Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Logan directed Olivia to a seat on the other side of the interview room desk. She slouched into it without a word, arms folded, face formed into a clear visual fuck you.
‘Comfortable?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yeah.’ Olivia rocked in the hard plastic chair. ‘It’s like sitting on a cloud.’
‘Right. Aye. Well, I’ll, eh, I’ll just go and get DI Khaled to come in and he can—’
‘No.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Me and you,’ Olivia told him. ‘That’s it.’
Logan shook his head. ‘That won’t work. Because of our relationship, I need someone else to sit in on the interview. Ideally, to lead it.’
‘Well, don’t worry about that. We don’t have a relationship,’ she told him. ‘You’ve made that very clear.’
Logan sighed. ‘Olivia, listen—’
‘It’s me and you, just the two of us, or this isn’t happening,’ she insisted. ‘Or, I walk out of here. Unless you arrest me. Is that your plan, Jack? You going to arrest me?’
There was spite behind it. Behind all of it.
‘Listen… This was your call,’ he reminded her.
‘My call,’ she scoffed.
‘You said downstairs that you wanted to come up here and do this properly.’
Olivia lurched forward in the chair, practically screaming at him. ‘Because I wanted you to say no!’
She swallowed quickly, like she was trying, too late, to choke back the words. Her voice dropped until it was little more than a whisper.
‘You were meant to say no. You were meant to tell me we didn’t have to do this.’
Olivia sat back again, refolding her arms, bringing her defensive shields back online.
‘But, fine. Here we are. It is what it is. So, go on then. Ask your questions. Accuse me of whatever it is you think I’ve done. Hurry up!’
Logan watched the girl’s leg bouncing under the table. She was wearing the trainers that Taggart used to chew on when he thought no one was looking. Shona had bought replacements, but Olivia had said the teeth marks gave the shoes character.
They were white canvas things, not remotely in keeping with the school uniform. She’d drawn a cartoon picture of the dog on the side of the left shoe, although he appeared to be stoned out of his mind and smoking a giant spliff.
‘Look, Olivia, I get that you’re angry,’ Jack began.
A sharp peal of laughter stopped him before he could say any more.
‘Angry? I’m not angry. This isn’t angry.’ Her voice became thin. Became fragile. ‘I am sad, Jack. Alright? If you must know. I am devastated.’
She turned away, like she couldn’t stand to look at him.
‘But, come on, ask. Interrogate away. I’ll tell you what—’
Olivia’s head lowered just as her voice gave out. She ran the back of her hand across her eyes, frantically wiping away tears she desperately wanted to hide.
‘I thought I was safe. With you. With Shona,’ she whispered. ‘For the first time in ages. God, maybe ever, which is pathetic. I thought I had a real home.’
‘You do.’
This time, the laugh was a sharp, derisive thing.
‘Oh, come on!’
Olivia gestured at the room around them, highlighting where they were and what was happening. The laughter, judging by the way her expression soured, left an unpleasant taste in her mouth.
She wiped her eyes again and sat straighter.
‘So, come on, then.’ Her gaze flitted to the empty chair across from her. ‘Are we going to do this, or what?’
Bosco watched and listened as DCI Reeve started the recording and made the necessary introductions.
The moment he’d finished, before he could switch on the smile, the Russian jumped in.
‘I did it.’
Reeve regarded him in silence.
‘I killed them,’ Bosco said.
Reeve studied his face across the table. There had been something colouring the Russian’s expression through the previous interview. Some half-concealed derision or amusement.
That was gone now. Not even a suggestion of it remained.
‘You killed who?’
‘Victor Belov. Kendrick Crichton,’ Bosco said, like he was reading the names from a list.
‘How?’ Reeve pressed.
‘You know exactly how.’
‘Humour me,’ the DCI told him.
‘I slit Victor Belov’s throat. Blew Kendrick Crichton’s head off with shotgun. Happy?’ He indicated the notebook sitting on the desk by the detective’s right hand. ‘Write down. Write down.’
To the Russian’s clear annoyance, Reeve made no move to open the pad or to pick up his pen.
‘And what would possess you to do a thing like that, Mr Maximuke?’
Bosco’s breath caught in his throat. He tapped a finger repeatedly on the tabletop, fingernail click-click-clicking against the wood.
‘Because… because… because bastards try to take what is mine. Yes? Move in on old territory.’
‘But you said you’d given all that up, right? Found the Lord. All you care about is family now. Those are your words, not mine.’
‘That was lie,’ Bosco insisted. ‘Cover story.’
Reeve pulled a face that suggested he was surprised to hear it.
‘You know, I have a good ear for bullshit, Mr Maximuke. I pride myself on that. And, sure, a lot of what you told me earlier, well, let’s just say I heard the ringing of alarm bells,’ Reeve told him.
