‘Forget about my feelings, forget about trying not to hurt me. Say what you really think. How can you stand to sit there and listen to me tell lies about you, if that’s what I’m doing?’ We’re at Parkside police station in Cambridge, in a room with yellow walls, a blue linoleum floor and one large square window that’s covered with some kind of chicken-wire grid. So that no one can throw themselves out. Sam Kombothekra is sitting on our side of the table, between Kit and me. That surprised me; I thought he’d sit opposite, with DC Grint. Is a detective from Spilling still a detective when he’s in Cambridge? Does Sam have any power in this room, or is he here today only as our chauffeur, our silent chaperone? Kit looks at Grint. ‘I’ve never been to Bentley Grove – never walked there, never driven there, never parked there.’ He shrugs. ‘What else can I say? Plenty of people drive black saloon cars.’ There are two red grooves on his neck where he cut himself shaving this morning, and blue-ish shadows under his eyes; neither of us slept last night, knowing we had this ordeal to get through today.
