used the time to make something up to try and defeat the evidence.
I drum my nails on the table and try not to look at the mean police officer that is waiting by the door. After about a minute the door opens and a smartly dressed black man comes in with the scruffy looking officer from the court. He nods at the constable who brought me in and he leaves. The black man presses ‘record’ on the tape machine and sits opposite me.
“My name is Detective Inspector 6635 Connelly. Also present is PC 2212 Matthews. The time is 12:04 and this commences the interview of Lauren Chase. Miss Chase, I understand you do not wish to be legally represented, is that correct?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Is there any particular reason for that?” he asks.
“No,” I say, although there are actually a number of reasons for this. Firstly, I cannot imagine anything worse than having to call a solicitor to represent me. It would probably kill what’s left of my career. Secondly, I think I can probably get by on my own legal knowledge and thirdly, I haven’t done anything wrong, so I can’t really give the wrong answers. Can I?
“Well if at any time you change your mind please tell us. The interview will be stopped until you have appropriate representation.”
He repeats the words of the police caution to me and I try to stay focused. It dawns on me that if there is no evidence, then I don’t need to say anything, I can just go ‘no comment’. Surely that’ll be easier than being interrogated? I tune in to what he is saying.
“...benefit of the tape I’m producing exhibit WC/3”
He places a transparent bag in front of me. In it is a rectangular piece of paper.
“Do you recognise this Miss Chase?”
“No?” I say before I can stop myself. As I look closer, I’m gripped by a paralysing feeling of terror. I pick it up and scrutinise it feeling the waves of nausea return.
“What is that Miss Chase?” asks Connelly.
“It’s, it’s a cheque.” I reply stupidly.
“And what does it say on the cheque?” he prompts.
I pick up the bag and stare at the cheque. I instantly recognise the familiar sort code and account number and the full name printed in block capitals across the bottom. It’s unmistakably one of mine. In blue ink, someone has addressed the cheque to a man called Stephen Walker in the amount of five thousand pounds.
“It’s a cheque for five thousand pounds.” I croak.
“From whom?” he persists.
“It’s my cheque, but I didn’t write it!” I stammer.
“Take a look at the signature please,” he directs in a sharp voice.
I do and nearly black out when I register the loopy blue letters scribed neatly underneath the amount box.
“Whose signature is that?” he asks, knowing the answer.
“It’s, it’s mine,” I cry, “But I didn’t sign this!”
“So Miss Chase, we have your cheque with your signature on it do we not?”
“Where did you get this?” I ask desperately.
“Mr. Walker is one of the jurors on the Hobbs trial. After he complained to one of the ushers last night, they called the police this morning and he has repeated to us that you had tried to bribe him into returning a guilty verdict. You gave him this cheque.”
“I did no such thing!”
“What was it Lauren, were you that desperate to make sure you won? Wanted the glory of winning your first murder?” chips in PC Matthews.
“No!” I sob, “I would never try to do that. I don’t even know who he is!”
“Never seen or met him then?” asks Connelly softly.
“No! This is a huge mistake. I don’t know anything about this cheque!” I protest, knowing that neither officer believes what I’m trying to tell them.
Matthews smiles nastily at me.
“Why don’t you take a look at the monitor then?”
I pause, confused and turn to my left where a television has been set up. Matthews picks up a remote from underneath it and presses a few buttons. We sit in silence for a moment before the screen bursts into life. It’s grainy at first and I try to make sense of the blurry images on the screen.
In an instant it snaps into focus and I recognise the street by the car park before anything else. I watch with an increasing sense of horror as a portion of a familiar scene plays out before my eyes. The camera pans round and I see myself handing an envelope to a man in a flat cap. My