A frown pulled at one side of Maggie’s face. “Well, I didn’t get that great a look at her really. She was walking past me.” The frown spread to the other side of her visage. “She had a scarf on her head and was wearing sunglasses.”
“Oh, bloody helpful, that,” Llewellyn grumbled under his breath without breaking stride.
Ignoring him, Maggie pressed on. “She was carrying a baby girl and walking away from where the baby carriage was.”
“Okay,” Kernough nodded as she pouted in contemplation. “What color was the scarf, if you remember?”
“Er…” Maggie replayed the vignette in her head. “Red, maybe? Or pink. I think.” Another frown. “I guess I’m not totally sure.”
Another “Hmmph” from across the interrogation room.
“All right.” Kernough gave another patient nod, her hair bouncing pleasantly. “Did you notice anything else about her appearance? Her clothing? Any marks on her face?”
Maggie concentrated for several seconds. It had happened so quickly. “No, not really. I wasn’t really paying that much attention. I mean, I didn’t realize I’d be here talking with you.”
“Of course, of course,” Kernough started with another reassuring, hair-bouncing nod. But Llewellyn interrupted.
“I’ve a question for you, lass,” he fairly shouted as he stepped back up to Maggie’s chair. “How’d you know the baby was a girl?”
Maggie blinked up at the imposing police man, her brown eyes wide behind her glasses. Wow, she thought. Now that is a good question.
And one that struck at the heart of her dilemma. Kernough was right: she did want to help. But the problem lay in the inescapable fact that if she told them the entire truth, they’d think she was an absolute loon. Not only would she run the risk, however small, of being locked up in a mental institution, but any truly helpful information she did have would likely be completely discounted as the ravings of a madwoman.
“Well, er…” she used to buy herself a moment.
On the other hand—the devil to the nut-house’s deep blue sea—if she strayed too far from the truth, she ran the risk of unintentionally misleading the investigation, sending the officers down a primrose path of unjustified and inaccurate deductions. A good example was now staring her right in the face—along with Llewellyn’s reddening expression and Kernough’s encouraging visage. All she had to do to confirm that the baby she’d seen was in fact a girl was to tell them that she heard the woman say, “Hush, baby girl.” But she would also simultaneously mislead—perhaps—the police into concluding that the kidnapper was speaking English, when in fact, not only might she not have been, but properly identifying which language the woman was speaking could prove crucial to the investigation. If it had been Welsh rather than English, then that fact alone would narrow the list of potential suspects from the approximately one billion English speakers worldwide to the somewhat smaller number of 500,000 Welsh speakers—only 250,000 of whom, Maggie supposed, were women.
So she could claim that the baby was dressed all in pink with a chiffon bow in her hair. But the truth was that she didn’t really recall what the child was wearing; and if she got it wrong—a distinct possibility given her lack of recollection on that particular point—the only thing she’d convince the officers of was that the child she’d seen was absolutely, positively not Holly Owen—when Maggie was absolutely, positively certain that it was.
So how could she both convince them that the child was a girl, and simultaneously avoid misleading them about what language the kidnapper had been speaking—all without signing her admission papers to the nearest sanitarium?
“I think it was something she said.” Maggie finally replied.
Well, it’s true, she supposed with an inward frown.
“Something,” Llewellyn repeated with unmistakable derision, “she said? Who? The baby? She’s only one year old!”
Maggie tried to keep a pleasant expression. At least she was getting a little extra time. “No, no. The woman.”
“And what did she say, Maggie?” Kernough stood up again and looked down at her encouragingly.
“I can’t recall exactly,” Maggie replied carefully. “It wasn’t really what she said. It was more the way she said it.”
“The way,” the same derisive tone from Llewellyn, “she said it?” His face was losing its redness, leaving behind purple blotches on his jowls and throat.
“Um, yeah.” Maggie shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “It was, you know, the way you’d talk to a girl?”
Llewellyn’s incredulous mouth somehow combined a pucker with a frown. He looked sidelong to Kernough who only shrugged in reply.
