…

F is for — Fishing for information.  Without sounding like you are fishing

…

What does it feel like when you answer all of their questions, and they don’t believe you?

Like I felt now.

In a very bad place, because no matter what I said, it didn’t fit their narrative.

The main interrogator, Jake, no surnames provided, had a story.  He told me that story, over the last three days, a story that painted me guilty of a crime that I didn’t commit, couldn’t commit, wouldn’t commit.

My problem?

I could not prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was where I was at the time with someone who could never be named.

Ever.

So my guilt was circumstantial, and it would not be the first or the last person to spend a lifetime in jail for a crime they did not commit.

I guess that was the penalty for a stolen night with the woman I could never be with, never be seen with, and never spend the rest of my life with.

I was glad that this country did not partake in torturing confessions out of their suspects, but then, even if they did, I would die long before I said one word.  I’d been there before and had only just survived that interrogation.

I wondered if Jake knew that.

He had been pacing around the small room like a caged tiger.  We’d been at it for six hours.  While he looked thoroughly exhausted, I had remained cool and collected despite the exaggeratedly warm room.

It was their version of sweating answers out of you.

I was denied cold water, and water to a thirsty man was like gold to a fossicker.  He knew I needed a drink.

He stopped pacing, turned, and glared at me.

“Let’s go over this again.”

Of course, keep repeating the same story over and over until it becomes fact, until you give a nuance that gives that story credibility, that first chink in the armour that can be exploited.

When you’re tired, when you try not to give in, to waver, to give an expression that can be construed as a confession or agreement.

“The timeline tells us you were at your office until 3 pm.  We have CCTV footage of your departure by the front foyer.  You take an Uber to the Cyber Cafe, getting there at 3:54 pm.  There you stay until 6:17 pm where you take another Uber to the Hotel Jackson, arriving at 7:24 pm.  Your cell phone confirms these times, along with CCTV evidence.  Why did you go to the hotel?”

Here’s the tricky part.  Firstly, the hotel is a special hotel in that there is no CCTV surveillance anywhere inside or out.  They could only confirm my presence there by my phone’s GPS.  Secondly, they could not get confirmation of any guest within that hotel because the government used it to house ‘special’ guests.  Thirdly, by using the hotel, I was bound to an NDA to never divulge why I was there.

It didn’t stop Jake from fishing.

“You know I can’t tell you that.  And you are fully aware of the reasons.”

“It’s not helping your alibi.”

“Keep going.  So far, you have my movements.”

“You claim you stayed the night at the hotel, going to your room and staying there until 8:03 am the next morning.”

“That is correct.”

Except it wasn’t, technically.  I was in the hotel, on the same floor, but in an adjoining room from 8:00 pm to 7:00 am.  It didn’t matter, I didn’t leave the hotel.

However…

Jake contends that it was ten minutes if I hurried down a back alley under cover and out of sight of any CCTV coverage to another hotel where someone that looked like me was caught on tape going in the back entrance of a seedy hotel, carefully avoiding looking at any camera, both inside and outside, up to a room on the fourth floor by the rear stairs, murdered a man named Joseph Flines and then returned just as expeditiously being caught on CCTV on the way out not ten minutes later.

That was inconclusive, but there was a kicker…

I had an argument with an unnamed man outside my work building several hours before I left, at times heated, and where Flines had a swing and a miss, after screaming he was going to kill me, adding that the world needed to know what kind of heinous criminal I was.  He said quite loudly and openly that my reputation and livelihood would be over once everyone knew the truth.

I had no idea who he was, and I was even more mystified at why he believed I was a heinous criminal.  It was the last time I saw him until the police arrested me.  All I could think of was that he had mistaken me for someone else.

“How do you explain the confrontation outside your workplace earlier?”

“He has confused me with someone else.  I had never seen him before.”

“And yet he knows you by name.”

“I’m not exactly anonymous in this city. A lot of people who know who I am, and can recognise me.  It’s not the first time some stranger had walked up to me to have words, sometimes disparaging.  I’m sure you have found these instances and realised that I have nothing to do with them either.  My job is not exactly one people see eye to eye with, so there’s bound to be some dissenters.”

A lot, perhaps, because it was left to me to make the hard decisions because those who were supposed to didn’t and hid behind me and blamed me when the media was looking for a scapegoat.

