by Mark Ayre
"Well then," said Ana, “let me be the Holmes to your Watson."
It clicked. Ana had meant Holmes, as in Sherlock, rather than homes, as in a collection of houses. As Abbie was marvelling at the mistake, the station's front doors opened, and Christine Lakes appeared.
"Firstly," said Abbie to Ana, "it's the other way around. You'd be the Watson to my Holmes. Secondly, it's not about your suitability. I don't want you around. I don't care if I could use you. It isn't going to happen because after what you did, I can barely stand to look at you. So go home. I have a child to locate.”
Turning away from her impromptu lawyer, Abbie tracked Christine’s progress down the station’s stone steps.
“And I think I know exactly where to start my search.”
Twelve
Abbie tracked Christine’s progress to the bottom of the stone steps. On the path, the young detective made a show of retrieving her phone and checking the screen. It was more than possible she had received a message while inside, but Abbie thought this was something else. The detective was performing.
Phone still in hand, Christine glanced up and to her right. She caught Abbie's eye. Just for a moment. Long enough to ensure Abbie was watching.
Christine tilted her head infinitesimally to her left. Then looked back at her phone, locked the screen, and slid the handset into her pocket.
A moment later, she set off down the road, away from Abbie, following the direction signalled by her nod.
Leaving Ariana alone outside the station, Abbie set off after the detective, keeping at a discreet distance. To Christine's credit, she never looked back to check if Abbie was doing as requested. As though she would take Abbie's company if it was offered. Forget it otherwise.
This wasn't about company, though. Christine didn't need a new drinking companion; she wanted to ask Abbie questions she had been unable to raise at the station. Which was fine. After all, Abbie had questions for Christine she was happy to ask away from prying eyes and twitching ears.
They walked for eight minutes before Christine stopped outside a small, dingy pub at the corner of two bland and featureless streets. Now the young detective did stop, did glance back. Again she met Abbie's eye but this time without a signal. Placing her hand on the pub door, she stepped inside.
Fifteen seconds later, Abbie arrived at the same door and entered. It was a bright day but the pub's windows, though they looked clean, seemed to filter the light, letting only a trickle into the small, open interior. Three tables occupied the central space—two twos and a four—one occupied by a man and a paper. There was a booth in two corners of the room, a door to the toilets in a third.
Abbie approached the fourth corner where was situated a small bar, three stools pressed against it. One of these was occupied by a man who drank a pint and stared at the spirit bottles on the wall as though they were an engrossing movie. Both male patrons were well past retirement age.
Behind the bar, a large woman was serving a pint of bitter into an almost clean glass. Wallet out, Christine was withdrawing her bank card to pay, but paused as Abbie arrived.
"Drink?"
"Lemonade, please.”
At this, the landlady wrinkled her nose as though Abbie had asked for rat stew. She placed Christine's pint in front of the detective, and Christine nodded thanks.
"I'll get the lemonade too, thank you.”
Without a word, the landlady took another glass. This one sparkled. It was a soft drink glass and appeared never to have been used. In a place like this, Abbie wasn't surprised.
The landlady took a bottle, poured the lemonade, slid it to Abbie. Christine paid and gestured to one of the booths. The one in the furthest corner from the front door.
"Shall we?"
They sat. From their position, a turn of the head gave Abbie a clear view of the front door, the toilets, and the bar. Good. She didn't expect an ambush, but it was nice to know she'd immediately spot the arrival of any unfriendlies. Perhaps Ndidi or Smoker from last night.
Watching Abbie’s eyes trace the room, Christine said, “Don’t worry, my colleagues don’t frequent this place. Think I’m the only regular born after 1950.”
That was curious, but Abbie didn’t comment. She nodded as Christine took a coaster for her pint, while taking a long draw from her glass. Replacing the beverage, Christine stared at Abbie.
"I know it's a bit early."
Abbie didn't say anything. She hadn't paid much attention to Christine drinking and certainly wasn't judging. Christine could get plastered for all Abbie cared. It might turn out to be useful.
