by Adam Carter
“Don’t worry, Soph,” Williams said, and Harrison realised then how tense she must appear. “We’ll break her down. We’ve already got her worried, so now it’s just a matter of time.”
Harrison was not so sure, and she just wished she knew what was so odd about the prisoner. But perhaps something would come of the second interview. Crushing her Styrofoam cup, Harrison was so lost in her thoughts that she did not even notice the coffee dregs spilling over her fingers.
They headed back down to the cell in time to discover a tall man being signed in at the desk. Harrison had never seen him before and reckoned she would have remembered him. He was somewhere in his thirties, handsome in a rugged sort of way. He seemed to think throwing on a crumpled shirt was smart enough to work in, and the trench coat seemed more a fashion statement than anything else.
“Dick Reynolds,” the man said, extending his hand. “I’m Miss White’s solicitor.”
“That was fast,” Harrison said with a frown. “What, were you lurking outside, waiting for business?”
Reynolds did not so much as smile. “Could I speak with my client please?”
Harrison no more believed this man was named Dick Reynolds than she believed the woman in the cell was named Rebecca White, but without evidence to the contrary she had to accept him at his word. She took him to the cell and opened the door for him. It was extraordinarily tempting to stand nearby and eavesdrop, but she knew if she was caught doing that it would not go down well for her, so she left them to it. Throughout the entire exchange Williams had not spoken a word, although she could see he too did not believe a word of things.
“Let’s get back to matching that woman’s face to a name,” Harrison said. “And while we’re at it, let’s see if there are any tall men in trench coats we can identify.”
*
She had asked for a solicitor but Thompson didn’t know any. The closest thing to a solicitor she knew were the girls who worked the kerb, and that was only because she had some informants among them. She had debated putting in a call through to WetFish, but she did not want to leave any trace of her connexion to that place. Without a doubt Sanders knew of her predicament and if he had left her here to wallow it meant he had abandoned her. It was what she expected, of course. Sanders had a department to run and could not watch the entire thing collapse just for her benefit. If she was getting out of here she would have to do so under her own steam.
But then what? Her fingerprints had been taken and were now on file, and her tattoo had been noted and filed away somewhere. Even if she was released two minutes from now she would still have become a liability to WetFish. Sanders would disown her, would likely not even allow her back to clean out her desk.
Alone in her cell, she tried to think of what she would do if that happened – when that happened. The cell was small, damp and more than a tad chilly; it was winter and it seemed this station did not know how to regulate the temperature. She had a bench which she supposed could double as a cot, and that was about it. Looking about her at the cramped, empty chamber, she could not help but liken it to her own flat. If she was excommunicated from WetFish she had no idea what she would do with her life.
Perhaps it would be better to plead guilty to attempted murder and go down for the crime. The funny thing about it all was that she had not even committed a crime. The officers of WetFish held special dispensation to judge when it was necessary for a target to die. Sometimes they would frame the target, but sometimes they would kill them, as Thompson had intended to do with Stenning. It was the same with SO14, who were charged with protecting the royal family and were therefore armed with rifles and some measure of leeway. If Detective Inspector Harrison asked the right superiors they would be able to tell her that Thompson had been acting within the law. Only they wouldn’t tell her, because it all had to be kept a secret.
She knew she was only fortunate Stenning had not finished his drink and therefore had not absorbed too much of the drug she had slipped into it. If this Harrison woman even felt an inkling to check Harrison’s bloodstream, it would be all over.
Footsteps approached the door then and Thompson watched as it was opened. She could see Harrison beyond, not looking very happy about something. But there was someone else there, and Thompson’s heart leapt at the sight of a familiar figure. She hadn’t been abandoned by everyone just yet.
Hiding her happiness and hoping she had not allowed her reaction to show, Thompson remained where she was seated. Charles Baronaire said something to Harrison and she left him with the cell door open. Baronaire walked in casually, and Thompson could see his eyes were upon the retreating form of the Detective Inspector.
Finally he looked upon her properly and said, “I think you’re in trouble.”
Thompson felt a wave of mixed emotions wash over her. Relief formed the basis of it, and even pushed some of her fear away. She smiled and said, “I like your disguise.”
He straightened self-consciously. “I figured if I didn’t dress up no one could accuse me of pretending to be someone I’m not.” He paused. “You don’t smell so good with make-up.”
“Uh ... what?”
“Sorry. Just the confined space getting to me.”
Thompson shook her head. Baronaire may have been strange sometimes, but at least he had come here for her. “The big S isn’t going to like you being here, you know.”
“I’m not sure Superman cares.”
Thompson did not rise to it. No names could be mentioned in this cell, and certainly no mention of WetFish itself. There likely wasn’t anyone listening, but Thompson would not have been surprised were Sanders himself to have bugged the cells. “I take it you’re here to help me?” she asked.
“I’m your solicitor.”
“That’s a good cover.”