“Could you tell what language it was?” Kernough asked.
Maggie cocked her head innocently. “What language?”
“Was it English? Or Welsh? Could you tell?”
“Hmm,” Maggie nodded sincerely as she pondered the question. “You know, come to think of it, I guess I can’t really say what language she was speaking.” She grinned from Kernough to Llewellyn and back. “Sorry.”
Llewellyn’s expression didn’t budge, but Maggie could hear a tongue click behind it. “Anything else?” she asked eager to be on her way. She’d told them what she could. The rest would have to be up to them. “If not, I’ll just be goi—”
“No,” Kernough interrupted. “Sit down.” Then she crossed to the exit and cast a cold glance back to Llewellyn. “She’s all yours.”
The brief echo of the metal door closing behind the exiting Kernough left Maggie feeling quite puzzled—and more than a little vulnerable. She turned her gaze from the door to look up at Llewellyn, whose yellowed teeth were exposed in a cold grin.
“You’re a smart one, eh, lass?” he asked with a sneer.
Maggie was smart enough not to respond.
“Well, you’d better wise up!” Llewellyn shouted into her face. “You’re a bleeding suspect in a bleeding kidnapping! You’ve been evasive and deceitful in your answering of questions! And you’re damn well lucky I don’t arrest you here and now on the spot!”
Maggie’s eyes widened in horror. “Arrest me?”
“Yes, arrest you!” Llewellyn’s face had returned to its unpleasant crimson. “Good Lord, girl, for all we know you were about to deliver the ransom demand when Officer Bradley stopped you!”
“B—But…” This was unreal. Arrest me?
“You won’t even admit what language that woman you claim you saw was speaking!”
“I don’t know what language she was speaking!” Maggie yelled back, her voice bolstered by the truth of her statement. “Why would I even tell you about her if I was conspiring with her?”
“Maybe,” Llewellyn leaned in close to Maggie, his breath stinking of coffee and cigarettes, “because there was no woman with a baby.”
“No woman with—?” Maggie started, leaning away from the officer.
“No woman!” Llewellyn shouted over her. “No baby! No scarf! No sunglasses! Just you! And you made the whole story up just to throw us off the scent.”
“Made it all up?” she asked quietly, utterly flabbergasted by the accusation.
“Tell me, did you have it all made up in advance, just in case you got nabbed? Or did you just make it up on the spot when Bradley caught you?”
“Caught me doing what?” Maggie demanded, crossing her arms as her initial shock at the bevy of accusations began to give way to offended irritation.
“Delivering the ransom demand!” Llewellyn’s entire face was red now, even his ears. It made his hair seem even more unkempt.
“I wasn’t delivering any r—”
“No use, lass!” Llewellyn shot up and threw his arms wide. “Time to fess up!”
“Fess—?” Maggie shook her head in disbelief. “What are you talking about?”
The red-rimmed eyes flared. “I’m talking about you. I’m talking about kidnapping.” Then the eyes narrowed menacingly. “And I’m talking about prison.”
&n
bsp; “Prison?!” Maggie screeched, her own eyes flying wide behind their tortoiseshell rims. “What—?”
“Right. Prison.” Llewellyn took several steps away, then turned around slowly. “You’re looking at twelve years, you know.”
“Twelve years?” She hated that she was repeating back everything Llewellyn was saying, but she was having trouble believing how the conversation was careening out of control.
“Maybe ten with good time.” Llewellyn squeezed his fists tight. “Or—if you help us—maybe we can work something out with the prosecution.”
“Prosecu—” She stopped herself. She closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. “Okay, now wait.” She raised a tired palm and opened her eyes again. “Just wait. What are you saying?”
Llewellyn pushed his scarlet face into something a bit more humorless than a stone wall. “What I’m saying is that unless you start cooperating, you’re looking at twelve years in a British prison. And don’t think your American citizenship will help you any; we’ve plenty of Americans in our prisons. The United States government doesn’t go out of their way to help convicted felons. Particularly kidnappers. You just better hope that baby’s still alive. If she turns up dead, you’ll be arraigned tomorrow on murder, not just kidnapping.”
