Mike Shevdon - Sixty-One Nails

I went back to what I had said earlier, rehearsing the events in my head. Perkins hardly spoke, letting me give my own version of the story. I missed out the bit about my glow and using magic to seal the door, but apart from that I told it as it had happened. When we got to the part where they found the thing in my garden, I paused.

"Could I have some water?" I asked.

Vincent passed me the water and I took several sips. They didn't prompt me or pressure me to continue, but waited patiently.

"There was something wrong," I told them. "The power was flickering and there was this strange laughter in the garden. It was freaking me out. I told them not to touch it. I tried to warn them, but it was too late."

"It?"

"I know this is going to sound strange, but it had a man's voice but a woman's sound. Does that make sense?"

"You're not the only one to say that. Why did you warn them not to touch it?" Perkins prompted gently.

"Are you kidding? Have you seen the walls of my flat? It wasn't like that before. Whoever was in my flat did that. If they were in my garden then I was staying well away from it."

"Why didn't you warn them earlier," he asked.

"I don't know. They told me it was safe. They said it had gone."

"Does the name Gerald Fontner mean anything to you?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

He opened the envelope and extracted a photograph. He handed it to me.

"Do you know this man?"

I studied the picture. The man was almost certainly dead. He was lying on his back amongst garden debris. He wore a suit and looked strangely peaceful.

"No. I've never seen him before."

"Are you sure? Take your time."

"I'm sure I would recognise him if I knew him. I don't."

"This is the man in your garden. His name is Gerald Fontner. He has — had — a wife and two children, lived in Hampstead. Company director for a car dealership."

"I don't know him."

"What kind of car do you drive, Mr Petersen?"

"I don't. There's no point in having a car in London. There's nowhere to park."

"Do you know why Mr Fontner came to your house that night?"

This was dangerously close to a question I didn't want to answer.

"Maybe that stuff made him crazy."

"Can you think of any reason that Mr Fontner would want to harm you?"

"Maybe he wasn't himself?"

"Do you know what the substance is, on the walls and ceiling of your flat, Mr Petersen?"

"It smelled like some sort of mould." I was dancing around the questions.

"It's mildew. Plain ordinary mildew. We've had it analysed. We had the lab drop everything so we could get early identification of the substance."

"Mildew doesn't do that, does it?" I asked.

"We have a number of theories, Mr Petersen. None of them are very satisfactory. Did you paint your walls with anything unusual?"

"No."

"Have you had any strange substances in your flat?"

"No."

"Was there mildew in it before?"

"No. It was freshly decorated before I moved in. I've only been there a year."

"We have a forensic team looking at your flat. They will find evidence if there have been drugs in the house. Is there anything you want to tell us now?"

"No. I don't use drugs. There's nothing for them to find."

He watched me for a long moment, assessing my reaction. "They tell me that you were dragged from the river, barely alive. How did you come to be in the Thames, Mr Petersen?"

"I don't remember being in the Thames," I told him, schooling my face. The river I had almost drowned in was the Fleet, not the Thames.

"Did someone throw you in?"

"Not that I know of."

"Then what were you doing in the river?"

"Drowning?"

He smiled slightly. "People don't normally go swimming in the Thames. If there is something you have become involved in that's got out of control, then maybe we can help."

"I haven't done anything wrong," I told him. "I haven't broken any law."

"You don't always have to break the law to end up out of your depth, Mr Petersen. The police are here to protect the citizens from harm and to keep the Queen's peace. If you are being threatened or intimidated…?"

"No one is threatening me." They weren't. Not now.

"Understand that you can talk to us if there's a problem. We may be able to help."

"Thanks, but I think I'm OK."

He paused for a moment, thinking, then stood up and picked up the tape deck. "Interview ends at…" He checked his watch and recited the time and date. Then he handed the recorder to DS Vincent.

"If you could get a transcript typed up for me for tomorrow, I can go through it with DI Tindall in the morning."

"Yes, sir."

"And you could find the constable who was keeping an eye on Mr Petersen for us and let him know he can go home."

"You're not going to arrest me then?" I asked.

"The police are not in the habit of prosecuting witnesses, Mr Petersen. We would like you to come down to the station and sign a copy of your statement, but apart from that we won't be needing anything else from you, unless there's something more you would like to tell us?"

"No. There's nothing else."

"Very well." He waited while DS Vincent gathered up his notebook and tape recorder and went in search of the constable.

"Do you play golf, Mr Petersen?"

"Golf? No, why?"

"The head of the CPS plays golf."

"CPS?"

"The Crown Prosecution Service. The people for whom we must gather the evidence and to whom we must make our case. The head of the CPS is responsible for deciding who gets prosecuted and who does not."

"And he plays golf?"

"Apparently he plays with some of the Queen's Bench Division at the Royal Courts of Justice. I believe you are acquainted with one of the masters there, by the name of Checkland?"

"Yes. We met quite recently." Was this another interview, without the recorder this time?

"I just wanted you to know. If I find out that you were in any way responsible for the death of one of my officers, it won't matter who you know or what favours you are owed. Do I make myself clear?"

I took a deep breath. "Yes. I understand."

"Good morning, Mr Petersen." He quietly pulled the door closed behind him.

After a minute or two, Blackbird reappeared. She was not alone.

"Daddy!" Alex threw herself onto the bed, wrapped her arms around my neck and hugged me fiercely.

"Careful, darling, he's still not well." Katherine, a few steps behind our daughter, was being Mum. "Sorry, she's been dying to come in here ever since she first heard you'd woken." She tried to ease Alex from around my neck.

She managed to move her from lying on my chest, but my daughter was not going to be parted from me so easily. She lay alongside me, her head on my shoulder, curled into the crook of my arm, her curls tickling my nose as I stroked her hair. Katherine gave up trying to separate her from me when I nodded it was OK. It was better to concede to being hugged than to have her fight to stay.

"How are you feeling?" Katherine asked.

"I've been worse," I reassured her, noticing Blackbird slipping out of the room past a man who was standing in the doorway, looking out of place. Tall and bearded, he was caught at the boundary, unwilling to enter, but also unwilling to leave. I looked curiously at Katherine.

"This is Barry," she introduced him. "Barry brought us over in his car."

My Fey hearing found the evasion in that sentence, and the look between Katherine and our daughter confirmed that there was more to this than they were saying. They were terrible at keeping secrets at the best of times.

I nodded to him. "Hi, Barry, you don't have to stand in the doorway. You can come in." He edged into the room, still looking uncomfortable, as if he didn't think he ought to be here.