"I'm on duty," Christine said, looking a little guilty.
"Your secret's safe with me."
Christine watched Abbie intently for a few moments. Then, as though to show she believed the other woman, she collected her pint and took another draw. It looked as though almost a quarter was already gone.
Replacing the glass on the coaster, Christine said, "We need to talk about last night."
"We do," confirmed Abbie. “I’ve plenty of questions."
Christine shook her head. "Don't think so. I'm asking the questions, not the other way around."
Abbie tried not to smirk. Failed.
"What?"
"You had your chance to question me back at the station," said Abbie. "As I remember, you were particularly quiet. Let Kilman do the heavy lifting."
Christine flushed. Took another draw from her pint. She was gathering her thoughts and her strength before responding.
"I wanted to give you a chance," said Christine. "Last night... I'm not so proud I can't confess you helped me get out alive. I don't forget a thing like that, but neither can I trust you. You've earned the right to explain yourself to me, in private, before we take this back to... what are you doing?"
Abbie stopped her mime. She had been pretending to remove something from her face.
"Sorry," she said. "You were pulling the wool over my eyes. I was merely restoring my sight."
"What a funny joke," said Christine, her expression deadpan. "Maybe you don't understand how much trouble you're in. You think your clever lawyer vanquished the wolves? She didn't. She's kept them at bay for the time being, but Kilman won't quit. And if he knew what I knew—"
"Which he won't."
Christine took a calming breath and another drink. Half her pint was gone; Abbie hadn't started her lemonade.
"Excuse me?" said Christine.
"I hate it when people insult my intelligence," said Abbie. "Do I come across as stupid, as simple? Because I'm not."
"Never suggested you were."
"And yet you think these pitiful threats will have me spill my guts while you sit there all stoic, your secrets concealed. But I know you don't want anyone at the station to know where you were last night. If you'd been there on official police business, you'd have shown your badge when I came barging in. You certainly wouldn't have seemed so alarmed when I arrived. Even if you were undercover and trying to hide your true identity, which I know will be your next gambit, you would have confessed all to Kilman. That you didn’t tells me you don't want him to know and leaves two possibilities."
Christine drank some more booze, shook her head. Almost two-thirds gone.
"You're wrong," she said. "Kilman knew where I was. It was an authorised operation. When I briefed Kilman this morning, I told him about our meeting. He was intrigued, but I asked him, as a professional courtesy, to hold off questioning you."
"And he said yes?" asked Abbie. She couldn't keep the scepticism from her voice.
"Doesn't seem the sort, does he?" said Christine. "He outranks me and has been known to throw his weight around, but this was my operation, and for once, he agreed to play it my way. Still, if nothing else, you can rely on Kilman to change his mind." Christine pointed to the door. "I wouldn't be surprised to see him burst in any minute, cuffs in hand, ready to haul you back to the station for more questions. This time about Davesh and the dealership."
Abbie followed Christine's finger. Looked to the door. Somehow, she managed to keep the smile from her lips. Christine either really did believe Abbie was an idiot or was kidding herself. Abbie hoped it was the latter.
The plan formed fast enough. Rising, Abbie picked up her drink and drained half of it.
"What are you doing?" said Christine.
"I'm going. Thank you for the lemonade."
Abbie made to turn away, though she had no intention of leaving.
"Where are you going?"
Pausing, Abbie turned back to Christine. She was halfway out the booth.
"It's been a stressful day," said Abbie, "and I could do without the axe hovering over my neck. The anticipation will be too much; I'll be unable to focus knowing Kilman could appear at any moment, so I'm going to face the situation head-on. I'll call my lawyer and ask for a meeting with Kilman. Once the tape's rolling, I'll tell him everything about last night. Get it all in the open. I'll apologise for ruining your operation if that's what I did, but make it clear I had nothing to do with Davesh's murder. I might also declare I saved your life, which is true. You'll remember how you froze." Abbie paused, met Christine's eye. "Anyway."
