Page 28 of Dropping Like Flies
Dougie cocked his head to the side. “Why unfortunately?”
I should have said yes and left it at that. Why hadn’t I? Because the temptation to twist the knife had been too much. Just like when I’d asked Griffin if he wished we’d never met, the intimation being that I did. “It didn’t end well.” My voice was spiky enough that it could have been a cactus. “He ended it over…”
“Over what?” Dougie asked, his interest clearly piqued. He didn’t seem surprised that I’d said “he.” His gaydar was obviously in full working order.
I’d been going to say something stupid. But categorizing the death of Griffin’s sister as something stupid was a one-way trip to not only ending this interview, but to ending the partnership altogether and finding ourselves without a necromancer. Which would piss everybody off, including me. “Never mind. We’re not supposed to be talking about me.”
“I just wondered if you understood,” Dougie offered with a watery smile.
“Understood what?” In contrast to my sweaty palms, Griffin sounded as cool as the proverbial cucumber when he asked the question.
Dougie’s smile died. “That love can make you do stupid things. Yes, I threatened him, but I would never have done any of the things I said I would. And why I thought that would make him change his mind about us, I have no idea. I can see that now. Back then…” He gave an embarrassed shrug.
“What threats did you make?”
Dougie cast a quick look to the open door, his mum not having reappeared yet. Apparently, the biscuits were difficult to find. Either that or she didn’t have any, and she was up to her elbows in flour rustling up a batch. “Do I have to say?”
“It would help us if you were honest.”
He’d produced a tissue from somewhere, presumably up his sleeve. He shredded it between his fingers, bits of it dropping to the carpet like snow. “I told him I would wait until he was in bed asleep and then I would let myself into his flat and carve out his heart, that if I couldn’t have him, then no one else could either.” Griffin choked on his tea while I stared at Dougie in stunned shock, not sure what I was supposed to say to that. Dougie sniffed. “I would never have done it. I don’t even like blood.”
“He must have believed it to have gone to the police about it?”
“I had a key to his flat,” Dougie admitted, bright spots of color appearing on his cheeks. “And I refused to give it back to him. I guess it freaked him out that I’d said that, and I could gain access whenever I wanted to. I think he went to the police mainly to force me to give the key back.”
“And did you?” I asked.
He nodded. “I had little choice. They weren’t very nice to me.”
I decided against asking him whether that had surprised him. “When did you last see Rupert?”
More shredding of the tissue. “Two years ago. We bumped into each other at a party.”
“Did you speak to him?”
He grimaced. “Not really. He wasn’t very pleased to see me, so I stayed as far from him as I could. I thought that was for the best.”
“A wise decision,” I said. There was hardly anything of the tissue left now and Dougie looked close to tears again. “Just a couple more questions and then we’ll leave you be.” Dougie nodded, reaching for another tissue from the box on the table and using it to dab his eyes. “Where were you on Tuesday night between the hours of ten and two in the morning?”
“Here,” Dougie said. “Watching TV with my mum. We stayed up late to watch a film.”
His mum chose that moment to walk back in, carrying a plate piled high with enough custard creams for ten people. “We did,” she announced as she deposited them on the table with a gravitas that wouldn’t have been out of place in a royal court. “We watched Saltburn. It perhaps wasn’t the best choice of film to watch together. There were parts I didn’t particularly enjoy. Quite a lot of parts, actually,” she said with a frown. “I’ve insisted on picking the next film. Something with less”—her face flamed—“bodily fluids.”
I signaled my intention to leave by standing, Griffin finishing the last dregs of his tea and then following suit. Her face fell. “Won’t you have a biscuit?”
“I’m afraid not.” I patted my stomach. “I’m still full from breakfast.”
Griffin offered her a smile and then picked one off the plate. He lifted it in a silent toast. “One for the road. I didn’t have breakfast.”
I turned my attention to Dougie, the boy looking about as lost and alone as it was possible to in the armchair. “Someone will be in touch to confirm your alibi, but it should just be a formality.”
After thanking them for their time and completing the necessary small talk on the way out, Griffin and I left, neither of us saying a word until we were in the lift and the door had closed. And even then I had to start the ball rolling. “Well?”
He took an unhurried bite of the custard cream, chewing it slowly and swallowing before responding. “Well, what?”
“What do you make of Dougie?”
Griffin shrugged. “You’re the detective. Not me.”