“No, seriously. I’m coming into the interrogation with you. Going to do all that ‘my client’ and ‘charge her or release her’ stuff they always do on the Bill.”
“Are ... Are you feeling all right?”
“Dick.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s my name. Dick Reynolds. Thought it had sort of a pulpy detective feel to it.”
Thompson was beginning to feel she had been better off contemplating a guilty plea. What with the trench coat, she had always suspected Baronaire had been a fan of the pulps, but this was a fine time to find out for sure. If Baronaire didn’t want to be accused of pretending to be someone else, using a false name was certainly a strange tactic. “I don’t think I can get out of this without outside intervention,” she said. “And, worst of all, Stenning survived.”
Baronaire considered this, although said nothing. She could see in his eyes, however, that he was confused about her arrangement of priorities. But it had been Thompson’s assignment to kill Stenning and in this she had failed. If this was her final assignment she would have liked for it to have gone well. It was a mark of pride, and her silence would be a parting gift to Sanders to prove her loyalty.
“Your job means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” Baronaire asked, as though he had sensed all her innermost thoughts.
“My job’s my life. I know it sounds bad, but what do any of us really have outside of the ... office?”
“I have the night.”
“You’re being strange again.”
“And I do it so well. But don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here. They don’t have enough on you.”
“No? They caught me red-handed trying to drown Stenning, plus they’ve confiscated my knife.”
“You took your knife into a club?”
“I take my knife everywhere.”
Baronaire frowned. “That knife is huge: where were you hiding it?”
“Don’t start with me, Dick.”
For a moment Baronaire had forgotten his own name, but his confusion passed.
“They have enough to charge me,” Thompson said. It was difficult to say what she needed to, especially because there was a chance Baronaire would
listen to her, but it had to be said regardless. “You should go. You should go before you’re implicated as well. The boss won’t like you having come here, but if you poke your nose in and act as my solicitor it’s not going to go well for you either. Then we’ll both be out on the streets.”
“I’m not abandoning you.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
“There’s something I need to tell you, Jen. Something I can’t say in the office because Sanders has ears everywhere. But you need to know because it might give you a little hope.”
She looked at him with narrowed eyes. “What?”
“It’s about how I feel.”
Thompson felt her heart racing in the confined space. She had enough problems as it was without Baronaire deciding to profess his love for her. “I’m flattered, but no.”
“No?”
“Please don’t hit on me, you know it’s only going to annoy me.”
“I ... Why would I hit on you? I’m trying to tell you I consider you a friend.”
Thompson opened her mouth, but no words came out. It was such an odd thing for one person to confess to another. Ordinary people formed friendships without a second thought, but in the bunker such relationships were actively discouraged. Baronaire’s secret declaration was akin to the shy revelation of a young lover that she was still a virgin. There was something almost even seedy to what he had said, when it was the simplest, least demanding statement she had ever heard.
“We have really screwed up lives don’t we?” she said.
“I’m not arguing there. Look, I’m not good with words, but I’m trying to say I’m here for you. Whatever happens, I’m here. I’m not leaving you, certainly not just to save my own job.”
It was a bold statement to make, and yet Thompson could see he meant it. She had always enjoyed her assignments with Baronaire, yet there was still something in the back of her mind preventing her from telling him so, even now. Her WetFish conditioning, she would have called it, had she a mind to place it into words.
“Thank you,” she said instead.
“So let’s get down to our interview techniques. The main thing is that if I say something peculiar, you can’t react.”
“I ... What?”
“Peculiar. If I’m trying to get a reaction out of Harrison, you can’t rise to it.”
“But ...”
“Just carry on the interview as if I haven’t spoken a word.”
“That’s not a good defence, Dick Reynolds, Pulp Detective. That’s just going to get me sent down.”
“Trust me.”
Thompson stared deep into his eyes. There was a lot going on in there, so much working in her defence. She had no idea what he was talking about, yet he was asking so little of her that she could not help but throw herself entirely to his mercy.
“I do,” she said, and felt a warm flush as she realised she was being entirely truthful.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rebecca White and Dick Reynolds sat before them in the interview room. It was the most bizarre experience of Harrison’s life, for neither was who they claimed to be, and one seemed to think he was a hard-boiled private eye. The prisoner appeared nervous, and whatever advice her legal counsel had offered was clearly not something she had agreed with but something she would accept regardless. Perhaps, Harrison surmised, the solicitor had convinced her of the futility of resisting and she would now confess everything. Harrison knew such was certainly wishful thinking.
The interview began slowly, and neither the prisoner nor her solicitor was giving anything away. After a few preliminary verbal dances, Harrison ploughed straight ahead with the crux of the case.
“You were considering,” Harrison said, “a defence, Miss White. I asked how you could justify possession of the largest knife I’ve ever confiscated, and also the fact you were holding Stenning’s head underwater at the time of your arrest. Perhaps you could enlighten me.”
The prisoner glanced to her solicitor, who waved her on, and said, “Like I said, the knife was Stenning’s, and he tried to kill me with it.”
