Forty-seven. Jude

'Do you understand your rights as they have been explained to you?' asked Detective Georgiou.

Three. Four. One.

'Yes,' I replied.

I was in a police interview room, with two dagger detectives sitting across the table from me. Detective Georgiou, the woman, was doing all of the talking. The other cop, Detective Zork, hadn't said a word so far. The interview room was bigger than my cell, but not by much. There was a rectangular table with two chairs on either side of it. One of the shorter sides of the table was fixed to the wall – impossible to overturn, I guess. Set into the wall were a series of buttons for recording interviews. And there was a CCTV camera self-consciously adorning one corner of the room just above the door. The walls were painted an over-cooked porridge colour. There were no posters, no pictures, no photos, no prints. Nothing to divert the attention. The floor was lined with a thin, ultra-hardwearing carpet which would probably last longer than the building. I looked straight up at the CCTV camera, which was trained on my position. Did that mean I was safe from having a confession beaten out of me? Somehow, I doubted it. Where there's a will, there's a way. I dragged my right foot slowly back and forth across the carpet beneath the table. Forward for four counts, back for four counts. It was something we'd been taught in the Liberation Militia. A way of focusing the mind and concentrating on answering only the questions you wanted to answer.

Forward for four counts.

Back for four counts.

Nice and simple. Focus on counting. Answer each question on the one count only to give yourself a chance to think. Keep it simple. Short and sweet answers. I can't say the training was all coming back to me, because it'd never left.

Forward for four counts.

Back for four counts.

'Is your name Jude Alexander McGregor?'

Two. Three. Four. One.

'Yes.'

'Do you wish to have a solicitor present?'

One.

'No.'

'The suspect was offered a solicitor and declined,' Detective Georgiou said into the interview microphone.

The interview was being separately videotaped and recorded. That must've been quite a new thing. But I guess too many convictions had been overturned recently due to proven false confessions and substantiated evidence of police brutality.

'When did you first meet Cara Imega?' asked Detective Georgiou.

I didn't answer.

'How long have you known her?' The detective rephrased the question like I didn't understand her the first time.

I didn't answer.

The questions came flying at me, faster and faster.

'We found your fingerprints in Cara Imega's house. Why don't you do yourself a favour and confess?'

Likely!

'Where did you meet her?'

'We know you killed her. Just tell us why.'

'Were you burgling her house and she disturbed you? Is that what happened?'

We were at it for over an hour – and after confirming my name and turning down the offer of a solicitor, I hadn't said a word.

Something else my L.M. training had taught me.

'We know it was you,' Detective Zork piped up at last. 'And your impersonation of a clam isn't going to stop us from getting you convicted of Cara Imega's murder and hanged.'

I sat back in my chair. It was entertaining watching the two dagger officers get more and more exasperated. Not very professional of them, but amusing nonetheless. Whilst they asked me more questions, I thought of my mum. I'd reluctantly phoned her but now I was beginning to wish that I hadn't. It wasn't fair to her or to me to expect her to drag herself all the way over here.

'Interview terminated at—' Detective Georgiou glanced down at her watch and gave the time.

Detective Zork pressed a series of buttons. The tiny red LED at the top of the CCTV went off. A faint click came from the wall and the tape was no longer recording. The detectives stood up. So did I.

'Back to your cell, McGregor,' said Detective Zork.

I smiled triumphantly at him. 'Is your name really Zork? That's rather unfortunate, isn't it?'

I got a punch in my stomach which had me doubled over and coughing.

'Still think my name is funny?' asked the dagger, his fists still clenched.

I straightened up slowly.

One. Two. Three. Four. Served me right for saying more than I should've. But I'd got smug at their obvious frustration. It wouldn't happen again.

'Are you going to stand there and let him beat me up?' I asked Georgiou.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' she replied coldly. 'You tripped over and landed on the back of chair.'

'And if he chucked me out of window?' I asked with sarcasm.

'You tripped or tried to get away in a suicide attempt,' Detective Georgiou told me. 'Who knows what goes on in the mind of an ice-cold murderer?'

'I'd love you to make a break for it right now,' said Zork. 'Go on. Make my day.'

We all stood in silence, the two of them daring me to so much as twitch. But Mrs McGregor didn't raise any stupid children.

'Back to your cell, McGregor,' Zork said at last.

And I replied, 'Yes, sir.'