Page 75 of Mad Mabel

They tell me that we can, and we lock up the house and follow the detectives into the street. Nugget follows close behind.

Roxanne and Persephone are in the laneway when I get out there, as is Joan. I’ll admit there’s something humiliating about following detectives out to a police car, especially in front of Joan.

“Are you going in the police car?” Persephone says. “Can I come?”

“No, darling,” I say. “Afraid not.”

I steal a look at Joan, expecting a smug expression. Instead, she looks something approaching concerned.

“Where are you going?” Roxanne asks.

“The police have a few questions,” I say. “About Ishaan’s death. I’m going down to the station.”

“Alone?” Roxanne says. “I don’t think you should go alone. I’ll come with you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “Who will look after Persephone?”

“I’d be happy to watch the child,” Joan says.

I don’t know who is more surprised—me, Roxanne, or Joan herself. Persephone looks so appalled at the prospect that while I’d have liked to have some company, I decline her offer.

“I’ll be quite all right on my own,” I say. “Though I’d be much obliged if someone could take Nugget.”

Roxanne and Persephone agree to take the dog, and I turn toward the police car.

“Would you like me to tell Peter?” Joan offers as Wills opens the back door of the car.

I look over my shoulder. Peter doesn’t need to be bothered with my mess, yet again. I open my mouth to say this. I want to say this. But I don’t. Instead I say, “Thank you.” And Joan nods.

46

I’m taken to an establishment that bears the Victoria Police logo, but looks more like the admin building of a life insurance company. The floor is covered in sad little carpet tiles, the desks are arranged in dull gray cubicle clusters, and there’s not a single intimidating officer looming over a mug shot lineup. I spot a few people in uniform, but most are in business casual, loitering near the printer or whispering secrets in the stationery closet. I don’t see a single box of donuts or a backroom cell for the drunks.

I take note of all of this because I know Daphne will want to know about it all, in detail. At this point I might have to make something up to avoid disappointing her.

I’m led to a room with a boardroom table and a large window with a view of the city.

“Tea?” Wills offers. “Coffee? Water?”

She hits me with a stare so piercing I almost check my shirt forholes. My eyes flick to her forehead, where a large, Y-shaped vein is throbbing. If it pops, I’m running for cover.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Just to clarify, am I under arrest?”

“No,” she repeats. “You’re just giving an official statement. We’ll be recording it if that’s okay with you?”

“I suppose it is,” I say.

We do the usual faffing about. They test the recorder, state their badge numbers, and ask for my date of birth, which always earns me a look. Then comes an uncomfortable amount of foot tapping while they locate the ON button.

“Right then,” Detective Wills says. “The reason we brought you in is that we found DNA on your shoe that matches that of your neighbor Mr. Patel.”

I stare at them. “So?”

“So… we wondered if you’d have an explanation for that.”

“I’m not an expert in DNA, Detective,” I say. “But if I had to guess, I’d say it’s because we were neighbors. We exchanged words. Gestures. Fluids, occasionally—when he sneezed in my direction, or I flung a garden gnome too enthusiastically. Also, I found him the day he died, remember? So, yes, I’d expect a bit of DNA crossover.”

“That’s fair,” says Carlaw. “But the autopsy also showed your DNA under his fingernails.”