They'd been the longest two hours of Shivay's life - a cruel, grim eternity of nervousness, chest-crushing tension.
The lawyer guy had introduced himself as Edward Willis, then smiled and said Shivay should just call him Ed. Like it was all going to be just some big matey chat. Football, cricket, DIY tips. The guy had one of those fleshy, soft-featured sort of faces, like some twelve-year-old boy play-acting at being a grown up. Could barely have graduated from law school, let alone had experience of defending someone accused of murder.
After an initial discussion in which Willis had attempted to ascertain the salient facts of the case, he'd flitted off to use the payphone in the corridor outside. Shivay had been left to watch the endless succession of minutes tick themselves down on the wall clock to his right. Ponder what else Gooch had on him, or at least thought he had on him. What manner of accusatory barbs had been scavenged from the crumbled soil of gossip and half-truths? Which investigative bullets had been forged in the furnace of groundless assumption and racial prejudice?
An officer had at one point slunk into the room and with an unveiled glare plonked a plate and a cup down in front of Shivay. What might have been tea, and a sandwich with what might have been shrimp paste.
He'd gulped all down through sheer necessity. The will to stay alert, maintain his focus.
His fears had then grown ever sharper with the whole ridiculous charade of the ID parade. None of the others in the line had even been nose high to him. And who was it on the other side of the one-way glass, he'd wondered? Who the hell was claiming to have seen him anywhere in the vicinity of Joanne after she'd set off in that red Mini of hers? Yet another of those arrows to be slung - one which had materialised out of thin air and thin air alone.
No, even as the juddering form of Inspector Gooch finally lumbered through the door, Shivay already knew.
The grey, featureless surrounds of the interrogation room were like the mouth of whale, ready to swallow him whole.
*
Her mother nodded encouragingly across the table, forced a smile. "Go on Prisha, just a mouthful."
Prisha looked down at the bowl of aloo gobi beneath her. Moving a sluggish hand to her fork, she lifted it a couple of inches above the table top. There it remained, frozen like a winter icicle dangling from a drainpipe. How had her mother even found the mental wherewithal to have spent the last half an hour in the kitchen preparing the dish? As if everything was normal, just another day like any other. Didn't she understand? Her husband, Prisha's father, might never walk free again. Be forced to spend the rest of his days cooped up like some chicken unable to strut more than two paces forward and two paces back, left to uselessly flap its wings. An Indian man, a Hindu. Oh, there was little doubt about it - those bastard white cops would have already made up their minds, be right at that moment inventing whatever lies and subterfuge were necessary to send him down.
Yet still her mother persisted. "You need to eat, Prisha. Keep up your strength."
"Just stop it, mum!"
The words screeched from her mouth before she had chance to fully consider them, analyse their appropriateness. Words which were accompanied by the metallic thud of the fork cascading back to the table.
Her mother's facial muscles seemed to loosen, collapse suddenly downwards in defeat.
"Stop what, Prisha?"
"Acting like a mother from the old country. Like as long as there's food on the table, nothing else matters."
A tear had started to bulge in her mother's eye. "It's the only way, Prisha. Being your mother. It's the only way I'm going to get through this."
The sharp sting of filial guilt which the words provoked was enough for Prisha to extend a hand across the table, wrap it momentarily around her mother's. She was suffering too, Prisha reminded herself. Dear Ganesh, how she must have been suffering.
After releasing her mother's hand, she once more gripped the fork, dutifully swept it through the still-steaming mound of spiced vegetables beneath her. It was as she was raising it to her mouth that the urgent knocking came at the front door.
They were both up on their feet in an instant, scurrying through to the hall, Prisha a pace ahead. The thrust open door revealed the blonde detective flanked on either side by a uniformed officer. There was no greeting this time, just a strange but simply worded question directed at Prisha.
"Where's the typewriter?"
"What typewriter?"
The detective glanced at the two officers beside her. Nodded.
"Could you step aside please?"
"What's going on here?"
And again: "Could you step aside please?"
Behind Prisha, her mother had begun to flap and yell, raise a pleading voice to the heavens.
"Mum, just shut it would you!"
Prisha turned once more to the detective, switched back to English.
"Don't you need a search warrant?"
The detective observed her wordlessly for a moment, as if in admiration of her firmness and defiance. As if for the first time viewing a human being rather than a physical obstacle.
"What's your name?"
"What does it matter what my name is?"
