Chapter 47
‘James can’t have done the things you’re accusing him of,’ Charles Miller said.
It was an hour later, and Laura and I were sitting across from him in the interview room. He was a short, wide man, dressed in beige chinos and a white shirt open enough to reveal whorls of grey hair at the top of his barrel chest. Almost bald – just patches of silver above his ears.
A former military man. We’d waited patiently for him to arrive home, and then brought him and his wife in under caution.
Neither had been arrested, and Charles had blustered more than a little about accompanying us.
I’d made it clear that if they didn’t, they’d both be arrested for obstruction of justice and I’d deal with the consequences of that later.
‘He can’t have done it.’
From Charles Miller’s tone of voice, the matter was already settled. He was hard-faced, and he kept my gaze the whole time, practically daring me to look away. Right now, I had no problem staring right back.
I said, ‘I can assure you that he did.’
‘But that’s not for you to decide. Is it, officer? We both know that. Your job is to gather evidence.’ He leaned forward and tapped the desk. ‘It’s for the courts to establish guilt. Not people like you. Thank God.’
Laura, ever polite, said, ‘What’s that supposed to mean, Mr Miller?’
‘It doesn’t mean anything.’ He leaned back. ‘Forget I spoke.’
‘We’ll try,’ I said.
By now I’d learned enough about his record – the medals and decorations – to know he was a man used to getting his own way: to being listened to and respected.
Society had granted him a position of authority on its behalf, and he’d bought the hype.
He believed it was something about him that demanded respect, rather than the position he’d once occupied. Well, I wasn’t buying it.
‘What makes you so sure James couldn’t have done these things?’
‘Because he doesn’t have it in him,’ Miller said. ‘He’s a pastry chef, for God’s sake. Or he was. He couldn’t even do that right. The boy’s scared of his own shadow.’
A pastry chef – he said it with derision, as though he could hardly imagine an occupation less befitting a grown man. And he couldn’t even do that right.
As the afternoon had worn on, we’d begun to assemble a history of James Miller.
He’d done adequately at school, but was a withdrawn, apathetic student, and had left at the first opportunity.
Few teachers recalled him; he had no real friends.
Those that did remember him spoke of him being timid and invisible, a flinch of a child.
After leaving school, he’d spent a lot of time unemployed.
Pastry chef, whatever his father thought of the job, was probably the highlight of his CV.
For a brief time, two years ago, he’d worked as a taxi driver, but he’d been let go by the company for reasons as yet unknown. Since last year, he’d been unemployed.
I said, ‘I’m not at liberty to discuss the evidence we have against James, but I can assure you it’s substantial. And, with the greatest respect, James being a pastry chef is not going to balance it out.’
Miller stared at me. The contempt he felt for me and my fake authority was fairly clear.
Laura coughed, leaned forward.
‘We’re going to need your recollections of James’s movements over the past few weeks.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
I said, ‘Did you ever go in his room?’
‘No.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Absolutely. Not in years.’
‘I wonder why you’re so adamant about that. It’s not like you know what we found in there or anything, is it?’ I didn’t give him a chance to respond. ‘You look like a man whose home is his castle, Mr Miller. Why didn’t you ever go in?’
‘Because he was old enough to keep his own counsel. Be responsible for himself. He’s a grown man, as much as he ever will be. I’d done all I could.’
‘So you’re not aware of what was taped on the wall above his desk?’
Miller shook his head, keeping my gaze. There was something in his eyes, and it made me think of his timid wife. It was hard to believe that, even without going into that room, neither of them had sensed something rotten under their roof.
But I changed tack.
‘So. What did you mean when you said that he was scared of his own shadow?’
‘I meant that he was a coward.’
‘In what way?’
‘He was always a weak child. Always scared.’
‘Strange that, with you as a father.’
Miller shook his head, misunderstanding me. ‘I did my best to help him.’
‘You did your best “to help” him?’
‘I wouldn’t expect you to understand.’
For a moment, looking at Charles Miller, it wasn’t him I saw, but another man. One who had taken me outside onto the lawn, in front of all the neighbours, and tried to teach me how to be a man by slapping me.
I leaned forward slowly.
‘Try me.’
‘He’s scared of heights.’
‘What the hell has that got to do with anything?’
‘Scared of blood too. Can you imagine that? When he was growing up, we had a dog. He was scared to give it a bath in case he scalded it.’
‘And what did you do to teach him about that?’
Miller said nothing.
‘Did you ever go into his room?’
‘I already said. No.’
‘Did you ever go into his room?’
Miller looked at me.
‘Did. You. Ever. Go. Into. His. Room?’
‘I told you. No. And I want a lawyer.’
I stood up slowly, took a deep breath, and leaned forward on the desk. Moved my face as close to his as I could get. Once again, I wasn’t quite sure who I was looking at, but I recognised something in him and I wasn’t afraid.
Laura said, ‘Andy.’
I ignored her.
‘Mr Miller,’ I said. ‘The whole time, you’ve been looking at me like you wish this desk wasn’t between us. That it wasn’t in the way.’
He kept my gaze, his jaw rolling slightly. He didn’t deny it, but he didn’t make a move either. I waited, giving him a chance, but he just stared.
‘Do you know what?’ I said.
I leaned away again, not breaking eye contact.
‘I wish that too.’