Mike Shevdon - Sixty-One Nails

"That might not work," I said, chewing sandwich.

"I've seen stranger things, but not many," she said. "Are you up to talking with the law? They're hopping from foot to foot outside waiting for a shot at you. I told them I would see you first, but frankly there's nothing wrong with you that rest won't cure. I'm more worried about them than you. They look like death warmed up."

"I suppose I had better see them."

She nodded and stood up. "If you get any dizziness or nausea I want to know immediately. I've written you a prescription for painkillers, so ask the nurse if you need them." She turned to leave.

"Can I go home?"

The doctor turned back. "I would prefer to keep you in for observation, but I can't keep you here. See how you feel after you've spoken to the police. You may find you tire pretty quickly. Your system's repairing the damage and you may not have much energy for anything else."

She went to the door and opened it. "You can come in now." She nodded to me and left the door open.

Two men entered. The first was short for a policemen, but wide with it. He stepped into the room sideways, more out of habit than need. His mid-brown hair was cut short and his dark jacket looked as if he might have slept in it. The second man looked innocuous next to the forcefulness of his colleague. He regarded the room with a passive expression taking in the bed, the chair, Blackbird and me in one sweep. I suspected that if you asked him in a month's time what was in that room, he would be able to describe it all.

"We would like to talk to you about an incident at your flat last Thursday night," the second man said, without preamble.

"Sure. Come in." They were already in, but I wanted to make the point that this was my room, at least for now.

"We would like to speak with you alone, please. Constable, would you take the young lady for a coffee or something. You can take a break. We'll come and find you if we need you."

"Sir." The constable held the door open for Blackbird and they filed out, closing the door quietly after them.

The stocky man went to the side table and put down a small handheld tape recorder. He pressed Record.

"Recording, one, two, three." He stopped the recorder and rewound it, then pressed play. His voice repeated itself from the machine. He rewound it again and pressed record.

"This is Detective Sergeant Bob Vincent with Detective Inspector Brian Tindall." He looked at his watch and then timed and dated the interview, naming the hospital and the ward. "DI Tindall leading."

He turned and sat in the chair by my bed and took out a notepad. The chair was too reclined for him. He perched on the edge of it, looking uncomfortable.

DI Tindall walked up and down in the meagre space at the end of my bed. He stopped and looked at me. "Would you state your name, please, sir, just for the record."

"Petersen. Niall Petersen."

"Age?"

"Forty-two."

"Residence."

"I live at one hundred and forty-five Cromwell Road, South Ealing." DS Vincent noted this in his book.

"Mr Petersen, we would like to know what you can tell us about the events of last Thursday night."

"Very little, I'm afraid." I needed to keep this to a minimum. I knew I would find it hard to lie and that they would probably be able to tell if I did.

"You were discovered running down the street in tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt at oh-four-seventeen. You were carrying a rucksack."

"As I told your colleagues, I was going away."

"One of my colleagues is dead. He was attacked by a virulent biological agent in your back garden. His face was eaten away to the point where if we didn't know who he was, forensics would have a hard time identifying him."

"I'm so sorry."

"Sorry? You hear that, Bob? He's sorry." He strode around and leaned over the bed, grabbing a handful of pyjama and hauling me within inches of his face. "He had a wife and a four month-old baby. She isn't even allowed to see the body. Shall I let her know how sorry you are?" He shoved me backwards onto the pillow and stared down at me. He was breathing hard, trying to control his anger.

"There was nothing I could do. I wasn't even in the garden."

"You didn't see what happened."

"No."

"Or hear?"

"Well, I could hear some of it. They were on the radio. But I didn't know-"

"I quote: 'Tell them not to touch it. Tell them!' That was you, wasn't it?" He leaned over me. "Why did you say that if you couldn't see?"

"I didn't know. I was guessing."

"Guessing!" His face was inches from mine and spots of spittle landed on my face. I daren't raise my hand to wipe it away.

"Is that your usual technique for interviewing key witnesses, DI Tindall?"

The voice was new and came from the doorway. Tindall stood slowly, fighting to regain his dignity as the colour in his face faded slowly. He wiped his hands down the front of his jacket and turned to the door. DS Vincent stood up.

"Only I don't remember reading any of that in the procedures manual and I wondered if I had somehow missed that part."

"No, sir," said Tindall.

I registered the uniform of the man standing in the doorway holding an A4-sized white manila envelope and wondered why Tindall was addressing him as "sir". Then I noticed that the uniform was immaculate. The buttons shone, and the shoulders and collar were covered in gold braid. It wasn't a regular constable's uniform.

"I think," said the man, entering the room, "they can hear you in the entrance hall, two floors down."

"Sorry, sir."

"And it may be that you need some emotional distance from this case."

"I'm fine, sir. Really."

"Nevertheless, I think you should withdraw."

"Sir? We were just getting somewhere."

"Really? Was that the part where you were leading the witness or the part where you were compromising the integrity of the evidence?"

There was silence. Tindall looked to Vincent for support, but Vincent wouldn't meet his eyes.

The new officer spoke calmly and reasonably. "I think it would be a good idea if you took a long step back from this case and regained some objectivity. I would like your report on my desk at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow."

"But, sir-"

"I've just come from seeing our dead colleague's family, detective inspector, and I am not in the mood to debate it."

DI Tindall's shoulders slumped. "Yes, sir."

"Get moving. DS Vincent will stay to assist me with the interview."

"You, sir?" said Tindall.

"What?"

"It's just that you don't usually take such a direct interest in a case, sir."

"I have a man in the morgue and another on extended leave for compassionate reasons. Two others are in shock and barely holding it together. That makes me four men down. Can you think of a more appropriate time for me to take a direct interest in a case, inspector?"

"No, sir."

"Good. I'll see you in my office at nine sharp with your report."

"Yes, sir." Tindall took one last look at me and then turned away. The new officer pushed the door gently closed behind him. After a moment there was sharp noise that might have been a bark or a muttered expletive. We could all hear the anger in the footsteps gradually fading beyond the door.

The new officer spoke. "DI Tindall leaves the room. Assistant Commissioner Mark Perkins taking over the interview. Do you mind if I sit?" He indicated the edge of the bed.

"No, er, help yourself."

I was unsure if this was a reprieve. Was having an assistant commissioner conduct the interview an improvement or simply a sign that things had just become a lot more serious?

He sat on the edge of my bed while DS Vincent sat uncomfortably perched on the bedside chair.

"I think it would help if you took us through the events of last Thursday night. From the beginning, please."