impassive with her arms crossed and her back pressed against the chair; Loxley appeared as if she was merely watching a football game.

"Hmm, you lost the ring during the rush out," Loxley finally spoke.

Kanwaljit's face had a traumatised look. Though, his dark-brown eyes were fixed on the silver ring that rested in front of his eyeline, they were almost unblinking and clearly not focused on the object.

Loxley suspected the man's brain was unwilling to let go of the images of the dead body.

"I think." Kanwaljit stated, clearing his throat.

"So, you were in the motel around the time of the murder," Loxley said, her tone brusque, and it wasn't a question.

Kanwaljit shifted his eyes off the ring to Loxley's with the weariness of a man who's thrice his age.

"Why did you lie the first time around and withheld this detail?"

"I- I was scared. I not want to make things complicated a-and get in this police issues." Kanwaljit's speech rate was slow with deliberate pauses as he tried to choose the right words from his memory.

"Yet here you are."

"Ji." He replied in a hushed tone, his body deflated and his head drooped.

Loxley planted her palms on her thighs and pushed herself up to a full standing position. She felt the man's eyes follow her movements as she strode over to the camera, and switched the recording off.

"You can keep the ring," Loxley announced, turning around to face Kanwaljit, who stared back with slightly furrowed brows. "Consider putting it on a chain and wear it as a necklace, so you don't lose it again."

A hint of smile claimed his lips and eyes, as he stretched his right arm and wrapped his fingers around the ring. He firmly clasped the ring inside his fist, as if to keep a hold on it and prevent it from losing again.

"Thank you." He croaked.

"You're done here for now, Kanwaljit." Loxley said, her feet already moving towards the door. She cracked the door open, and poked her torso outside, instructing the officer guarding to escort the immigrant out and to bring in Jacques Spearman.

She then stepped aside for Officer Malek to pass, who then politely guided Kanwaljit out of the interrogation room.

As the door closed behind the two men, Loxley groped out the cell phone from her suit jacket's pocket and checked if Ebony had tried to call her back. Nothing. No calls or text message.

"Where the bloody hell are you, Blaine?" She muttered, tapping her left shoe clad feet on the floor. Loxley tried calling him again, pacing back and forth with the cell phone clutched in her hand, but no luck. She wanted to smash the cell phone on the wall but instead she left a message on his voicemail, straining to keep her voice casual yet urgent.

Just as she sent the message, the maple door swung open and Jacques entered the room. Loxley pocketed her cell phone and gestured to the aloof man to sit down after nodding an acknowledgement to Officer Malek.

The man let out slow controlled breaths and attempted to loosen his muscles yet he took leaden steps towards the straight-back chair and sat down heavily. He had the posture of a birch tree swaying in the sturdiest breeze, its thin grey limbs flopping around. It was a decent effort, enough to fool a casual observer, but to Loxley's keen eyes Jacques was a walking advert for stress.

Loxley returned to her seat opposite the interviewee. "You're still not comfortable?" She asked, stretching her back on the chair. Noting Jacques merely gave her a blank expression, she added, "Your eyes moves with an alertness and your hands still clenched. That happens from serious stress."

"I don't do well under pressure." Jacques replied, his voice gruff and his eyes darting around the interrogation room as he stuffed his hands in his cardigan pockets. "Now, what do you want to ask, Detective?" His burnt umber gaze came to rest on Loxley's intent hazel eyes.

"Let's reword that. What do you have to say, Jacques?" Loxley leaned forward and rested her arms on the table. "Have you got anything more to add to our last conversation?"

There was a momentary pause; then his deep voice rumbled out, "No. I've got nothing to say."

Loxley slightly squinted her eyes. The pause was a second too long for him to just deny. "I have a feeling that's not true." She deliberately emphasised the last word to indicate she was serious all the while outstaring him.

"Right-o." Jacques amended.

Without uttering another word, Loxley got to her feet. She proceeded over to the camera and switched it back on for recording, then returned back to her seat. "Now, what do you have to say?" Loxley asked, perching back into the chair with her clasped hands planted on the table.

There was a hesitation; his chin tilted downward and his half-lidded eyes stared at a spot on the table. "Last night I bumped into someone... or was it two folks," Jacques half-mumbled the words to himself, "I have trouble remembering."

"Please elaborate," Loxley pressed, shifting in her chair; a wrinkle appeared between her eyes.

"I can't bloody remember the time, probably around eleven." The frustration made his voice dyspeptic. "But, some short time after I arrived at the motel, some fella bumped past me through the entrance door and... I'm sure someone else followed close behind. I remember the second fella muttering a good evening."

"Do you recall their faces?"

"I'm trying but all my blasted memory can remember is a shiny pair of shoes like they just came out of a box."

"Was it Kanwaljit Patel? The dweller of room number nine?"

"No. I don't think so." Jacques' face clinched in lines of effort. "The voice... The voice of the second fella... it was tough and raspy but almost high enough to be a lassie's voice."

"Are you sure?" Loxley stressed.

"My memory is like a shitty chess game where any pieces can move, appear and disappear as they jolly well like, but I'm positive about this." Jacques' voice was low and unwavering yet loud and intense that it was convincing.

Loxley slumped back in the chair, inhaling a deep breath and slowly let the air out. She raised her chin a notch and squared her shoulders, before asking, "Why haven't you spoken of this before? You were impassive in the previous interrogation."

"I was stunned and I didn't think much of it. Murder can have that effect on people." He explained. There was a tightness in his jaws and shoulders. Jacques was apprehensive and looked like he could use a few shots of hard liquor.

"Well, you'd know that feeling all too well, wouldn't you?" Loxley watched him with an inquisitive gaze — that he countered with furrowed eyebrows — as if she was trying to find the answer to some mystery from his face. "You've committed a murder before, innit?"