The interview

Detective Ramsay could not believe his luck.

Two D-1 detectives would have needed to be unavailable before anyone let him lead a murder interview. Yet Ramsay had barely begun his shift when the request came down: a suspect was waiting, both senior detectives were out of action, and someone needed to take the room.

Under any other circumstances, Ramsay might have wondered why they had chosen him.

That morning, he was simply grateful for the distraction.

He had arrived at police headquarters less than twenty minutes earlier, parked his car in the secured lot and walked inside without speaking to anyone. He had gone directly to the bathroom, splashed cold water over his face and stared into the mirror until his breathing steadied. Then he had buttoned his jacket, reported for duty and behaved as though his morning had begun like any other.

It had not.

The memory remained sharp despite the drinks.

The rain striking the windscreen. The blurred streetlights. His hand fumbling with the heater controls because the glass kept fogging. He had known he should not have been driving. He had known it before he started the engine, but the station was only a few streets away and he had convinced himself that caution would be enough.

Then something appeared behind him.

A shape in the mirror. A person stepping into the road.

Ramsay had not been concentrating. His foot came down too hard, and the car shot backwards.

The impact travelled through the chassis with a sickening weight.

He had stopped for perhaps half a second. Long enough to see a body on the wet road. Long enough to understand exactly what he had done.

Then he had accelerated away.

He had driven straight to police headquarters and started his shift.

Now he sat in Interview Room Three with a murder suspect across the table from him.

Laura Hicknell was the estranged wife of the dead man. The divorce had been ugly, full of accusations, arguments and disputed property. She had no alibi for the time of death. She had been the last known person to see her husband alive and seemed, in Ramsay’s opinion, far too composed for a grieving widow.

The case had practically assembled itself.

Laura sat with her shoulders hunched beneath the harsh ceiling light. Her damp hair clung to the sides of her face, and her hands were clasped so tightly on the metal table that the knuckles had whitened.

Ramsay opened the thin file in front of him, although he already knew the essential details.

“Please,” he said, allowing impatience to creep into his voice. “Let’s at least try to agree on the facts we know.”

He glanced down at his hands in theatrical exasperation before raising his eyes to hers.

Laura continued staring at the table.

“You and Mr Hicknell were in your apartment,” Ramsay said. “You were having what we’ll call a spirited debate about the details of the separation.”

Her fingers tightened.

“He became angry. He threw a glass at the wall, then stormed out of the apartment and into the rainy night.”

Laura gave a faint nod.

“You followed him, but you missed his elevator. You caught the next one down. When you reached the street, you found him lying beside your building, apparently beaten to death.”

Her breath caught.

“You called 911,” Ramsay continued. “Officers arrived, brought you here, and now we’re having this conversation.”

He closed the file and leaned back.

“Have I missed anything?”

“No,” she said.

The word emerged as a sob.

“I’m sorry. I just—” She pressed her lips together, struggling to continue. “Why couldn’t he have stayed? Why couldn’t he have just stayed and talked?”

Ramsay watched her without answering.

He knew this stage of an interview. First came the denial. Then regret. Then an attempt to spread responsibility around until the victim somehow became responsible for his own death.

“Well,” Ramsay said, leaning towards her, “let me add something.”

Laura raised her head.

“The preliminary crime-scene report indicates that your husband wasn’t beaten.”

Her expression changed, though only slightly.

“He was struck by a vehicle.”

For an instant, Ramsay saw the road again.

The pale shape in the mirror. The violent jolt through the seat. Rain sliding down the rear window and distorting the body on the ground.

He pushed the memory aside.

Laura’s lips parted, but she said nothing.

“And,” Ramsay continued, “you’ve reported your car missing.”

“I meant to report it sooner,” she muttered. “There were more important things happening.”

“Of course.”

Ramsay allowed the word to hang between them.

Silence was one of the simplest tools available to a detective, and one of the most effective. Most people could not tolerate it. They rushed to fill the empty space, and in doing so, said things they had not meant to say.

The ventilation system hummed above them. Rain whispered against the building. Somewhere outside the room, footsteps passed and faded.

Laura stared at her hands.

Ramsay studied her, waiting for the tension to do its work.

“When we find your car,” he said at last, “and believe me, we will, are we going to find damage to the rear consistent with backing into a pedestrian?”

Laura became completely still.

Ramsay felt satisfaction rise within him.

He knew that stillness. It was the moment a suspect understood that the story they had prepared was failing. The moment the walls seemed to move closer and every answer created another problem.

Ramsay loved this part.

He loved applying pressure and watching confidence drain from the person across the table. He loved the sudden uncertainty in their eyes when they realised he knew something they had believed was secret.

Today, the feeling was stronger.

Laura Hicknell was about to be charged with a crime Ramsay had committed less than an hour earlier.

The thought should have frightened him. Instead, it produced a strange sense of relief. The police already had a suspect. She had motive, opportunity and no alibi. Her car was missing. She had found the body.

People believed the explanation that required the least effort.

Ramsay allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.

Three sharp knocks sounded against the observation glass.

His eyes moved towards the darkened window.

That was strange.

The usual signal to suspend an interview was two knocks, a pause, then two more. Everyone in the station knew it. Three knocks meant nothing.

He waited.

No second signal came.

When Ramsay looked back, Laura Hicknell had stopped trembling.

She was sitting upright now. Her shoulders had straightened, and her hands rested loosely on the table. The grief and uncertainty had disappeared from her face so completely that Ramsay wondered whether he had imagined them.

She looked directly into his eyes.

“Do you know about every dent on your car, Detective?”

Her voice was level and controlled.

Ramsay said nothing.

“It must be nice,” she continued, “having the time and money to maintain a classic like yours.”

His smile faded.

“How do you know what I drive?”

Laura ignored the question.

“How do you know my husband was backed into?”

Ramsay felt something tighten inside his chest.

“The preliminary report,” he said. “I just told you—”

“The report said he was struck by a vehicle.” Her voice remained calm. “It didn’t say what kind of vehicle. It didn’t say which direction it was travelling.”

Ramsay stared at her.

“And it never mentioned damage to the rear.”

The room seemed to shift beneath him.

He searched backwards through the interview, trying to remember exactly what had been written in the file and what he had supplied himself. He could see the body in the rain again, lying where it had fallen behind his car.

Laura watched the realisation form on his face.

Ramsay pushed his chair back and stood. The metal legs scraped across the floor.

“We only needed to keep you here long enough to complete the inspection of your car,” she said.

Ramsay looked towards the observation glass. Several figures now stood behind it, their outlines visible against the dim light beyond.

“Couldn’t have you finishing your shift and driving away with the evidence,” Laura continued.

She stood and opened her jacket.

A gold federal badge was clipped to her belt.

Ramsay stared at it, then looked towards the figures behind the glass. Nobody entered. Nobody moved to stop him.

They did not need to.

He crossed the room, seized the handle and pulled.

The door was locked.