Jammy Dodger and a Cup of Camomile Tea

The police van smelled of disinfectant and desperation, with a faint undertone of someone's leftover bacon sandwich. Vera Fletcher pressed her palms against her thighs to stop them trembling as South London blurred past the tinted windows. In forty-seven minutes, she'd be sitting in Interview Room 3 at New Scotland Yard, reading from a script that would supposedly make this entire nightmare disappear.

"Nervous?" PC Cross glanced at her in the rearview mirror, his eyes crinkling with what seemed like genuine concern. He was younger than she'd expected for a protection officer—maybe early thirties, with the kind of easy smile that belonged on a morning television presenter rather than someone trained to spot assassins.

"Absolutely bricking it," Vera admitted, adjusting her glasses for the fifteenth time since leaving the safe house. "I've never been to court before. Well, except for that time I got a parking ticket in Manchester, but that was just a magistrate who looked like my disappointed headmistress."

"It's not court today, just an interview. Much more relaxed." Cross turned onto the Embankment, the Thames sliding past like a grey silk ribbon. "Think of it as a conversation where everything you say is recorded for posterity and could potentially send people to prison for life."

"That's... not actually more relaxing."

Cross laughed—a warm, uncomplicated sound that made Vera's shoulders relax fractionally. "Sorry. Occupational hazard. We lose our bedside manner after a while. What I meant is, just stick to what your solicitor told you to say, and you'll be fine. This whole business will be wrapped up by teatime."

Vera looked down at the typed pages in her lap—four sheets of carefully worded statements that painted Silas Graves as a manipulative client who'd deceived an innocent ghostwriter. Every word had been calibrated by her solicitor, Marcus Shield, to deflect liability while providing just enough cooperation to satisfy the Crown Prosecution Service.

"Easy for you to say," she muttered. "You don't have to sit there pretending you never suspected anything."

"Didn't you? Never suspect anything?" Cross asked casually, navigating around a bus belching diesel fumes. "I mean, bloke pays you to write confession stories about serial killing. Bit odd, that."

There it was—the question that had been gnawing at her for weeks. Had she really been that naive, or had she chosen not to see the truth because the money was too good to lose?

"Silas was..." She paused, remembering their meetings in different cafés around North London. Always different locations, always cash payments, always those strange, detailed stories about murders that felt too specific to be fiction. "He was eccentric. But London's full of eccentric people. I once had a client who insisted I write her cat's autobiography."

"Right, but cats don't usually bury bodies in Hertfordshire."

"No, they don't." Imogen's laugh came out slightly strangled. "Though Tibbles did have some very strong opinions about the postman."

Cross grinned in the mirror. "See? You've got a sense of humor about it. That's good. Shows you're handling the stress well." He paused at a red light, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "So after today, what's the plan? Back to ghostwriting?"

"God, no. I think I'm done hiding behind other people's words." The admission surprised her—she hadn't meant to say it, hadn't even realized she'd made the decision until the words left her mouth. "Honestly? Right now all I want is a jammy dodger and a cup of camomile tea. Somewhere quiet where nobody expects me to be anyone but myself."

"Brave choice. What would you write about?"

"The truth, maybe. About how easy it is to pretend you don't see what's right in front of you when looking away is more comfortable." She watched London slide past—all those people in their cars, probably heading home to normal Tuesday evenings with normal Tuesday problems. "Though first, honestly, I just want that jammy dodger."

Something flickered across Cross's face in the mirror—too quick for her to interpret. "The truth can be dangerous."

"So can lies."

They pulled up outside New Scotland Yard, the revolving sign spinning slowly like a lazy carousel. Cross parked and turned to face her, his expression suddenly serious.

"Vera—can I call you Vera?—I want you to know that whatever happens in there, you've got protection. Nothing's going to happen to you as long as you stick to the script. Your solicitor knows what he's doing."

There was something in his tone that made her skin prickle—an odd emphasis on the word 'script' that felt less like reassurance and more like a warning.

