Trust Me - T.M. Logan Page 0,66

has already let Gilbourne in and the detective is standing in the big parquet-floored hallway. Charlie, the youngest son, is keeping his distance, peering out at the stranger from behind Tara’s leg, but Noah and Lucas are sizing him up, staring at him with unalloyed admiration. I can see in Noah’s eyes that this is pretty much the most exciting thing ever: a cat and a real-life policeman in his house on the same day.

‘Where’s your gun?’ Noah says.

Gilbourne smiles down at him. ‘I don’t have a gun, but I do have this.’ He reaches into his pocket and produces a black leather wallet, flips it open to reveal his Met Police ID. He hands it to the boy. ‘Warrant card. Much better than a gun.’

Noah stares wide-eyed at the ID, then back up at Gilbourne.

‘I’m going to be a policeman,’ he announces seriously, ‘when I’m big.’

Gilbourne ruffles the boy’s brown hair gently. ‘Good for you, son. What’s your name?’

‘Noah,’ he says. ‘I’m going to catch the bad men.’

‘Well, Noah, I think you’ll make an excellent policeman.’ He gives the boy a wink. ‘In fact, I’ll put in a word for you with the chief constable.’

Gilbourne looks a little fresher, his eyes brighter than the last time I saw him. Maybe it’s just because it’s not the middle of the night, under the anaemic fluorescent light of the police interview room, but he seems younger somehow. He’s had a shave, his dark hair is brushed back, and although the top button of his shirt is undone, the knot of his tie is only slightly below it. Maybe not a rumpled Willem Dafoe. Maybe more like a well-travelled James Franco with a few more miles on the clock.

I look past him, to his car parked at the kerb. ‘You on your own today?’

‘DS Holt is looking into a couple of other leads.’

Tara shows us through into the dining room, a pine table set with six high-backed chairs. It’s the one room that she likes to keep clear of the boys’ stuff, banishing toy cars and games, action figures and scooters.

‘Can I get some drinks?’ she says. ‘Tea, coffee? Something stronger?’

We both decline.

‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’

I shut the door behind her and sit down opposite Gilbourne at the dining room table.

‘You’re a big hit with Tara’s boys.’

‘They’re nice lads.’

Somehow it’s on the tip of my tongue, the question people have asked me for years, a casual inquiry with the potential to slice through scar tissue and re-open old wounds. ‘Do you have children of your own?’

‘Four girls,’ he says. ‘Twelve, fifteen, eighteen and nineteen.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘That must be—’

‘How are you really, Ellen? Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?’

‘I’ve been better,’ I say. ‘But it’s all superficial. Nothing they’d do at the hospital that I can’t do for myself.’

He gives me a sympathetic smile. ‘You’ve had a rough week.’

‘What’s going on, Stuart?’

‘I thought you were owed an apology. For us giving you such a hard time in the interview the other day. And for the way DS Holt behaved with you.’

‘I thought giving people a hard time was what you did every day of the week?’

He shakes his head and places both hands palm-down on top of a black leather folder. His hands look strong, broad and tanned.

‘And I just wanted to see how you were doing.’ He looks suddenly reticent, as if he might be having second thoughts about coming here. ‘And to reassure you that we will do everything we can to catch the person who did this to you.’

Being here with him feels a million miles away from the airless grey room at the police station. That little interview room – much the same as a wood-panelled courtroom or a high-vaulted cathedral – felt like it was designed to make you feel small, insignificant, to intimidate you into honesty. But Tara’s dining room is neutral ground and it’s almost as if Gilbourne’s just a regular guy, someone’s husband, a friend, a colleague, and we’re simply having a chat.

‘I appreciate your concern,’ I say, grateful that he’s changed his tune since Tuesday night. ‘But you didn’t come here just to tell me that, did you?’

Gilbourne leans closer, elbows on the pine tabletop. He smells of chewing gum, minty, the cigarette smoke a musky undertone, not unpleasant. He unzips the black leather folder on three sides and opens it out on the table.

‘We’ve got hold of CCTV images which corroborate certain elements of your story.’ He pulls a sheet