I was not sure how Flines was affected by any decision I’d made, but it was a possible link.  Jake hadn’t made that connection yet.  Neither had I.

“So you admit…”

“Nothing, and it would serve you well not to start jumping to conclusions without a shred of evidence.”

“We’re close, very close.  People like you have the ability to hide in plain sight, but not this time.”

Smug, the first time he let any emotion into his tone.  That told me a great deal.  There was a connection.  It would have to be obscure, very obscure, one that I’d never guess existed.

He took a drink from his water bottle and glared at me, daring me to ask for a sip so he could deny it.  Yes, he looked like the man who held all the cards.

“How long has it been since your fiance died?”

What did that have to do with anything?  I said as much.

“Just answer the question.”

If this was court, my lawyer would be asking for relevance.

“Three years.”

“Her killer was never found.”

“I was in Hong Kong at the time if that’s what you are implying.”

Yes, they did try to pin that on me as well, but there was sufficient evidence to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt I didn’t do it or have anything to do with it.

“I was not.  But, can you explain why your wife met with the victim, Joseph Flines, several times, about weeks before she died.”

Could I? No.  Did I know?  I did not.  Did I know exactly what she did? Other than that, she was a corporate lawyer charged with keeping high flying executives out of jail when they committed so-called human errors in their business transactions.

Smoothing the waters, she said.  She never passed moral judgments, just found loopholes.  Did she care about those who were unjustly wronged? No.  Not her problem.  If they hired good lawyers, her job would be so much harder.

I loved her, not her job.  I wanted to investigate her death.  I was not allowed to.  Orders from above.

But as for Flines…

“If you say so.  I know nothing about her business or anyone she dealt with.”

“Three years you were together.  Very close.  And you claim…”

Fishing again.  Pushing buttons.  Get a reaction, and then run with it.

“It’s a situation you would have no understanding of.  After all, you haven’t had a relationship last longer than nine months, and one that had you suspended for three months.  There are lines that you do not cross, and both Margret and I knew where those lines were.  Clearly, you don’t.”

There was a pounding on the door, not unexpected.  It was only a matter of time before Jake crossed a line.  The door opened a fraction, a whispered conversation, heated, then, “This isn’t over.”

He then left, closing the door loudly behind him.

I had time to think about what sort of relationship Margaret may have had with Flines.  From what I knew of him, he had more enemies than friends, the result of a background check after he confronted me.

A seedy private investigator that swam down in the sewer of nasty divorce cases, there were upwards of fifty disgruntled husbands he had outed, and yet Jake and his team could not find one eligible perpetrator from that list.

I’d found ten, and that was just at first glance.

What would Margaret want with the likes of him when she had one of the best teams of investigators in the country at her disposal?

I didn’t have time to come to any sort of conclusion before the door opened, and an elderly woman came in and, after closing the door, leaned against it

She reminded me of the librarian at high school, the same severe expression, severe hairdo, and severe suit.

“You are going to be a proper pain in the proverbial backside, Mr Jones.  I know who you are, I know what you do, and I know that damnfool head of department you work for.  I apologise for Jake.  The man doesn’t understand discretion or when to keep information to himself.”

“Flines association with Margaret.  I didn’t kill the man, no matter how you try to stitch a timeline together.”

“Sadly, I have to agree.  I so wanted to wrap this up, but you don’t always get what you want.  You tell Jimmy hello from Betsy.  He’ll know who it is.  Oh, and by the way.  Anything you hear in this room stays in the room.  Is that understood?”

“Perfectly.”

“Very good.  You may go.”

Jake had overstepped his brief.  It would not be the first time someone in his position made a mistake in disclosing information that could queer a case.

But that was always a risk when you had to go on a fishing expedition.  What staggered me was the connection between Flines and Margaret, which on the surface could have circumstantially sealed my fate.

It still didn’t tell me why Flines had come after me, unless he thought I was working in concert with Margaret, and at a guess, she had caused him grief over a case.  Maybe he was not working for her, but for someone opposed to her, and she had to discredit him.

I hadn’t been able to investigate and still couldn’t, so perhaps I’d never find out.  And there was that one other small problem.  I was not supposed to know about my wife and Flines’s connection.

Why?

Maybe when I saw ‘Jimmy’, I’d find out.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025