Neil was nervous. Not because he still did not feel at his sharpest, but because they were being escorted down the back corridors of the Houses of Parliament to interview the clerk of Clara Robertson MP, one Fiona Shaw.
In his experience, politicians were just about the worst people to interview you could possibly imagine. Evasive, cognisant of every law, irritatingly over-dramatic with rebuttals, it was as if politicians and their retinue had been handpicked to irritate police officers the world over.
His first involvement with politicians came just a few short months into his tenure as a detective. Sent to a house in Ealing, he was asked to interview the MP for Durham North about a road incident that had caused the death of a cyclist near Hyde Park.
The man he interviewed was a master of evasion. Every question’s answer would be excessively contrived, loaded with reasons why the information given could not be seen as truth, and missing the point of the original inquiry. After nearly two hours of trying to prise details from the man about his role in the death, the MP eventually just stood up midway through Neil asking a question, and offered him his hand. With a thinly veiled fuck off, hidden behind a pleasant thank you, he ushered him to the door and escorted him from his property. It was one of the most surreal experiences of Neil’s life to date.
Not only would this kind of behaviour make all discussions tricky, but the fact that Henry had already lambasted them once about what they may have said to upset Clara Robertson made matters even worse.
What was of the greatest importance however was that they found out why Fiona had telephoned Henry, and why that conversation had insinuated they had requested any information regarding Miss Robertson’s activities, because they had not.
Arriving at the office of Clara Robertson, they were shown through to a formal room, with a clerk’s desk facing the door, panels of shelving behind that, and a leather couch at the far end with a coffee table in front of it.
The attendant with them motioned to Fiona as she entered, before waving Artimus and Neil inside. “The officers from Scotland Yard, Miss Shaw. Do you require I sit with you?”
“That’s fine.” said Fiona, standing from behind her desk and moving to shake Neil and Artimus by the hand. “I’ve been given a run-down by Clara on what I can say, and I have been assured by their superior there will be no more questions in relation to Miss Robertson.”
“No more?” said Artimus, taking a seat on the leather couch. “I was unaware we asked any in the first place.”
“I can assure you, Mister Crane. My source was very specific in what was asked.” said Fiona, pulling her own chair over to sit with the men. “Miss Robertson has said she is happy to view those questions as oversights however, if it means we can assist with this matter in any way.”
Fiona was a strange-looking woman. Maybe twenty-five, she was short, with blonde hair cut into a bob. She was not fat, but her suit was tight, clinging to her ample frame and showing off her extensive array of curves. Neil was unsure, but she either wanted to look thinner by wearing a garment like that, or she had filled-out by a dress size or more. On top of that, her make-up was overly colourful; mauve eyes, pronounced blusher, and lips bathed in rouge. Recently sculpted eyebrows and freshly manicured nails added to the sense of someone in the process of changing how they looked.
“So, if you are not going to talk to us about Miss Robertson,” said Artimus, the gleam in his eye suggesting something foul was about to escape his lips, “maybe you could walk us through why you were recently dumped like yesterday’s madras. Difficult break-up was it?”
Fiona’s smile cracked in an instant, then shattered completely. As her tears began to flow, Neil was unsure if the woman was bawling or if she had actually exploded from pent up emotion.
“He… he…” she sobbed, holding her head in her hands.
Neil turned and glared at Artimus. The woman would be of little or no use now.
“I am very sorry for my abruptness, Miss Shaw.” said Artimus, holding his handkerchief out for Fiona to take. “However, there are so very few questions we need to ask, and if you can just give us the answers we need, we will be more than happy to get out of your way.”
Fiona blew her nose, before looking up at Neil. “I’m sorry. That was very unprofessional.” Snuffling down her emotions, she straightened herself and nodded. “Ask away.”
“Excellent.” said Artimus, rubbing his hands together. “Can I ask for the name of your informant? The one who told you what we had asked Missus Grayson.”
“You may ask, certainly.” said Fiona, now sitting rigidly. “However, I am obliged to refuse to answer that.”
“That is your right.” said Artimus, accepting the response. “Then may I ask a few questions about Missus Grayson herself? I wish to know how well you knew her?”
“Quite well.” said Fiona, still acting a little defensively. “Having worked alongside her for the better part of four years, I would say I know her as well as anyone who works with anyone could.”
“So, I assume from that you have had social interactions during your time together? Potentially discussed personal matters, just as close colleagues often do.”
“We have, numerous times.” said Fiona, her forehead creasing slightly as she wondered why the question had been asked.
“Did she ever discuss anything with you outside shall we say, the bounds of normality?” said Artimus, watching Fiona for signs of response. “That to say, anything that was outside of the usual conversational patter you shared.”
“I’m not sure what you mean?” said Fiona, confused.
“I think my colleague is trying to ask whether Missus Grayson ever confided anything in you that you found awkward. Or whether, knowing what has happened, anything was ever discussed that you now feel could relate back to this.” said Neil, helping the woman out.
Fiona glanced down at her hands, rubbing them together. “Nothing really.”
“But obviously something, Miss Shaw.” said Neil, softly. “Police officers are not in the habit of sharing secrets they don’t need to. Anything you say is safe with me.”
“It’s just…” said Fiona, weighing up how best to say what she was thinking. “Well… When me and Andy were breaking up, she was really helpful. She kind of knew what I was going through and told me a lot of things that helped me see what I was doing to myself. She’s the one who’s got me back on my diet.” Fiona sighed, her shoulders sagging with the relaxing act as she reclined into her chair. “There was something else though. We went out for a drink when she saw I’d put on all this weight, and I told her about what happened. We chatted and drank, you know, as colleagues do. Yet, all the while whilst she was talking to me about what I should do to help myself get over it, I actually got the feeling she was talking to herself. Does that make any sense?”
“It may do at some point.” said Artimus, soothingly. “Thank you for your candour. There is just one more question Miss Shaw.”
“Please.” said Fiona, motioning for Artimus to continue.
“My colleague, Neil here, is looking for a date, and I was wondering if you would give him your number.” Artimus leant forward, as Neil turned red. “He’s a bit shy you see, and thus not very good with the opposite sex.”
Fiona giggled, biting her lip before spinning round to her desk and retrieving a business card. Removing a pen, she wrote a number on the rear of the card and then handed it to Artimus, playfully looking into Neil’s eyes. “I’m free Wednesday and Friday this week, if he finds the courage to ring me.”
“This Wizard of Oz will make sure my lion friend has a good search for it before then. Thank you for your time Fiona.”
Dragging Neil to his feet and leading him from the room, Artimus closed the door and began to walk toward the exit.
“What the fuck was that?” said Neil, unmoved. “I don’t want to go on a date with her.”
“Do you not?” asked Artimus, swivelling to face him. “A recently single woman, trying to find her feet in the wor
ld, who has given you her number, freely. You don’t - want - that?”
“What have her circumstances got to do with anything?”
“Oh dear lord above!” said Artimus, exasperated. “You have absolutely no idea how any of this works, do you?”
“How any of what works?”
“Dear me. Come on, detective.” said Artimus, setting off once more. “Let’s see if we can’t focus your thinking on something you’re capable of.”
Chapter 22
Nothing is Obvious