“Mur—” She couldn’t finish the word.
“But if you’re willing to help, well then maybe—no promises, mind you—but maybe—”
“Llewellyn!” Kernough was standing in the doorway.
Maggie hadn’t heard the door open over the din of surreality spewing out of Llewellyn’s mouth; but she was glad for it. “Inspector wants to see you.”
Llewellyn sighed audibly through stained teeth. “Now?” His eyes were wide and his face still crimson. “Can’t it wait?”
“Inspector says it’s about the Hughes case.” Kernough shrugged. “They found the murder weapon.”
Llewellyn exhaled loudly through his nose. He glanced over at Maggie, who lowered her eyes in response, then back to Kernough. “Damn it.” He pumped a fist in the air, then turned to point at Maggie. “I’m not through with you.”
Maggie mixed a grimace with a sneer and managed not to reply, ‘Delightful.’
The door clanked loudly behind Llewellyn, and Kernough stepped quietly over toward Maggie. Silently, she pulled the table back into position and Maggie was glad to have something to hide behind. Kernough fetched her own chair from across the room and sat down opposite Maggie.
Maggie didn’t say anything. Her head was still spinning. Murder?
“He’s right, you know,” Kernough said softly, a slight nod toward where Llewellyn had exited.
Maggie stared at Kernough blankly.
“The mirror,” Kernough explained with another nod of her head. “It’s two-way. There’s an observation room on the other side. We always have another officer observe.
Maggie nodded. It made sense. Another witness to the confession, she supposed.
“Llewellyn’s got quite a temper,” Kernough finished her explanation, “so we make sure he doesn’t go too far.”
“Oh.” Maggie preferred her own explanation to Kernough’s. She thought for a moment, then asked, almost conversationally, “So who’s watching now?”
Kernough glanced comfortably toward the mirror, a soft smile unfurling across her lips. “No one.”
Maggie nodded again. She looked down at the table top, unsure what was coming next.
“But he is right, you know,” Kernough repeated.
Maggie looked up at the officer, her brow creased in confusion and amazement. “About what?”
“You’re looking at a lot of time. Probably ten years.”
“But—”
“I know.” Kernough raised a hand. “But you have to know it sounds incredible. Unbelievable really. You saw a woman you can’t describe, speaking a language you can’t identify, and carrying a baby who just seemed like a girl.” She shook her head. “I don’t think a jury will believe it.”
Maggie let out a short burst of nervous laughter. “A jury?” This was getting crazy.
“Well, of course you’ll get a jury. It’s a felony.” She bit her lip and nodded thoughtfully. “But you never know, they might buy it. Hard to say. But the judge sure won’t. And he’s the one who’ll set your bail.”
Apparently it was repeat day. She stopped fighting it: “Bail?”
“Yes. At the arraignment. Even without any criminal history, you’re probably looking at 500,000 pounds on a kidnapping charge. The judge’ll be worried you might flee back to the States.” Kernough shook her head slowly. “And if it’s murder, well then it’s no bail of course. You’ll be held in custody until the trial.”
“Well, of course,” Maggie quipped humorlessly. How is this happening?
Kernough nodded again, her soft green eyes fixed on the floor. “But if you helped us. Especially right now—when we might still be able to save the girl—well then, the prosecution would be very grateful.”
Maggie just stared at Kernough, entirely dumbfounded.
“Truth is, Maggie,” Kernough reached out and touched Maggie’s forearm, “no one’s going to believe your story. Even if it’s true. And I know you were holding back on us there, Maggie. You weren’t telling us everything.” Maggie looked away. “The jury will know it too,” Kernough pressed on, “and you’ll spend twelve years in prison. Whether you did it or not.”
Maggie didn’t look up.
“On the other hand,” Kernough retracted her arm and sat up a bit. “If you tell you were involved—even minimally—and you made up the story about the scarved woman because you got scared, well, people will understand that. People will believe that.”
