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‘Your family tree.’
‘No.’
He frowns and waits, but I have nothing to add.
Detective Ogilvy speaks again. ‘How do you know the deceased, Finn Radford?’
‘We met twelve years ago on a fishing trawler.’
He does a mental calculation. ‘You were ten?’
‘Nine.’
Doubtfully. ‘Why were you on the boat?’
‘I was with my mother and sister. We were seeking asylum.’
‘Where are they?’
‘They’re dead.’
‘How did they die?’
‘I don’t know.’
He sighs tiredly. ‘A word of warning, Miss Cormac. It’s an offence to lie to the police. You could be charged with wasting my time or perverting the course of justice.’
‘I’m not lying.’
Detective Ogilvy regards me in silence, his pale face full of freckles that must come out every summer. I bet he tried to scrub them off when he was a kid. I did. Mama caught me in the bathtub with lemon juice and a scouring pad.
‘You’ll need to come back to the police station to provide us with a full statement,’ he says.
‘We were going home today.’
‘That won’t be possible.’
I don’t want to tell him about Angus Radford – not if Cyrus hasn’t told him already. Ogilvy moves away and signals to a young female constable, who escorts me to a waiting police car.
Cyrus is in the Fiat.
‘Why can’t I go with him?’ I ask.
‘He’ll be following us.’
13
Cyrus
The local police headquarters in St Claire is so new that I can smell the paint drying and see scaffolding marks on the carpet. The interview room is sparsely furnished and decorated in pastel colours because some organisational psychologist will have told them that light blue reduces anxiety.
Ogilvy has taken off his jacket and loosened his tie. His crumpled shirt is one size too small, putting pressure on the buttons across his belly. He turns on the recording equipment and announces the date and time and the names of those present.
Finally, he leans forward, elbows on the table. ‘OK, for the record, tell me again why you visited Finn Radford.’
‘First, can I ask you a general question?’
He nods.
