`Get your ass in that chair and keep your filthy mouth shut,’ he said.
This fat guy was a surprise. He looked like a real asshole. Opposite to what I’d seen so far. Baker and his arrest team were the business. Professional and efficient. The fingerprint woman had been decent. But this fat police chief was a waste of space. Thin dirty hair. Sweating, despite the chilly air. The blotchy red and grey complexion of an
unfit, overweight mess. Blood pressure sky-high. Arteries hard as rocks. He didn’t look halfway competent.
`My name is Morrison,’ he wheezed. As if I cared. `I am chief of the police department down here in Margrave. And you are a murdering outsider bastard. You’ve come down here to my town and you’ve messed up right there on Mr Kliner’s private property. So now you’re going to make a full confession to my chief of detectives.’
He stopped and looked up at me. Like he was still trying to place me. Or like he was waiting for a response. He didn’t get one. So he jabbed his fat finger at me.
`And then you’re going to jail,’ he said. `And then you’re going to the chair. And then I’m going to take a dump on your shitty little pauper’s grave.’
He hauled his bulk out of the chair and looked away from me.
`I’d deal with this myself,’ he said. `But I’m a busy man.’
He waddled out from behind his desk. I was standing there between his desk and the door. As he crabbed by, he stopped. His fat nose was about level with the middle button on my coat. He was still looking up at me like he was puzzled by something.
`I’ve seen you before,’ he said. `Where was it?’
He glanced at Baker and then at Stevenson. Like he was expecting them to note what he was saying and when he was saying it.
`I’ve seen this guy before,’ he told them.
He slammed the office door and I was left waiting with the two cops until the chief of detectives swung in. A tall black guy, not old, but greying and
balding. Just enough to give him a patrician air. Brisk and confident. Well-dressed, in an oldfashioned tweed suit. Moleskin vest. Shined shoes. This guy looked like a chief should look. He signalled Baker and Stevenson out of the office. Closed the door behind them. Sat down at the desk and waved me to the opposite chair.
He rattled open a drawer and pulled out a cassette recorder. Raised it high, arm’s length, to pull out the tangle of cords. Plugged in the power and the microphone. Inserted a tape. Pressed record and flicked the microphone with his fingernail. Stopped the tape and wound it back. Pressed play. Heard the thunk of his nail. Nodded. Wound back again and pressed record. I sat and watched him.
For a moment there was silence. Just a faint hum, the air, the lights, or the computer. Or the recorder whirring slowly. I could hear the slow tick of the old clock. It made a patient sound, like it was prepared to tick on for ever, no matter what I chose to do. Then the guy sat right back in his chair and looked hard at me. Did the steepled fingers thing, like tall elegant people can.
`Right,’ he said. `We got a few questions, don’t we?’
The voice was deep. Like a rumble. Not a southern accent. He looked and sounded like a Boston banker, except he was black.
`My name is Finlay,’ he said. `My rank is captain. I am chief of this department’s detective bureau. I understand you have been apprised of your rights. You have not yet confirmed that you understood them. Before we go any further we must pursue that preliminary matter.’
Not a Boston banker. More like a Harvard guy.
`I understand my rights,’ I said. He nodded.
`Good,’ he said. `I’m glad about that. Where’s your lawyer?’
`I don’t need a lawyer,’ I said.
`You’re charged with murder,’ he said. `You need a lawyer. We’ll provide one, you know. Free of charge. Do you want us to provide one, free of charge?’