The Twist of a Knife

‘Name?’ the custody sergeant asked, sweetly. She was in uniform, very neat and well presented, and it struck me that in another life she would have done well as a receptionist, perhaps at the Savoy.

I was about to reply, but then realised she had not expected me to answer for myself. Why should I when I was nothing more than an object to be processed? She had been addressing Cara Grunshaw.

‘This is Anthony Horowitz,’ Grunshaw said. ‘He has been arrested on suspicion of the murder of Harriet Throsby. It is necessary for him to be held in custody in order to interview him and secure evidence.’

They were lines that could have come out of the world’s worst-written play, delivered by actors who had never learned to act. Of all the languages in the world, officialese is the grimmest, lacking any sense of humanity. And the custody sergeant, for all her smiles, was no better. ‘I have heard the reason for the arrest and the need to detain you,’ she told me, once Grunshaw had finished. Her voice mangled the lines, as if she couldn’t quite believe she was saying them. ‘You will be held here to secure and preserve evidence and to obtain evidence by questioning. Is there anything you wish to say at this stage?’

What could I possibly say?

‘I would like to assert and to place on record the possibility that, as evidenced from the two previous statements, you and your colleagues have absolutely no idea what you’re doing. You’re all idiots. This is completely crazy. And if you don’t let me go, I’m going to sue the whole lot of you …’

But I didn’t say that. This probably wasn’t a good place to make enemies.

‘You’re making a mistake,’ I said.

They all smiled. They’d never heard that one before.

‘Would you like someone informed you are here?’

Oh God! That was a difficult question. Of course I had to tell my wife. But at the same time, I couldn’t. It wasn’t as if there was anything she could do and what was the point of worrying her when, surely to goodness, I’d be out of here before she noticed I was missing. Hilda Starke? My agent hadn’t come to the first night of Mindgame: she was on holiday in Barbados. I wasn’t even sure what the time was over there. She might be in bed or, worse still, sunning herself on the beach. She wouldn’t appreciate being interrupted and anyway, I wasn’t sure how she could help. The only lawyers I knew were the ones who had helped me buy my flat and I wasn’t even sure they had a criminal division. Hawthorne? No, not yet. He was the ace up my sleeve. There was still a chance this would sort itself out. I would only use him when I had to.

What would happen if all this got into the press? I don’t know why I asked myself that question just then, but suddenly I could see it: the headline. ALEX RIDER AUTHOR ON MURDER CHARGE. My children’s books would collapse. On the other hand, it might help my crime-fiction sales. I couldn’t believe I’d had that thought. This wasn’t, under any circumstances, the sort of publicity I wanted. I was still clinging to the hope that the police would hold me for a few hours and then let me go.

‘Not for the moment, thank you,’ I said.

The process continued, everything done by the book. I was made to stand on a yellow mat (the words SEARCH MAT were helpfully written on the surface) and searched with a metal detector, even though I wasn’t wearing my own clothes and had no pockets. I was escorted to a second room and photographed. After that, images of my fingerprints were taken. I was quietly disappointed that this was done not with an inkpad, but digitally against a glass panel, although I really should have known. Meanwhile, a middle-aged woman in a stretch-cotton tracksuit had been brought in and was being processed alongside me, a torrent of swear words pouring out of her mouth. As the shock of my arrest wore off, I found myself feeling increasingly uncomfortable. I don’t think I’m a snob. But the criminal class was one I’d never wished to join.

Cara Grunshaw and Derek Mills had retreated to a distance, but whenever I looked at them, they were staring in my direction, watching me being processed like an oven-ready chicken and clearly relishing the entire business. Worse than that, they were waiting for me to be delivered back to them. All this was being done for their pleasure. Eventually, I would be placed in their hands, the door would slam … and what then? I wondered how long they could keep me. When they finally realised their mistake, as surely they would, how would they make up for it? Could I sue them for wrongful arrest? That, at least, was a pleasant thought.