Tim leans in closer, drops his voice a fraction and says in a stern whisper, ‘What did you do, Lottie? What have you done? How could you?’
They arrive at the police station and find it to be a squat 1970s building that reminds them both of their old primary schools. Lottie feels more aware of her surroundings now and registers the same utilitarian feel and smell, though there are no cheery paintings on the walls and the furniture is all adult-sized and screwed to the floor.
They report to the attending officer whose red, sunburned face looks all the more livid next to his white shirt, which strains around his thick neck and over his broad shoulders. After a quick consultation, he comes back to say that they would like to interview Lottie on her own, if Tim would kindly sit with Josh in the waiting area.
Lottie grips Tim’s hand, giving it an urgent squeeze before she relinquishes it. She resists giving her husband and son a kiss or hug goodbye. She won’t be long, after all, and she will see them both soon. This is all purely procedure and she is merely helping the police with their enquiries.
Tim gives her a heartfelt look of encouragement, for which she is grateful.
‘See you in a bit,’ he says. ‘If I’m not here, we’ll just be outside getting some fresh air,’ he adds, gesturing to the uninspiring car park.
Lottie is led down a narrow, drab corridor with squeaky linoleum flooring underfoot and stained ceiling tiles above, until they reach a door with a small square of glass in it. She is ushered inside, told to take a seat at the table in what is a warm, windowless room and is offered a cup of tea. At first, she refuses the drink and then changes her mind, asking for a glass of water instead.
After a few minutes, in which she feels herself grow hotter and hotter, a man and woman enter the room. Lottie sits up straighter and wipes the sweat from her palms along the length of her denim skirt. In a certain part of her brain, she registers the fact that they are both dressed in plain clothes rather than uniforms. That this means they are more senior members of the police force.
The female is a mature woman, sporting a steely grey, short-cropped hairstyle not unlike Lottie’s might look one day when she is older, while the man, who is younger by a good twenty years, is shiny-faced, with brown hair plastered flat to the top of his head. He wears a white shirt and grey slacks, the woman a non-descript navy suit, too hot for this day. As they sit opposite Lottie, their faces are closed; polite but not friendly.
This is not just the clarification of a witness statement, taken down and signed by a lowly duty officer, realises Lottie. These are detectives. They are not grateful for her cooperation, though the younger man offers his thanks to her for coming in; they are demanding it, expectant. The woman, who introduces herself as Detective Price, informs her that they will be recording the interview and rattles through a script that sounds both reassuringly routine and alarmingly official.
Lottie tries to breathe without seeming to gulp at the air. She wants to look normal, calm, above all innocent. But she can already feel a pressure rising in her throat, the thud of her pulse – can they hear it too?
‘Am I in trouble?’ she asks, echoing Tim’s words to her earlier. She thinks of her husband and son, separated from her by just afew walls and doors, and yet she wonders when she will see them again. The thought threatens to bring a prickle to her eyes and she must bite down on the inside of her cheek to quell it.
The man and the woman both lift their heads and look at her, allowing the silence to draw out, before Detective Price gives a no-nonsense sniff as if to say,we’ll ask the questions.
‘As you know, we’re investigating the recent fire at number 17 on Cliff Road, the property next to which you and your family have been staying for the last week.’
‘We weren’t the only people staying on that street,’ blurts Lottie. ‘What about the people living on the other side, next door? Number 19?’
Detective Price raises an arched eyebrow at the interruption and continues.
‘Away, on holiday themselves, as a matter of fact,’ she says. ‘As I was saying, we’ve been gathering information from the firefighters and early attendants at the scene and we have reason to believe there may be cause for suspected arson.’
Lottie nods. She is not surprised at this. It merely confirms the rumours that have been swirling since this morning.
‘That’s what we heard as well,’ she says. ‘Lots of stories and theories going round amongst the locals. But then it could have been a banger, couldn’t it? Or sparks from a small bonfire?’
‘Try not to pay attention to idle tittle-tattle, Mrs Jenkins. We want to deal in facts not gossip.’
Lottie nods.
‘What’s happened to the two people who were found at the site?’
Again, Detective Price holds her gaze, searches her face before answering.
‘We can’t disclose particulars I’m afraid, save to say their condition is critical.’
‘How awful,’ says Lottie, her eyes drifting away from the table and falling down to her skirt, her hands, the floor. She can’tbear to imagine how dreadful it must be to find yourself inside a burning building or trapped by fallen debris.
‘Yes,’ says Detective Price in her business-like way. ‘All the more reason to get to the bottom of what happened, how the fire started.’
‘Look, me and my husband, Tim, have given you our full statements. I’m not sure what else we can say,’ says Lottie.‘Although, we’re happy to help in whatever way we can,’ she adds.
There is something about speaking to figures of authority these days that makes her feel unaccountably obsequious. As though she is always trying to compensate, atone even. She is aware she must sound nervous, overly solicitous. Does that translate as guilt, she wonders? She looks towards the young man. He is taking notes down on a lined jotter. A left-hander, she sees, so that he grasps his biro in that awkward, clawed way that sometimes smudges the ink. He looks up and smiles before wiping the expression clean from his face, as though he has just remembered his training.
‘Yes, you and your husband have been most helpful. He’s a schoolteacher, isn’t he?’ asks Detective Price. ‘And you’re a charity worker, I believe?’
‘Fundraiser,’ clarifies Lottie.