"Oh, names always matter. Without them we'd just be... dates of birth, civic addresses, national insurance numbers. Just codes, that's all. For example, my name's Diane. Diane Shields. When I'm not engaged in my role as a detective sergeant, I've got two sons to look after. Fret and worry about. Threaten with the wrath of hell. Lee's 10, Jamie's 6." She gestured a hand. "And you?"
Prisha shrugged in resignation; it seemed pointless not to tell her.
"My name's Prisha, okay."
The detective attempted a smile. "Pretty, like its bearer." A regretful sigh then escaped her lips. "Well Prisha, in answer to your question - no, we don't need a search warrant to have a look around inside. The law states that in the case of someone accused of murder, warrants aren't necessary to inspect personal property. And then, think of it this way - if we don't find what we're hoping we might find, that can only be to your father's advantage."
She glanced once more at the two officers at her side. "You promise to be careful, right lads? Show respect?"
To which both nodded a stereophonic "'Course sarge."
"While they have a quick snoop, what say you, me and your mum have a bit of a sit down?"
Maybe it was the detective's calm persuasiveness, maybe the gathered stares of the passers-by out on the street beyond the officers' shoulders. Most probably, a combination of both. But whatever the reason, Prisha found herself turning, ushering her mother back through the hall. Behind them came the sound of boots thudding up the stairs.
A typewriter, reflected Prisha. Why the hell were they looking for a typewriter?
As she was invited to take a seat at the table, Shields' nostrils visibly quivered. "What a wonderful smell!" An exclamation which invited an uttered reaction from Prisha's mother, this in turn provoking a inquisitive glance at Prisha herself.
"She wants to know if you'd like some."
Palms wafted in polite refusal. "No, I'd better not..." Then, after a lingering glance at the culinary delight on offer: "Well okay then, maybe just a quick taste."
Even though it felt like an act of betrayal - almost like blowing a kiss to a pickpocket - Prisha slid her own bowl across.
"Here, take mine."
"You sure?"
"Sure." The fork which she'd moments earlier clattered to the table top was also slid into Shields' direction. "It's clean," she assured.
Her mother watched intently as Shields took a first mouthful, squeezed her eyes closed in pleasure. It was difficult not to feel sorry for white English people sometimes. All that bland stodge they filled their mouths with, tasting real food must have been akin to seeing the world in colour for the first time.
"Delicious, really."
"It's called aloo gobi," Prisha informed her. "Literally, potatoes and cauliflower."
"Pay your mother my compliments, Prisha. The spices are just exquisite."
A glowing review which was duly communicated to the chef. Even despite the circumstances, her mother couldn't resist a satisfied smile. More Hindi then spilled from her mouth in need of translation.
"Are they feeding him well, my mother asks?"
"He's guaranteed three meals a day," came the reply.
It seemed a little ambiguous somehow, like asking if it was sunny outside and someone replying that it wasn't raining.
After Prisha had translated the response as optimistically as possible for her mother, Shields paused her fork-digging for a moment.
"Your father. Has he got any other properties? You know - a garage or a lock up somewhere?"
"No."
"It's bettter you level with us now, Prisha, rather than we find out later."
Her voice pitched higher in conviction. "He hasn't, I'm telling you!"
Shields nodded in satisfaction. "Okay, Prisha. Okay."
At that same moment came the thud of the officers' boots back down the stairs. It was the slightly older of the two who appeared in the doorway.
"Nothing," he reported.
Behind him, the second officer had opened the broom cupboard under the stairs, was beaming his torch inside.
Shields meanwhile nodded towards the rear window. "There's a shed out in the backyard. Have a shifty in there too."
After the officer had stepped away, Prisha directed a scornful gaze towards Shields.
"You're wasting your time, Diane. You know that, don't you?"
The use of the first name was deliberate, calculated. An effort to strip away the barriers of rank and authority, reduce the dynamics to that of two females sharing a bowl of aloo gobi at the living room table.
"There's no typewriter here. No murder weapon. No nothing. Whatever it is you think you've got on him, it's wrong."
Shields returned the intensity of Prisha's gaze.
"I'm fairly certain you lied to me earlier today about where your father was on Tuesday morning, Prisha, so how can I be sure you're not lying to me again now?"
Prisha' response was as simple as it was immediate. "Because you're a daughter too, Diane."
Shields' eyes veered sadly away towards the table top. "Was a daughter, in my case. It's been quite a while I'm afraid."
"But surely you can remember, though. How nobody knew him like you knew him. Not even your mother. It was like... like you were the only one truly able to see inside his soul."
