Chapter 9: Proof That I've Been Shagging David Tennant

Cathy Calloway was waving a brown manila envelope. She thrust it into Rollo’s hands. ‘It’s proof, Sergeant Price,’ she pouted at him. He didn't react. ‘I only didn’t recognise you because it’s been such a long time, and I remember a pretty boy rather than this beautiful man,’ she added, dragging her carmine nail softly down the back of his hand as he took it. Rollo glanced guiltily at me to see if I’d noticed this, and twisted his features into a look of distaste. The beard suited him. He looked good in uniform too.

‘Miss Calloway,’ he said. ‘You will have to wait until we have time to interview you about this.’

‘No way,’ Cathy said, withdrawing. ‘I have to go.’

‘What’s going on?’ asked Detective Inspector Pushkas, arriving with her Sergeant, a very thin man with tightly curling hair that needed to be cut, wearing steel-rimmed glasses and a bad black suit.

‘This woman says she has proof that Miss Park was involved in a prior relationship with Mr Tennant.’

‘Really? You’re Miss Calloway, yes? I spoke to you at the scene?’

‘Yes. And I have to go. I have done my civic duty, and now I must go back to my office.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not how it works,’ said Pushkas. ‘We’ll need to discuss this evidence with you. My sergeant will make sure you’re comfortable.’ The thin man led an angry Cathy down the corridor, and Inspector Pushkas turned to me. ‘Miss Park, Sir Connaught Sampson-Samson left me in no doubt that I should wait for him before conducting any interview with you. Sergeant Price will look after you. I’ll look at whatever’s in this envelope. Judging from the things Mis Calloway said at the scene, I’d be surprised if you have anything to… Well. It would be unprofessional of me to continue. Interview Room Two, Sergeant Price.’

About twenty minutes later, the door of the sickly pale blue room opened to admit Pushkas and her sergeant, along with Sir Conn. He sat beside me, saying, ‘We’ll be out of here in ten minutes.’

Pushkas repeated the questions I’d been asked in South Square, and I told the same story: David Tennant arrives, says he’ll need a lawyer, looks out of the window, goes downstairs, and kills my cheating husband Gavin. ‘Why?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know.’ I don’t tell her that David said I was the Chosen One. ‘I’d never met him before.’

‘Miss Calloway tells a different story.’

‘She’s lying. What was her proof?’

‘Proof?’ rumbled Sir Conn. ‘Really? I doubt that.’ Detective Inspector Pushkas and the thin sergeant barely suppressed their grins. Pushkas slid over the colour print-outs, on ordinary paper, of three photographs. The couple involved were considerably better built than David Tennant or myself, and the images were clearly culled from a porn site. The faces, attached by someone with a rudimentary knowledge of Photoshop, were David’s and mine. There were three different pictures for David, but all three of mine were the publicity shot from our chambers website.

‘The thing is,’ said Pushkas, ‘that while this is ridiculous, we can’t absolutely dismiss the claim, under the circumstances. Mr Tennant arrived in Miss Park’s office, and killed Miss Park’s husband. Some link to Miss Park is very plausible.’

‘Miss Park has never met David Tennant,’ said Sir Conn.

‘You seem very sure of that, sir.’

‘I am sure. Miss Park can’t keep a secret. Open book with transparent covers. I’m Head of Chambers and even I used to hear about her terrible dating stories. Very funny. Looked forward to it every Monday. And she loves David Tennant, it’s one of her things. I’d have known. We all would. End of story.’

‘However, Sir Conn, you see my point.’

‘I do, of course. But you seem mine. Dozens of witnesses to the event, and my client didn’t know the killer. Her husband is dead, she is shocked and confused, but she had nothing to do with this terrible crime.’

I suppose it seems strange, but that was the moment when the reality hit. I turned away from Sir Conn, twisting in the uncomfortable bucket of my plastic chair, and I was sick on the floor. ‘Oh God,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just…’

‘No, no,’ said Sir Conn. ‘Don’t worry. Let me get you home.’

‘I’m sorry, Sir Connaught, Miss Park,’ said Inspector Pushkas. ‘But the dozens of witnesses who saw David Tennant kill your husband also saw you and him talk extremely earnestly during the five minutes it took us to arrive. I need to know what he was saying.’

I didn’t want to say the lunatic things David said about the angels and demons, but I didn’t want to look as if I was hiding anything. Then I had a brainwave. ‘I’m very sorry,’ I said, as calmly as I could with the pile of sick at my feet, ‘but Mr Tennant asked me to be his lawyer. I am sure there would be no problem, but this is a very strange situation, I’m relatively inexperienced in terms of crime, and I’m worried about the boundaries of lawyer-client privilege, especially in a case with this profile. I am sure that Mr Tennant will agree for me to tell you what he said, but I have to take advice on that subject. I’m really sorry, and I’m sure I’ll be able to clear this all up as soon as I’ve spoken to him,’ I added, ‘I do want to help. I just, I mean, it would be terrible if I got it wrong and told you something inadmissible.’ Pushkas assented reluctantly.

‘Good girl,’ said Sir Conn, approvingly.

‘Mr Tennant will be ready for you in about twenty minutes,’ said Pushkas. ‘He’s been asking for you.’

‘May I get a breath of fresh air?’ I asked. Detective Inspector Pushkas nodded for the thin man to escort us. As we walked through the station, it seemed as if every officer was staring at us, including Rollo, who was trying to be reassuring. As we stepped through the door, there was an explosion of flashlights. Voices shouted, ‘Were you shagging David Tennant!’ and ‘Did he kill for love!’ and ‘Do you agree that this is the crime of the century!’