Maggie looked up but didn’t get a chance to say anything before Kernough went on.
“Tell us you were approached by some woman, someone you didn’t know but can actually describe. Maybe she offered to pay you something if you delivered the ransom demand. Maybe a small percentage. Tell us you needed the money for school. People will believe that. And maybe you’ll get lucky and we’ll find the person who’s really responsible. And then you’d get the credit.”
“You want me to lie?” Maggie was incredulous.
“I want you to do what’s best for you,” Kernough sighed, that same beautiful smile hanging onto her lips. “If you cop a plea to a simple count of rendering criminal assistance you’d get off with just a year of probation.”
Maggie blinked. “But I didn’t do anything.”
“It doesn’t matter, Maggie,” Kernough tilted her head in sympathy. “No one’s going to believe you. And you’ll go to prison.”
Maggie ran her hands through her thick auburn hair and let out a long, low sigh. She pulled off her glasses and rubbed the red marks on the bridge of her nose. “Okay. You want me to say what, then?”
Kernough smiled. “Say you were just walking along when some woman approached you and asked you to deliver a ransom demand to the Owen woman. She offered you a hundred quid. You thought it was just some sort of joke. And you needed the money.”
Maggie looked across the table to the police officer, her caramel eyes wide.
“I will personally see to it,” Kernough assured, “that you get off with just probation.”
Maggie rubbed her eyes again, then replaced her glasses. She ran both hands through her hair again and tucked the thick locks behind her ears. She took a very deep breath. She exhaled it very slowly. She looked down at the table. Then she opened her mouth and spoke, very quietly.
“I saw a woman,” she began, “at the market. She was walking toward me.” Maggie looked up and met the police officer’s gaze. “She was wearing a scarf on her head and sunglasses covering her eyes. She was carrying a baby. As she walked past me, I heard her say something to the baby. I don’t know what she said. I can’t even tell you what language it was. But something she said made me think the baby was a girl. I kept walking and saw a crowd around a young woman who was sitting next to a baby carria
ge and crying. For a reason I can’t explain I thought the baby I’d seen was hers. So I went to tell her what I’d seen and that’s when the policeman stopped me.”
Kernough held Maggie’s gaze throughout the recitation. The smile was gone. She started another slow nod, and Maggie looked away, having nothing more to say.
The metal door clanked open again. Kernough didn’t wait to be addressed before standing up and pushing past Llewellyn on her way out.
“All right, lass,” Llewellyn hissed as the door thunked close behind him. “One more thing. Then,” he practically choked on the words, “you’re free to go.”
Thank freaking God, Maggie thought, and her exaggerated sigh of relief shed the tension from her neck and shoulders.
“You can leave,” Llewellyn explained, “after we take your prints.”
Maggie looked up sharply. The tension was back—and then some. “My prints?” She was doing it again. “My fingerprints?”
“No, your bleeding pressed flower prints,” Llewellyn spat. “Yes, your fingerprints.”
He placed a single sheet of heavy duty paper and a small inkpad on the table in front of her. “Your left hand first,” he instructed.
“No!” Maggie heard herself shout. “You’re not taking my fingerprints. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Llewellyn glowered at her. “That’s as may be. But we still need your prints. And you’re not leaving until we get them.”
Maggie cast her gaze about the room helplessly. Finally she crossed her arms with authority. “No,” she decreed. “You can’t take my fingerprints.”
Llewellyn frowned at her in puzzlement. Then he shrugged, stepped over to the mirror and tapped on it. “It’s not a request,” he explained.
The door flew open and in stormed Kernough and two very young, very large, very strong-looking patrol officers. Kernough’s soft smile was nowhere to be seen. “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.” It was a warning, her voice like ice. “It will be much easier if you cooperate.”
“But—But I have rights,” Maggie insisted. “You can’t just take my fingerprints when I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s— It’s— It’s un-American.”
Blood Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 2) Page 19