Shields' gaze had lifted once more upwards, the earnestness in her eyes communicating that yes, she could remember, had shared a similar connection with her own father.
Prisha shifted forward in her seat, stared unflinchingly into the detective's hazel eyes. Though a half-whisper, her voice was firm, determined.
"It wasn't my father who killed Joanne and that other poor woman. I know it. Know it for certain. It just wasn't him, okay."
*
Gooch's opening question was exactly the one Shivay had been expecting.
"Where were you on Tuesday morning, Mr Gupta?"
The answer too was highly predictable.
"At home in bed. I had a bit of a cold."
The words sounded unconvincing even to Shivay's own ears. An opening gambit, that was all. A conduit to discovering exactly what they had on him.
"But your wife - via I believe the translation services of your daughter - yesterday informed my colleague DS Shields that at a little before nine o'clock you got in your car to go to work."
"I came straight back though. I knew I wasn't---"
"And while you were getting in your car," interrupted Gooch, "Joanne Renshaw was getting into her car just across the road. Correct?"
"Yes, but as I said, I---
"And while you both did so you exchanged a few words. Is this also correct?"
"Yes, just a---"
"Care to tell us what you talked about, Mr Gupta?"
"It was just a quick hello, nothing more."
It was the younger detective, DC Bridcutt, who now intervened. "She told you where she was going though, didn't she? A drive over to Southwold, then head out onto the hiker's trail."
Shivay shrugged. "She may have done, but I can't really remember. As I said, it was just a quick exchange. I had a cold, was feeling a bit groggy. And I remember that while she was speaking, a---"
It seemed that like his superior, Bridcutt too was versed in the art of deliberately annoying interruptions.
"Yesterday morning, at the same time DS Shields was talking to your wife and daughter, I spoke to a Mr...er..."
There was a cardboard folder which Gooch had slapped onto the table as he'd lowered his bulk onto his chair moments earlier. Its mere presence there in front of Shivay was deeply unsettling. A Pandora's box of insidious mystery. An investigative grenade set to explode in his face.
A folder which Bridcutt had now opened. He shuffled a hand through its contents in search of the relevant document.
"Ah yes, just here... Mr Harry Turner of number 15 Victoria Ter---"
Now it was Shivay's turn to interrupt. "Guy's a drunkard."
But Bridcutt seemed not in the slightest bit interested as to Mr Turner's alleged weaknesses.
"He testified that as you and Miss Renshaw were exchanging words over the roofs of your vehicles, he was passing by on the street, Miss Renshaw's side. He clearly heard her inform you that she was heading out to Southwold for a hike on the trail."
To which Shivay could only repeat what he'd said a moment earlier: "I told you, the guy's a complete drunkard. Reeks of beer even first thing in the morning."
His legal aid Willis finally stirred into life beside him.
"I have to say that I really do find it inadvisable that the key testimony in your accusations against Mr Gupta appears to be a noted alcoholic."
Gooch and Bridcutt both stared at him, as if for the first time becoming aware of his presence. It was the senior of the two to offer a response.
"Mr Wallace, I---"
"Willis actually."
"Well Mr Wallace, I have to say that I really do find it inadvisable of you to question the reliability of Mr Turner's testimony given that Joanne Renshaw did indeed head out to the Southwold entrance of the hiking trail that morning. Pissed out of his head he might well have been, but when DC Bridcutt here spoke to him there was no way he could have known that if he hadn't heard it from Joanne's own mouth."
As Willis shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, Shivay finally managed to splutter out the point he'd wanted to make earlier before Bridcutt had cut him off.
"I have no doubt Turner heard, but I'm not sure I heard, that's what I'm trying to say. There's a woman lives up the street, got a herd of kids. Six or seven of them, something like that. As I was talking to Joanne, they were just coming out of the front door. You know, on their way to the supermarket or the dole office or what have you. Were making a hell of a racket, always do. I couldn't really make out what Joanne was saying."
Gooch lit himself a cigarette, held Shivay's gaze as he took a first drag. "You really think that's going to wash with a jury, Gupta?"
"But it's the truth!"
A smirk flickered across the inspector's face. "I tell you what the truth is, shall I? The truth is, you didn't have a cold. You didn't come straight back home."
Shivay resisted the easy option of feigning an impassioned denial, and instead remained silent. There'd been an ominous conviction to Gooch's tone; Shivay needed to know where the sod was headed, have him show his hand.
"Another neighbour of yours has also provided testimony. A Miss, er..." As Bridcutt moments earlier, Gooch too fumbled through the documents in the folder. "A Miss Rachael Greaves of number 7 Victoria Terrace."