“We’ve had some results back on that. The only fingerprints on the knife were yours. But we did find traces of blood. Human blood. Old human blood. You’ve used the knife before, haven’t you?”
“First time I saw it was in that alley.”
“So if we examined a blood sample from you it certainly wouldn’t match against the lab results?”
The prisoner hesitated a fraction of a second too long. “No.”
Everything was falling nicely into place, and Harrison was even beginning to understand some of what this woman had been hiding. She could not be certain whose blood was on the knife, but if it wasn’t hers it was someone else’s. Which meant this wasn’t the first time she had tried to kill someone, just the first time she had been discovered. Which meant there could well have been a string of corpses in her wake. In their wake, since Harrison firmly believed this man Reynolds was also a part of the attacks.
This was reverse policing, and Harrison never liked coming in at this angle. She had a suspect and was gathering evidence, but so far no murder victims. She had to make sure the prisoner did not leave the station until said victims had been identified, otherwise she would simply disappear into the ether.
“My client is cooperating fully with your investigation,” the solicitor said. “We would all like this resolved as soon as possible, but the real criminal here is Stenning. You yourself had him under observation, and since he was found not guilty in a legitimate court of law that must mean you have evidence of further crimes he’s committed.”
“Stenning isn’t the issue here,” Harrison said.
“Stenning is the issue, I have to disagree there, poppet. He ...”
“Did you just call me poppet?”
Reynolds was fighting a smile. “Becky, dear, say no.”
White looked at him, as shocked as anyone.
“Just say no,” Reynolds repeated.
White was horrified as she said, “No.”
Harrison exchanged a glance with Williams, who shrugged. It was the oddest thing either had ever heard a solicitor say during an interview, but she was not about to end the interrogation for it. Besides, it only provided her more ammunition to use against the prisoner once this was over.
“Stenning,” Reynolds continued, “is what I’ve always termed a lowlife. I’m not saying it excuses someone trying to kill him, but when he attacked my client I can certainly understand how she sought to defend herself.”
“So your argument is still self-defence?” Harrison asked, wishing the solicitor would shut up so his client could do some of the talking herself.
“My argument is that if a suspected date rapist – suspected strongly enough by the police to sanction an undercover observation – attacks a woman, she has every right to defend herself against him. How would you react if some scroat cornered you, my beauteous dove grounded through lack of wings?”
“That’s getting a bit old. Try growing up a bit, yeah?”
“If the police watching Stenning weren’t so slow, my client would never have had the opportunity to almost kill him. Remember, Stenning drew a knife you didn’t even see because you were too busy clubbing. My client did not ask to be attacked. No woman does. I love redheads, but I honestly think you’d look a lot prettier if you wore your hair longer.”
Harrison glanced once more to Williams, but this time did not even comment. “Miss White,” she said, ignoring her solicitor entirely, “we can forensically link the knife to you and no one else. The traces of blood alone are enough to keep you here. So unless you ...”
“I leap and bound ...”
“... have a valid explanation for ...”
“... without a sound ...”
“... I’m going to have to ...”
“... and soon I found ...”
“... terminate this interview and ...”
“... the oddest sound ...”
“What
the hell are you doing!”
Harrison had never before lost her temper during an interview. Not once in all her years. But she was on her feet now, her fists slammed into the desk, her face burning fiercely. Reynolds was swaying in his chair, still humming the final few bars, and looked at her a little quizzically.
“This isn’t a singsong, is it?” he asked.
“It’s ...? This is an attempted murder we’re investigating here, and I’d appreciate it if you took things a little more seriously.”
Reynolds nodded to his client. “Say I am.”
“I am.”
Harrison scowled at her but continued to rant at her solicitor. “You’re singing while I’m asking questions.”
“Say I wasn’t singing,” Reynolds said. “And sound upset.”
White was almost in tears. “I wasn’t singing.”
“I ... You’re insane,” Harrison said, her fury exploding into confusion, into something which was a mixture of the two and threatened to send her mad.
Reynolds smiled. “Cry.”
The prisoner burst into tears.
“I ...” Harrison was almost lost for words, and perhaps it would have been better had she have been. “I don’t understand you. What do you really hope to gain from this display? I mean, come on, you’re just destroying your own case here. I can wipe the floor with you after this, you must see that.”
Reynolds narrowed his eyes, puckering his lips in thought. “Say ... something along the lines of ‘get off me’, but I’ll let you ad-lib this one.” Then his eyes widened and Harrison felt suddenly cold, as though the winter outside had just blasted through the walls.
The prisoner shrieked. Harrison felt hands upon her and could see Williams pulling her away. Harrison looked at her own hands, her fingers tense and shaking, clasped around the prisoner’s throat. Gasping, Harrison released her, falling back, her heart hammering inside her as she realised the enormity of what she had done. The prisoner was clutching her throat, choking, hacking, and it did not even look as though she was acting. Reynolds sat with a smug expression, arms folded.