He clasped his hands together and shrugged.
‘But when you spoke about your daughter? When you said that you wanted to do right by her? Well, that was just about the only part I actually bought.’
He mimed casting a fishing rod, then reeling it back in.
‘You had me there, hook, line, sinker, basket, waders, and turkey-coleslaw sandwich wrapped up for lunch.’
His eyes twinkled, like he was particularly pleased with this analogy. Or maybe he just really liked turkey-coleslaw sandwiches.
‘So, you’ll forgive me if I need to take a moment to reorder my thinking based on this new information.’
He turned his head and looked at the wall across from the mirror. For a long time, he just stared at it, like he could see through it, and through all the rooms beyond, to where Logan had escorted the girl.
‘That was her, right? Your daughter?’
Bosco chose not to answer that question.
‘I did it. I killed them. Take my confession. Write it down.’ He tapped his hand on the table just a few inches from Reeve’s notebook. ‘And I will tell you everything.’
The bottom of the chair legs scuffed across the floor as Logan sat and pulled himself in closer to the table.
Across the other side, the girl who had invaded his home, who had eaten his food, who had watched his telly, played his board games, chucked a pickled onion at him and nearly laughed herself sick when it landed in his tea, sat there in cold, stony silence.
Logan ran a hand down his face, covering his eyes for a moment. To his dismay, when he looked again, he was still in the same place.
‘Right,’ he began, but Olivia wasn’t having it.
‘Tape it,’ she instructed. When Logan hesitated, she tutted. ‘You tape interviews, right? So, get out your wee tape recorder, and tape it.’
‘We don’t use tape recorders anymore,’ Logan said. ‘We’ve moved on. It’s all digital now.’
He offered a smile, like this was a normal conversation. Like he still had a chance to shape it into one.
‘Whatever,’ Olivia said, brushing him off. ‘Just tape it.’
Logan knew this wasn’t a good idea. This was putting the whole investigation in jeopardy. He shouldn’t be in this room with her. Not on his own. Not without witnesses.
He pressed the button to start the recording. A record of it would be better than nothing.
‘Interview commencing at… six-seventeen P.M. Detective Chief Inspector Jack Logan conducting the interview of Olivia Maximuke, aged seventeen. Olivia, can you confirm you’ve declined the offer of a solicitor or appropriate adult?’
Olivia held his gaze as she leaned in closer to the recording equipment.
‘I confirm,’ she said, before leaning back again.
Logan cleared his throat. ‘I, eh, I asked you in to help us clear up a few things about an incident we’re investigating.’
‘No, I came in myself,’ Olivia corrected. ‘I’m the one who wanted to do this.’
Logan acknowledged this with a nod.
‘Can you say it out loud?’ Olivia asked him. ‘For the recording?’
Jack almost laughed. It felt like a joke. Like the sort of thing she’d wind him up with at home. She wasn’t smiling, though. Not even close.
‘Sorry. Yes, that’s correct. Olivia presented herself at Burnett Road station at approximately six P.M. and requested an interview. She made clear that she would speak to me, and me alone, and that any attempt to bring in anyone else would lead to her terminating the interview immediately.’
Logan held his hands open, inviting her to comment.
‘Would you say that’s accurate?’ he asked.
‘Bang on, Jack. Well done,’ Olivia replied. ‘So, come on. Chop chop. You’ve got stuff you want to know? Ask me.’
Logan thought about reaching over, stopping the recording, and cutting this whole thing short. He wanted to tell her to go, to take her back downstairs to Shona, and send them both home. Back to that world, away from this one.
But she’d kept her dad’s release a secret.
There had been a girl spotted just yards from the crime scene.
And if anyone had a reason to want Bosco Maximuke out of the picture, it was the daughter who’d never felt safe when he was around.
‘Where were you the night before last?’ he asked.
She blinked, like she was surprised by the question. Like she was gobsmacked he’d actually asked it.
‘With you at parents’ night,’ she said, once she’d got over the shock. ‘Then I walked back to your house with your dog, after you asked me to.’
‘Before that, I mean. Where were you between school finishing and the time you met us in the hall?’
‘Don’t remember.’
‘You don’t remember? Well, I’m going to need you to try.’
‘Oh, wait!’ Olivia tapped the heel of her hand against her forehead. ‘I was murdering a guy. Sorry, went clean out of my head. I’ve got a lot on.’
Logan sighed. ‘Olivia.’
‘What? That’s what you think, isn’t it?’ she asked, all wide-eyed and exaggerated innocence. ‘That I killed some junkie I was sleeping with, or whatever. That’s what you think I am.’
‘No, I’m just… I need to ask—’