Abbie turned. Heard Christine rise.
"Wait."
Abbie did but didn't turn back. The large landlady was looking Abbie's way, but Abbie ignored her. Kept her eyes on the door.
"You're trying to play me," said Christine.
"No," said Abbie, although she absolutely was. "I'm not."
"What happens if I call your bluff?"
Slowly turning on her heel, Abbie again met Christine's eye.
"What we're doing here is gambling," said Abbie, gesturing from herself to Christine and back.
“On what?"
"Outcomes," said Abbie. "I already told you why I'm in town. I suspected Isabella was in danger and was determined to save her. Her kidnap confirms my suspicions and bolsters my determination. But I can't do what needs to be done with the fear of arrest overhanging me. I'm betting my chances of saving Isabella improve if I'm honest with the police now, rather than waiting for them to apprehend me at a crucial moment. It's a big bet, with long odds, but it's one I have to take. Meanwhile, you're gambling on whether I'm bluffing, although, spoiler alert, I'm not."
Abbie was. She knew Christine hadn't told Kilman about the dealership. Neither he nor anyone who worked at that station knew what Christine had been up to last night. Abbie would have put money on it. With the suspicion and potential charges already hanging over Abbie, she had no desire to hand the cops any more ammo.
The question was, did Christine know this?
There was a long pause, the two woman looking at each other. Abbie raised her arms.
"Well, can I go?"
Christine wanted to say yes. Abbie could see she was sure Abbie was bluffing. She knew Abbie would never go to the police.
She knew, but still could not take the risk. Abbie saw that in the younger woman's eyes as well.
Stalling, the detective said, "You said once you ruled out an operation authorised by my station, there were only two options that explain why I was at the dealership last night. What were they?"
Pausing, not reclaiming her seat, Abbie made it look like she was considering whether to answer. She glanced back at the door, then to the landlady, who kept looking to her. Probably because Abbie was still standing. Neither of the older gentlemen seemed to have noticed. Weren't old men in pub's supposed to be lecherous perverts? Abbie wondered if she should be offended they weren’t checking her out. More likely, her sloppy stereotyping should offend them.
"Well?" Christine pressed, trying not to sound too desperate.
"Okay," said Abbie, as though, at that moment, she had resolved to answer the question. “Actually, it's three options if you include both.”
"Right," said Christine. She was drinking again; her first pint was almost gone. Abbie had some more lemonade.
"Option one," said Abbie and paused for effect. "Personal vendetta."
Christine nodded but didn't speak. She tried to keep her face expressionless; it was clear she didn't want to give anything away.
"As in," said Abbie, "Davesh is viewed as a kind, innocent car salesman by most, as though such a thing exists. But maybe he sold a dodgy car to someone you love, and that someone died. That would no doubt motivate you to unlawfully pursue Davesh behind your colleagues' backs."
Christine was still trying not to show any emotion. Abbie did her best to read the detective but knew such attempts were never flawless. Christine had seemed to be an emotional open book in the early hours of that morning, but who knew?
"Option two," Abbie continued. "You are undercover, but no one in the local station knows. This would indicate you were sent by another department to this station under false pretences. In such a scenario, your aim would not primarily be to investigate Davesh, but one or more of your new fellow officers. You said last night Davesh was a crook, but no one except you viewed him as such. He was involved in charities, but might he also be partial to a bit of police bribery? That would certainly ensure his European imports didn't fall under too much scrutiny."
Christine nodded slowly, fighting with the desperation of a cat against a bear to avoid showing any emotion. Taking her drink, she finished the pint. It was a decent distraction, but it revealed her trembling hands. Her speed drinking told Abbie plenty as well.
"Who are you?" Christine asked when she'd lowered her drink.
"You're really getting a lot of mileage out of that question, aren't you?" said Abbie.
Christine flushed from embarrassment, then anger.
