Human Remains

all.’
    Lewis sighed, something I recognised as heralding an imminent change of direction.
    ‘Your phone has also been linked with – ’ he consulted his notes ‘ – a further twenty-seven SIM cards, in addition to the ones we have already discussed. What can you tell us about that?’
    ‘I have no comment.’
    ‘Come on, Colin. Another twenty-seven SIM cards! It must be a right pain, having to fish them out and change them all the time, isn’t that the case?’
    ‘Not really. I used the different SIM cards over a long period of time.’
    ‘And were they all used for the same purpose?’
    ‘To keep in contact with people, yes.’
    ‘Am I right in thinking there are another twenty-seven people out there who have yet to be located?’
    I smiled at him. ‘It does sound rather a lot, doesn’t it? Clearly you’re not so good at taking care of your communities as you think you are.’
    ‘Are any of them still alive, Colin?’
    ‘I wondered when you were going to ask me that.’
    ‘And? Are there any people out there still alive?’
    They both looked at me. Motionless in their seats, breathless. At last they’d asked me something interesting, something that might make a difference. And the time had come for me to lie to them for the first time.
    ‘No.’
    They both breathed out in a sigh. It was almost comical. And it felt as though they believed me, or maybe they just wanted to believe me so badly that their tiny minds could not compute any possible alternative.
    ‘You’re sure about that?’
    ‘There was one lady a few weeks ago, but I believe someone intervened before she had enough time.’
    There was a pause, paper shuffling. Under the table, Lewis kicked the cardboard box. ‘Right, so, going back to the phones. Have you always used this method to keep in touch?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘With your friends, as well as with those you – er – “helped to choose the right path”?’
    ‘I don’t have friends, Detective Constable Lewis.’
    ‘I’m not surprised. You spend too much time meddling in other people’s lives, don’t you?’
    ‘Is that an actual question?’
    ‘Why do you do it, Colin?’
    He was trying to be friendly with me now, trying to break down the barriers that he perceived existed between us. The only barrier was the table. He’d constructed all these issues when in reality it was all beautifully, serenely simple.
    ‘Come on, Colin. Why do you do it?’
    ‘I’ve already explained. I’m saving the taxpayer a fortune, and making people feel happier about themselves.’
    ‘And that makes you feel good, does it?’
    ‘Why wouldn’t it?’
    ‘Do you become sexually aroused when you’re dealing with these people, Colin?’
    I was too shocked to answer, just for a moment. I stared at him, my face hot with rage at his insolence. The change of topic had been sudden and, this time, unexpected.
    ‘How dare you?’ I said, my voice low, calm. Disguising the fury as best I could.
    ‘You see – our search teams found this in your house, Colin.’
    From the cardboard box under the table Lewis brought forth a plastic bag, sealed at the top, covered with printed writing but transparent. Inside was an old copy of the
Briarstone Chronicle
, the centre spread showing all the pictures of them. The happy smiling pictures.
    ‘Do you know what this is?’
    ‘It’s a copy of the newspaper,’ I said, my tone even.
    ‘We retrieved it, as I said, from your house. Specifically, from your bedroom. More specifically, from underneath your bed.’
    ‘Quite.’
    ‘It’s covered in semen, Colin. Is it yours?’
    My face flushed again and I could not bring forth any words that would sufficiently express my indignation and discomfort. Damn the man!
    Eventually I hissed through gritted teeth, ‘No comment.’
    ‘Did you masturbate over the newspaper, Colin?’
    ‘No comment!’
    ‘Did it turn you on, knowing you’d caused these people to die?’
    ‘No comment!’
    They both sat staring at me for several seconds. I was breathing hard, my hands clenching and unclenching at the rudeness of it, the terrible intrusion into my private life.
How dare they?
I thought.
Do they have no idea who I am, what I could do?
    ‘What?’ I said. ‘Is it a bloody crime to masturbate, now? Are you going to charge me with desecrating a fucking newspaper?’
    ‘Please don’t swear, Colin.’
    ‘I’d prefer it if you called me Mr Friedland, Detective Constable Lewis.’
    ‘Whatever,’ Lewis said with a