I sat for less than a couple of minutes before a man wearing a smart, expensive-looking grey suit came through a door at the side of the front desk. He was probably about the same age as me and had short cropped hair receding in the front. He approached me extending his hand. “Dr Scott, thank you for coming. I’m Detective Inspector Patel. This must be a terrible time for you.”
I took his firm grip and attempted a polite smile in response. “Yes, it’s all come as a shock – to say the least.”
Patel nodded “Yes, yes ... Let’s go up to my office, we can talk better there.”
We headed back through the door he’d just come out of and then up two flights of stairs. Despite the modern appearance of the building from the outside, the décor let it down. The carpet was stained and worn and the walls were a dirty grey colour with just the odd patch of the original pale blue emulsion showing through. Patel’s office was in the corner of a much bigger, open-plan office space. This larger work area was bustling with activity, with people either on the phone or tapping away at computer terminals, but nobody looked up as we passed by.
Patel’s personal office was a cramped affair containing a desk which was far too big for the small room and overflowing with folders and loose papers. He moved a further pile of papers from a spare chair in the corner and pulled it up, gesturing for me to sit. “Can I get you tea or coffee?”
I shook my head, “No, no thank you.”
Patel then took a seat opposite me on the other side of the desk. Behind him on the wall was a collection of framed photographs, mostly in his police uniform, and also several certificates. One of the certificates in particular caught my attention:
Nikesh Patel
B. Sc., Psychology
First Class Honours.
University of Sheffield
It crossed my mind that it might be a cunning ploy to unnerve suspects – maybe they’d crack under the pressure at the prospect of him tapping into their inner psyche. It almost made me grateful that I had nothing to hide. Patel picked up the phone and punched in four digits. “Jane, can you come through?”
Within twenty seconds a woman in her mid twenties appeared at the door and Patel introduced her as DC Drife. She nodded her head respectfully and then stepped outside for a moment, returned with a chair, and then negotiated her way through the piles of paperwork on the floor, taking a seat in the corner behind Patel. The room was not designed to seat three people in comfort and I began to feel claustrophobic and undid the next button down on my shirt. Patel appeared to notice my discomfort and opened the small window behind him, although it barely made any difference to the stagnant air.
With everyone seated, he began asking basic personal details of my family: date of birth, place of birth, address, occupation, school, etc. My recollections of the previous night were vague at best, but I was pretty sure I’d given much of the same information already. DC Drife sat at the back, not saying a word and diligently taking notes. Patel then asked me to go through the events of the evening. Why had we gone to the restaurant? What time had we left? Why had the others walked? Why had I driven home? What time was it when I realised there was a problem?
At first my thoughts were sluggish, dulled by recent events. I struggled to respond to the most basic of questions, even pondering to recall my own date of birth. But as the interview went on I began to feel more comfortable and my responses were more articulate and free-flowing. Patel nodded intently with my every response, almost as if each snippet of information was going to be crucial in solving the case.
After twenty minutes or so he again checked that I didn’t want a drink, before continuing: “After leaving your house and on the way to the church, did you see anybody, or anything, out of the norm?”
I tried to piece things together, but it all seemed so fragmented. “No, nothing out of the ordinary … at least as far as I can remember. It’s all a bit of a blur to be quite honest. It was very quiet though, I’m sure I didn’t see anybody else.”
Again Patel continued his nodding, deep in thought. “And the red pick-up truck, had you ever seen it before?”
I thought for a few seconds. “I’m pretty sure I haven’t. It’s obviously very distinctive and I’m sure I would’ve remembered. The name down the side though, William’s Building Supplies, that’s certainly familiar, but I’m not sure where from – maybe just an advert in the local paper, something like that.”
Patel nodded thoughtfully. “And can you think of anyone who may have wanted to harm your family?”
“What do you mean?” I responded angrily, demonstrating my irritation for the first time. “No, I can’t bloody think of anyone who would want to kill my wife or my little boys.” I was stunned by his question and the way he’d just casually slipped it in. I’d never considered the whole thing anything other than a hit-and-run, and it seemed completely bizarre that I might know who was responsible.
Patel seemed surprised by my outburst and sat back in his chair, clearly aware of my feelings. “I’m sorry but I have to ask these questions.”
I’d had enough, and although it had only been a little over half an hour I was beginning to feel tired and was grateful when Patel signalled the end of the questioning. “Okay, that’s fine, I’ve nothing more for now. Is there anything you want to add that you think might be important to the enquiry?” I shook my head. Patel went on: “Okay, the other reason I wanted to speak to you is to let you know how things are progressing.”
I sat forward in the chair; this was what I’d come for. “At this initial stage we believe it is a relatively straight forward hit-and-run, albeit with hugely tragic consequences. We believe that the pick-up truck at the scene had probably been stolen, but we are waiting for a report from the scenes-of-crime officers with information on fingerprints and other forensic evidence ...”
I interjected, “But what about the driver, have you spoken to him yet?”
“Unfortunately the driver of the vehicle had disappeared from the scene by the time the first motorist arrived. We’ll be interviewing the owner of the pick-up truck this afternoon and it may shed light on events. Again, unfortunately, without a witness to the incident it can be difficult to find the person responsible in a case like this ...”
“In a case like this!” I interrupted angrily. “To me this is not just a case, to me it’s about who killed my family. I hope you realize that, inspector.”
Patel looked sheepish, “I do appreciate that, Dr Scott, and I assure you we won’t lose sight of that fact.” After a few seconds he continued: “We’ve made a local media appeal, and in the meantime ...”
Tired and irritated, I again interrupted him. “We just have to wait.” “I’m afraid so.” said Patel calmly.
It was quiet for the next thirty seconds, before Patel broke the silence. “Okay, thank you for coming, I know this is a very difficult time for you.” I stood to leave and then remembered DC Drife in the corner, who hadn’t said a word throughout the meeting. She nodded politely at me, and then Patel led me down the same staircase we’d come up, then through the reception area and to the front door. “Once again, very sorry about your loss. I’ll contact you as soon as I hear anything, and if you remember anything please get in touch.” He gave me his business card and we went our separate ways.
I returned to the car, fastened the seatbelt, and sat for several minutes, going over the wording of the conversation as close to verbatim as I could remember. Most of his questions had been fairly predictable, though I’d been surprised by his query about the pick-up truck and, bizarrely, whether anyone might want my family dead – a thought that was inconceivable. In any event, Patel had not filled me with any great optimism that they’d be able to track down the driver. My thoughts were interrupted as a car pulled into the parking slot next to me, and I had the sudden need to get home and be in my own space. Swelled by parents on the school run, the traffic was heavier than on my arrival and it flickered across my mind that I should get back home to see the kids. But I quickly and painfully realised that it was no longer the case.