"You've not given me a satisfactory answer. You said you're Miss Nobody, but that doesn't fly. You told us at the station you're a contractor who likes to go for late-night drives and walks in unfamiliar towns when you can't sleep, but that isn't true. You've already told me you came here because you knew Isabella was in danger. How does a contractor learn a child she's never met is about to be kidnapped if she's not involved? And what kind of contractor reacts to the arrival of a team of armed criminals with the kind of cool confidence that tends only to come from experience?"
Abbie resisted another smile, hiding any glimpse of it by taking her glass and downing the rest of her lemonade. Christine's questions were pertinent. Abbie had sat in plenty of police stations and, though she was rarely arrested, had been interviewed tens of times. The questions tended to run along the same lines. The most obvious and understandable batch revolving around why Abbie had arrived in a town she'd never previously visited and how had she immediately become entangled with one drama or another.
Ben and his team had created Abbie's contractor persona, which explained why she wasn't tied down by office hours. She liked to explain why she arrived in new towns late at night by saying she went for long drives when, tormented by insomnia, she found herself restless and feared she might go mad if she stayed within the confines of her home.
The police often struggled to swallow these excuses. But they were plausible enough and hard to disprove, which worked in Abbie's favour.
This time had been different. Kilman asked the questions, but Christine sat by his side. Abbie remembered well enough already mentioning Isabella to Detective Lakes and wondered if she was better off using an alternative excuse.
But it was apparent right away Christine hadn't told Kilman about her meeting with Abbie, and she had kept quiet while the interview got going. Wondering about this but not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, Abbie had rolled out the usual excuse. When Christine didn't pipe up with opposing facts, Abbie had been relieved.
Now Abbie saw Christine was no fool. She had kept quiet out of a sense of self-preservation but had been analysing and unpicking everything Abbie said. Abbie needed a little time to think about that. It changed the dynamic.
"It isn't 'Miss Nobody'," she said in the interim, "it's Miss No One."
"What's the difference?"
"There is no
difference," said Abbie. "But it's my moniker, and I prefer Miss No One. So there."
Christine rolled her eyes. "You're being evasive."
"Don't worry, it's temporary.” Abbie collected her glass, nodded at Christine's. "Another?"
Christine looked at her glass and appeared a little surprised it was empty. Abbie had seen that before. Touching the glass's base, Christine began to twist it on the table, scratching a sound from the wood.
"You won't avoid my questions," she said.
"Nor you mine," said Abbie. "This is an interlude, not an escape. I want another drink. Do you?"
Abbie watched Christine's thought process play out on her face. The detective was on duty. One drink had been too many, hadn't it? But she was in a pub, and this was a witness interview, even if an informal, off the books one. The key to interviews was making the witness feel comfortable. One way of achieving that was not making them drink alone.
Abbie was ordering soft drinks, so Christine could do that. But what about the landlady? There was no money in soft drinks. They were in a pub, taking up space, so wasn't it only fair Christine had a proper drink to pay her way? You wouldn't go into a restaurant and only have a stick of celery. Besides, two drinks wasn't really worse than one, was it? It was okay to have just one more.
"Please," said Christine, pushing the empty towards Abbie.
Smiling without comment, Abbie took the empty glasses to the bar and ordered two of the same from the nosy landlady. She wondered briefly how many lunches per week Christine persuaded herself it was okay to have a pint via one excuse or another. Just the one, because one pint was always okay. Then maybe just one more because two was hardly worse than one, even though it doubled the intake. Sometimes, Christine could probably even stretch that logic to three. And the best thing about "just one more" was it reset at dinner when the whole internal dance began again.
The landlady returned with the drinks, and Abbie paid. Turning, she saw Christine playing with her hands, biting her lip. Nervous. Which wasn't surprising. Lying to her colleagues, living under the shadow of a dead body she couldn’t explain, carrying out unauthorised witness interviews and break-ins. That was a lot of pressure, and Abbie pitied the young detective. She wouldn't say anything because this wasn't about Christine, but she felt more empathy for the younger woman than she might have liked.