Number 7, thought Shivay. The hairdresser who always flashed him a flirtatious smile whenever they passed in the street.
Gooch pressed his index finger to the report. "She stated that on Tuesday morning she saw you passing by the entrance of Meadows Park in your Astra."
Oh hell.
This was bad. So terribly, irrevocably bad.
Gooch's smirk had now morphed into a triumphant beam. "Anyone listening back to the tape recording of this interrogation will have noted the deathly silence from the other side of the table. What you can't detect of course is the look on Mr Gupta's face. Surprise, disappointment." The inspector turned towards Bridcutt. "How would you describe the expression on Mr Gupta's face right this moment, detective?"
"Crestfallen springs to mind."
"Crestfallen - yes, that's a good one."
"Resigned."
"Oh, even better! Yes, looks like he knows he's fighting a losing cause all right."
At which point Willis stirred once more into life.
"I would ask both of you to quit this ridiculous double-act at once and to please explain what you believe the significance of Miss Greaves' testimony is exactly."
The inspector's beam had yet to fade. "Well Mr Wallace, this is the---"
"Willis! My name's Willis, okay!"
But Gooch continued unabashed. "As I was saying, this is the point in the court proceedings in which a large street map of Dunwick and surrounding area will be wheeled out in front of the jury. Someone'll no doubt have pinned a few coloured arrows on it just to make it clearer for everyone to understand. There'll be one indicating Victoria Terrace, another indicating Dixon's Wool on the road to Branstead where Mr Gupta works, and a third at the entrance to Meadows Park where Miss Greaves saw him pass - in the direction of the High Street, no less. What the jury will conclude, what the judge will conclude, what every man, woman and bloody damn journalist in that courtroom will conclude, is that far from looping back home after setting out for the factory, as Mr Gupta claims, he was instead directed towards Southwold."
Gooch paused for a moment to exhale a plume of smoke, as if allowing Willis the opportunity for the revelation to sink in a little.
"And there's more I'm afraid, Mr Wallace." The legal aid this time seemed to possess neither the will nor energy to correct the mistaken surname. "We've also discovered that literally just a couple of minutes after being pulled over this morning as part of routine checks on all drivers of white Astras in the jurisdiction, Mr Gupta made a call home from the payphone in the factory canteen. An event to which a Mr..." Once again, there was a shuffling of the papers inside the folder in search of the relevant document. "Robert Lewis has provided a statement."
Shivay fought hard to keep his lips from snarling. Bob from yarn dyes, the sod.
"He was in the vicinity at the time of the call," continued Gooch. "States that..." The inspector squinted his eyes down at the report, touched a finger to the line he was about to recite. "Mr Gupta's voice was whispered and secretive, his manner suspicious.'" After folding out his cigarette, the inspector looked back up, that damn smirk of his once more playing at the edges of his lips. "It doesn't take Sherlock bloody Holmes to work out the nature of the call, does it now? Passing on instructions, weren't you, Mr Gupta? Telling your good lady wife what to say when the officers called by. This whole cock and bull story about coming straight back home on Tuesday morning and spending the day in bed."
"As I'm sure any eventual judge or jury would appreciate," Willis countered, "there is a world of difference between a witness's perception of a telephone call and the actual nature of it. Particularly so, one might add, when the call was conducted in Mr Gupta's native tongue, I imagine."
He glanced across at Shivay for confirmation.
"Hindi, yes. Advika's English isn't so good, I'm afraid. She told me to phone her as soon as I got to work, let her know how I was feeling. She was worried I still hadn't shaken off my cold, you see."
The inspector nodded sardonically. "Is that so, Mr Gupta, is that so? Your call into work on Tuesday morning to tell them you weren't coming in was timed at..." Yet again, there was a shuffling of papers. "8.49 am. Care to tell us why rather than your home number it was registered from a phone box along Dunwick High Street?"
Oh, this was going badly. A missile-scorched jet fighter screeching and careering to the ground.
"Time to quit it with this whole 'I was in bed with a cold' nonsense now, don't you think?" Gooch hunched forward in his seat, fixed Shivay in an intense, unwavering gaze. "We know you weren't at home on Tuesday morning, and we know you weren't at work. So the question that still needs answering is the same one I began this interrogation with, Mr Gupta. Where the hell were you?"
But that was thing. The hook on which Shivay found himself so helplessly pierced.
No matter what the consequences might be, he couldn't tell them where he'd been.
He just couldn't.