‘Kyle?’ Her mouth relaxes, her lips easing apart.
Good to have this woman as a mother. Even better to have her as a wife. The wedding ring on her finger is evidence of a husband. I wonder how often he kisses those lips. All the time, probably. I would.
‘Elijah,’ Mama warns. ‘Remember what—’
‘I want to help them,’ I say. ‘I want to help you too. But I’m scared. This is … frightening for me.’
MacCullagh nods. She rubs her left arm, as if beneath her blouse her skin has puckered into goosebumps. ‘I understand why you’d feel like that. This is a serious situation. A frightening situation. Like I said earlier, I’m not here to judge. I just want to find out the truth and resolve this in the best way possible.’ She pauses a beat. ‘Do you know where Elissa is?’
‘You mean her body?’ I ask. ‘Or her spirit?’
The detective blinks twice in quick succession. Her tongue flickers out, just the tip. Seeing it reminds me of the serpent from Genesis. God punished the serpent for its trickery, making it crawl on its belly all its days. I wonder if MacCullagh has studied her Bible recently. I wonder if she’s studied it at all.
‘Kyle,’ she says carefully. ‘Is Elissa Mirzoyan dead?’
The answer to that is pretty obvious and I’m not even a detective. Still, Mama warned me to go carefully here. The brief glimpse of MacCullagh’s tongue has reinforced the danger. ‘I couldn’t say.’
‘You couldn’t?’
I shake my head.
‘Do you know what happened to her?’
‘No.’
A pulse ticks in MacCullagh’s throat. She’s a cool customer, all right, but she can’t control her heartbeat. ‘Do you really want to help us, Kyle?’ she asks. ‘Do you really want to help Elissa’s family?’
‘Of course.’
‘OK. That’s good. Then I’d like you to think, very hard, of anything you can tell me about what happened to Elissa, or where she is now.’
Unlike the detective’s, Mama’s lips are a thin line.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I really don’t know. I don’t know anyone called Elissa.’
It’s a while before I manage to meet MacCullagh’s eyes. When I do, I see they’ve moved elsewhere. She opens a folder and searches through it. ‘The cottage where we found you, on the Meunierfields estate. Is that your home?’
‘Yes.’
Her tone has changed, brisk and businesslike. ‘How long have you lived there?’
‘Long as I can remember.’
‘Alone?’
‘No.’
‘Who else lives there?’
I glance up at Mama.
‘Who else lives there, Kyle?’
‘Just me.’
‘You rent the property from the Meuniers?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘You know them personally?’
Something warns me I’m on dangerous ground again. I think of Leon Meunier, standing in the Memory Wood with his rifle: I could’ve put a bullet through you. Then where would we have been?
Staring at the detective, I realize I’ve been quiet far too long. I blink, trying to remember her question. At last, I say, ‘I don’t know them well.’
Nodding, MacCullagh takes a colour photograph from her folder and slides it across the table. ‘I’d like to show you something. We’ll call this AR1. Is this a photo of your bedroom?’
‘Yes.’
Out comes another image. ‘We’ll call this AR2,’ she says. ‘It’s a closer shot of the floor. Do you recognize what you see?’
‘Some of it.’
‘There’s writing on the box lid shown in the photograph. Please could you read it out?’
I lean forwards, but I don’t need a closer look. ‘“Top secret. Private property. Do not open without permission.”’
‘Is that your collection box, Kyle?’
‘I think so.’
‘You think so?’
‘Yes, I mean. It is.’
‘The items scattered beneath the window look to me like they came from that box. Am I right?’
‘I think … Some of them, yes.’
‘The chess piece?’
I freeze. For whatever reason, I hadn’t noticed the queen, made of Brazilian rosewood, lying at the foot of my bed.
‘Kyle, do you recognize the chess piece?’
She’s good, this detective. She gets me to admit things, even with my mouth closed. Silence, in this room, could be my worst enemy. ‘Yes,’ I say, plucking blindly at answers, hoping that inspiration will strike and offer me a way out.
‘Where did you get it?’
‘A friend.’
‘A friend gave it to you?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘I … I can’t remember.’
‘What about the vest? The girl’s vest, lying right next to it. Did a friend give you that too?’
‘I can’t … I don’t recognize the vest.’
‘It was in your bedroom.’
‘I don’t recognize it.’
She nods. ‘What about the child’s glasses? Do you recognize them?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You see the diary, lying beside the glasses?’
‘You mean the book?’
‘It’s a diary, but I agree it looks a bit like a book. Do you recognize it?’
‘No.’
‘Here’s a close-up of the cover. We’ll call this AR3. Can you do me a favour and read out the name on the front cover?’
‘Now?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Bryony Taylor.’
‘Do you know Bryony Taylor?’
‘No.’
‘Did you know she went missing?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Can you tell me why we found Bryony Taylor’s diary in your bedroom?’
My mouth is dry. I look at the cup of water. I desperately want to drink. I know that I mustn’t.
‘Kyle, you remember when you first arrived at the police station? An officer took your fingerprints and swabbed your mouth for DNA. All these items I just showed you have been sent to our lab. They’re being tested right now. We’ll know, without any shred of doubt, which ones you’ve touched. I know you want to help us, so it’s important you think hard about the questions I’m asking, and answer them as accurately as you can.’
She slides another photograph across the desk. ‘We’ll call this AR4. It’s a shot of the desk in your bedroom. Do you recognize the boxes beneath it?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do they contain?’
I swallow. ‘The boxes?’
‘What’s in them?’
There’s a lizard-like flickering behind my eyes, as if a tiny creature is burrowing into my brain.
‘Kyle?’
‘Video … video equipment.’
‘Yours?’
‘No.’
‘Whose, then?’
‘I …’
My vision blurs. I look at Mama, but she’s disappeared inside my tears.