"Right," she said slowly. "Stick to the script."

"Exactly. No improvisation. No sudden attacks of conscience. Just read the words, answer the questions, and go home to your life."

The interview room was exactly as grim as she'd imagined—grey walls, grey table, grey chairs that looked like they'd been designed by someone who'd given up on human comfort. Detective Inspector Hope Sterling sat across from her, flanked by a younger detective who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. Marcus Shield, her solicitor, arranged his papers with the precise movements of a man who charged by the minute.

"Right," DI Sterling said, switching on the recording equipment. "Interview with Vera Fletcher, conducted by Detective Inspector Sterling and Detective Constable Kumar. Also present is Marcus Shield, representing Miss Fletcher. The time is 2:17 PM."

She looked directly at Vera. "Miss Fletcher, you understand you're here voluntarily to provide a statement regarding your professional relationship with Silas Graves?"

"Yes." Vera's voice came out as a croak. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Yes, I understand."

"Excellent. Perhaps you could start by telling us how you came to work for Mr. Graves."

Vera glanced at Marcus, who nodded encouragingly. She looked down at her script, found the relevant paragraph, and began to read.

"I first encountered Mr. Graves through a freelance writing website in March 2023. He contacted me regarding ghostwriting services for what he described as thriller fiction projects. At no point did he indicate that these projects were anything other than works of imagination..."

The words felt foreign in her mouth, like trying to speak in a language she'd only learned from textbooks. She could see DI Sterling watching her with the kind of patient attention that suggested she'd heard a lot of rehearsed statements in her time.

"And you never questioned the unusual level of detail in Mr. Graves's stories?" DC Kumar asked.

Marcus leaned forward slightly. "My client has already addressed that in her statement."

"I'd like to hear it in her own words."

Vera found the relevant section of her script. "While the stories contained vivid details, this is not uncommon in the thriller genre. Many successful authors research extensively to create authentic narratives. I had no reason to suspect that Mr. Graves's detailed knowledge indicated anything other than thorough preparation."

It was complete bollocks, and everyone in the room knew it. Silas's stories hadn't just been detailed—they'd been intimate, written from the perspective of someone who remembered the weight of a shovel in his hands, the sound dirt made when it hit a plastic tarp, the way certain flowers grew better in disturbed soil.

"Miss Fletcher," DI Sterling said gently, "is there anything else you'd like to tell us about your working relationship with Mr. Graves? Anything that might help us understand how this situation came about?"

This was it—the moment Marcus had prepared her for. The question that was really asking: 'Are you going to admit you suspected something, or are you going to stick to your story?'

Vera looked down at her script, found the final paragraph that would close this chapter of her life forever: "I deeply regret that my professional services were used to document real crimes. Had I known the true nature of Mr. Graves's projects, I would never have continued working with him. I hope my cooperation today helps bring closure to the families affected by his actions."

She opened her mouth to read the words that would set her free.

Instead, she heard herself saying, "I knew."

The silence that followed was so complete she could hear the fluorescent light buzzing overhead like an angry wasp.

"I'm sorry?" DI Sterling said.

"I knew something was wrong. Not at first, but after a few months... the stories were too real. Too specific. And Silas, he'd get this look when he talked about certain details, like he was remembering rather than imagining." Vera felt Marcus's hand grip her arm, but she shook him off. "I told myself it was just good research, that he was method acting or something. But deep down, I knew."

"Vera," Marcus hissed. "Stop talking."

But she couldn't stop. The words were pouring out of her like water from a broken dam, fifteen years of hiding behind other people's voices finally giving way to her own.

"I needed the money. My rent was £1,200 a month for a shoebox in Clapham, and Silas paid £500 per story. I was writing two stories a month for him, sometimes three. It was more money than I'd ever made writing, and I was terrified that if I questioned him too closely, he'd find someone else."

DI Sterling leaned forward. "What specifically made you suspicious?"

