The Whole Truth

Cleland’s frown deepens but he doesn’t say anything, just goes over to the French doors.

‘Marianne – come in here for a minute.’

The woman is wearing a turquoise bikini under a white wrap. She has the same prosperous, well-preserved look as her husband, but she’s insect-thin, and he senses a dry brittleness under the make-up and the expensively cut-and-coloured hair. Cleland is standing in the centre of the room now, hands in pockets, filling the space.

‘So what’s this about?’ he says.

‘I believe you’re a client of the council adoption service?’

The woman’s eyes widen and she slides a look at her husband.

‘That’s confidential,’ he says. ‘And none of your bloody business.’

‘I can assure you I know nothing at all about your application, Mr Cleland, or your circumstances. I just know that you were in their offices recently.’

Marianne Cleland sits forward; everything about her seems tentative. ‘If it’s about –’

‘Let me handle this,’ says Cleland. His chin lifts a little. ‘Yes, we were there a couple of weeks ago. Whole operation is a bloody shitshow. You’d think they’d be crying out for people like us, wouldn’t you?’

Asante keeps his expression neutral. ‘What sort of people would that be, sir?’

Cleland flings an arm round. ‘Well, look at this place. What kid in his right mind wouldn’t want what we’ve got to offer?’

Asante opts to take out his notebook by way of response. ‘I believe you saw Ms Smith, is that right?’

Cleland looks irritated. ‘Why bother asking when you clearly know the answer already?’

‘I just need to get things straight, sir. It was Ms Smith, yes?’

‘She was our case worker,’ says the woman. ‘She’s very nice –’

‘Effing incompetent, just like the rest of them,’ snaps Cleland. ‘Look, has there been some sort of complaint or what?’

Asante shakes his head. ‘No, sir. Ms Smith has made no complaint –’

‘Well then –’

‘Ms Smith has been killed.’

The woman gives a little gasp, but even in that moment, her eyes go first to her husband.

Cleland stares at Asante, his face flushing. ‘If you’re bloody suggesting –’

‘I’m suggesting nothing,’ says Asante. ‘I’m asking questions. It’s what happens in a murder inquiry.’

The word drops like an incendiary.

‘Look,’ says Cleland, ‘I don’t know what the hell happened to that woman but we had nothing to do with it. People like us – we don’t go around killing people. Even when –’ He stops, looks away, purses his mouth.

‘Even when?’ says Asante evenly.

Cleland takes a breath. ‘OK, look, you obviously know we had words. It’s why you’re here, right? Well, yes, we did. I don’t have a problem admitting that. She told us we’d been turned down. That we weren’t –’ he hooks his fingers in the air – ‘suitable. Probably didn’t tick enough bleeding-heart liberal boxes, did we. Too rich, too posh, too bloody white.’ He checks himself, reddens, then runs a hand through his hair. ‘I was upset, OK? Annoyed. Anyone would have been, in my position.’

Quite possibly, thinks Asante, but not everyone would have reacted the way you did.

‘Did you see or contact Ms Smith after that meeting?’ he says.

Cleland’s flush deepens. ‘I may have sent her an email – in the heat of the moment. You know how it is –’

‘So that’s a yes?’

Cleland nods.

‘Did you go to the office? Try to talk to her in any way?’

‘No. Absolutely not.’

‘I spoke to a couple of Ms Smith’s colleagues earlier, and they said you were seen outside the offices a few days after your last meeting.’ He flicks back through his notes. ‘Around five p.m. on June 25th, to be precise.’

Cleland blinks a couple of times. ‘I was shopping. There’s a halfway-decent wine merchant’s a few doors further down.’

Asante nods. ‘So there’ll be a record? At the store?’

‘No. I didn’t actually buy anything. Not on that occasion.’

Asante makes a note, and takes his time doing it.

‘So you weren’t hoping to see Ms Smith? Perhaps try to catch her when she left the office at the end of the day?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Or perhaps you thought it would be more discreet to go round to her house? See if you could persuade her to change her mind?’

‘Of course not,’ he blusters. ‘For a start, I’ve no bloody idea where she lives.’

The woman sits forward. ‘And in any case, Hugh would never –’

‘I told you,’ says Cleland, not looking at her, ‘let me handle this.’

‘Where were you last night, Mr Cleland?’

Cleland opens his mouth, then closes it again. ‘Last night?’

Asante nods, pen poised.

Cleland scratches the back of his neck. The eye contact has gone. ‘I went for a run.’

‘That’s right,’ says his wife. ‘You went out in the car.’

Asante frowns. ‘I thought you said you went for a run.’

‘I did,’ says Cleland. ‘I run at Shotover.’