What!

I went in a chauffeur-driven hired car, a luxury I seemed to have spent half my salary on since leaving Oliver's house.
I was living nearer the office than usual, with a friend whose apartment was in a block with an elevator, not up stairs like my own. The pains in my immobile joints refused obstinately to depart, but owing to a further gift from Pen (via ) were forgettable most of the time. A new pattern of normal life had evolved, and all I dearly wanted was a bath.
I arrived at Wyfold's police station at the same time as Oliver, and together we were shown into an office, Oliver pushing me as if born to it. Two months minimum, they'd warned me to expect of life on wheels. Even if my shoulder would be mended before then, it wouldn't stand my weight on crutches. Patience, I'd been told. Be patient. My ankle had been in bits and they'd restored it like a jigsaw puzzle and I couldn't expect miracles, they'd said.
Wyfold arrived, shook hands briskly (an advance) and said that this was not a normal identity parade, as of course Oliver knew Shane very well, and I obviously knew him also, because of Ricky Barnet.
Just call him Jason, Wyfold told me, if you are sure he's the same man you saw at Calder Jackson's.
We left the office and went along a fiercely lit institutional corridor to a large interview room, which contained a table, three chairs, a uniformed policeman standing . . . and Shane, sitting down.
He looked cocky, not cowed.
When he saw Oliver he tilted his head almost jauntily, show¬ing not shame but pride, not apology but a sneer. On me he looked with only a flickering glance, neither knowing me from our two very brief meetings nor reckoning on trouble from my direction.
Wyfold raised his eyebrows at me to indicate the need for action.
Hello, Jason, I said.
His head snapped round immediately and this time he gave me a full stare.
I met you at Calder Jackson's yard, I said.
You never did.
Although I hadn't expected it, I remembered him clearly. You were giving sun-lamp treatment to a horse and Calder Jackson told you to put on your sunglasses.
He made no more effort to deny it. What of it, then? he said.
Conclusive evidence of your link with the place, I should think, I said.
Oliver, seeming as much outraged by Shane's lack of contri¬tion as by his sins, turned with force to Wyfold and in half-controlled bitterness said, Now prove he killed my daughter.