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‘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 hardabout 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.
‘I see you’re upset,’ MacCullagh says. ‘I know this is upsetting. All we want is the truth.’
‘I don’t know the truth.’
‘Is Elissa Mirzoyan alive?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was Elissa being held in the’ – she looks at her notes – ‘the Memory Wood? Was she inside that building when it burned?’
‘Please. I don’t know. I really don’t.’
‘Kyle, did you have anything to do with that fire?’
A sob bursts loose from my throat. I sound like a wild animal caught in one of my brother’s traps.
MacCullagh repeats her question. When I don’t answer, she says, ‘I’ve already told you about the fingerprints and the DNA, and the tests we’re doing on the items we found in yourbedroom. Let me explain something else. The reason you’re wearing a paper suit is because your clothes are being analysed too. But I can tell you, even without waiting for the report, that they smelled very strongly of petrol. So if there’s a way you can explain that, it’s best you do it now. Because … because if you don’t, Kyle, it won’t look good, and then I might not be able to help you. Can you tell me why your clothes smelled of petrol?’
I wipe the tears from my face.
Poor Gretel.
Like me, she didn’t always tell the truth. But at least she always had good reason.
‘I … I spilt some,’ I say. ‘Knocked some over.’
‘Where was this?’