Page 18 of Close to You

‘That’s right,’ I say.

I’m trying to sound confident because it’s all I have. I can hardly tell her that I was spooked because I thought I saw my former husband in a photograph. Mydeadformer husband.

It’s as if she can read my mind when she replies with: ‘Was there any other reason you left the hotel?’

‘No.’

‘If you’ll excuse me for pushing the point, it’s just that not many people check out of a hotel they’ve paid for at two-thirty in the morning.’

‘I wouldn’t know what other people do…’

There’s a tiny amount of satisfaction as she leans back in her seat and I get the sense that she knows she’s getting nothing more from me on this.

One of the things I came to learn in the weeks after I killed David was that I’m an incredible liar. I suppose everyone has their talents – perhaps acting or singing; playing football, or the ability to wear Burberry and not look like stained wallpaper. One of mine is that I can look a person dead in the eye and come out with the most outlandish nonsense while not flinching. Confidence is everything. I’ve wondered since what that makes me; whether there’s something wrong. About a year ago, I read that, if a true psychopath has the ability to question if they’re a psycho, then they are definitely not. I’ll take that, I suppose – but I’m still one hell of a liar.

‘Were you with anyone?’ Kidman asks.

‘When?’

‘When you checked out of the hotel?’

‘No.’

‘What about in the car?’

‘No.’

‘At home?’

‘After the awards, I went to bed and I was by myself until the locksmith turned up at my flat.’

Kidman makes a point of turning to her colleague and muttering, ‘We can get CCTV from the hotel to check that.’

If I was lying about that part then I might have reason to worry – but that side of my story will check out.

‘Did you drive straight home?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Which route did you take?’

It’s a simple question, but I end up stumbling over it, getting the name of the A-road wrong and then correcting myself. I might be a good liar, but I don’t pay attention to road signs. Kidman seems uninterested by these details in any case.

‘How much did you drink at the awards dinner?’ she asks.

‘I passed the breathalyser test.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

‘I had a small glass of wine at the very beginning. It was a welcome drink that everyone got when they walked in.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Perhaps seven o’clock?’

Kidman makes a note of this on a pad and then leaves a gap. It took me a while to realise how often police do this. They create an uncomfortable silence which the person they’re speaking to feels obliged to fill. At first, I’d keep talking, but then I learned to shut up and wait for whatever was next. On this occasion, I don’t mind playing a little dumber than I am.

‘I’m not very good with alcohol,’ I add. ‘I’ve never been a big drinker.’