"The geography. Silas would describe these remote locations in incredible detail—the exact distance from the nearest road, which way the ground sloped, what kind of trees grew there. And he always knew about the soil. Who knows about soil unless they've dug in it?"

She was crying now, mascara probably running down her cheeks in black streams, but she couldn't stop talking.

"There was this one story about a woman who'd been buried near a particular type of oak tree. Silas described the exact pattern of the bark, the way the roots had grown around... around her remains. No one makes up details like that. No one."

"And you continued working with him despite these suspicions?"

"Yes." The word came out as barely a whisper. "Because I was a coward. Because it was easier to pretend I believed his stories than to face the possibility that I was helping document real murders. Because I'd rather be willfully blind than unemployed."

Marcus had given up trying to stop her and was now staring at the table like he was contemplating a career change.

"Miss Fletcher," DI Sterling said quietly, "thank you for your honesty. I know that wasn't easy."

"It should have been easier," Imogen said, wiping her eyes with a tissue that had materialized from somewhere. "I should have said something months ago. Years ago. All those families, wondering what happened to their loved ones, and I was sitting on the answers because I was too selfish and scared to—"

She was interrupted by the sound of DI Sterling's phone buzzing urgently. The detective glanced at the screen, frowned, and stepped away from the table.

"One moment," she said, moving toward the corner of the room.

Vera could hear her speaking in low, urgent tones: "Are you certain? When?... How long has he been...? Right, we're bringing her down now."

When DI Sterling returned to the table, her expression had changed completely.

"Miss Fletcher, I need you to listen very carefully. The protection officer who brought you here today—PC Cross—he's not one of ours."

The room seemed to tilt sideways. "What do you mean he's not one of yours?"

"I mean his warrant card was forged, his credentials were fake, and his real name is Felix Arnott. He's been wanted in connection with Silas's operation for the past six months."

Vera felt the blood drain from her face. She thought about the casual conversation in the van, Cross's easy smile, his emphasis on sticking to the script. "He was evaluating me."

"Most likely, yes. Determining whether you posed a sufficient threat to warrant... permanent resolution."

"And if I'd stuck to the script? If I'd just read the statement and maintained that I never suspected anything?"

DI Sterling's expression was grim. "Our intelligence suggests they had contingency plans for witnesses who might prove problematic later. People who knew too much but claimed to know nothing were considered... unreliable."

"So by telling the truth..."

"You probably saved your own life. Cross—Arnott—was expecting a scared woman who would lie to protect herself. Instead, he got someone willing to confess to moral cowardice in front of a recording device. That kind of honesty was never part of their risk assessment."

Vera laughed, a sound somewhere between hysteria and relief. "So being a terrible person actually made me less dangerous to them?"

"Being an honest person made you less predictable. And predictability is what they were counting on."

Later, much later, after the real protection officers had arrived and Arnott had been arrested trying to leave the building, Vera sat in a different interview room with a cup of tea that actually tasted like tea instead of regret.

"What happens now?" she asked DI Sterling.

"Now you'll probably need to testify at several trials. The Crown Prosecution Service will likely offer you immunity in exchange for your cooperation. And you'll need proper protection until we've rounded up the rest of Silas's network."

"And then?"

"Then you get to find out what your own voice sounds like when you're not afraid to use it."

Imogen thought about that—about the relief she'd felt when the truth had finally spilled out, messy and incriminating and completely off-script. About how terrifying and exhilarating it had been to speak words that belonged entirely to her.

"I think," she said slowly, "I'd like to write a book about this. About how we lie to ourselves to avoid uncomfortable truths. About how sometimes the only way to save yourself is to stop pretending you're someone else."

DI Sterling smiled. "Sounds like it might be a bestseller."

"That's not the point anymore."

"No. I suppose it isn't."

Outside, London continued its ancient dance of eight million people pretending they knew what they were doing. But in Interview Room 3, for the first time in her life, Vera Fletcher knew exactly who she was and exactly what she wanted to say.

And she was no longer afraid to say it.