And that single word hammered the nail in.
Jude’s knees nearly buckled. Because there was no pretending. Warren wasn’tWarren. He was Detective Sergeant Beckford. And Jude wasn’t just a man who’d woken in someone’s bed this morning. He was a witness. A victim. A liability. Standing dazed in the wreckage of a lie.
“Mr Ellison?” The woman approached with calm authority, hand extended. “Detective Inspector Patel. I’m overseeing the arrest.”
Jude inhaled sharply, dragging himself back into his body enough to clasp her hand. Slow. Timid. Unsure who was real anymore, and who wore yet another mask.
“I imagine you have a lot of questions,” Patel said. “For now, what’s important is you. You’ve just witnessed a serious incident, and you’ve been directly threatened by the suspect. We’ll need to take a formal statement from you at the station.” She glanced briefly towards Warren, then back to Jude. “We’ll arrange for you to be transported there, and you’ll be treated as a priority witness.”
The words filtered through fog, and Jude turned, eyes dragging to Warren.
Warren’s—Beckford’s—expression was tight, unreadable. “S’okay,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “We’re on your side.”
Jude tilted his head, confusion cutting through the numbness. “We?”
No answer. Warren looked away.
“DS Beckford,” Patel’s voice cut clean through the space. “You’re required at debrief immediately.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” The response was crisp, automatic.
Patel turned back to Jude, her voice gentling. “Mr Ellison, if you’ll come with me? You’ll be looked after at the station. We’ll explain everything once you’re settled, and an officer will take your statement. You’re not in any trouble. You’re a victim in this matter. You’ll also be offered a liaison officer for support. But first, we need to get you safe.” She gestured towards the waiting car.
Jude glanced one last time towards Warren, standing stiff in the road with his warrant card around his neck. The man Jude thought he knew was gone.
He’d never existed.
Too good to be true.
So Jude stepped forward, because what choice did he have?
“I need to call work…” He shook his head, reality crashing around him. “I need to get to school.”
“That’s been handled, Mr Ellison.” Patel gave his shoulder a light pat, steering him towards the waiting car. “This is DI Havers. He’ll take over from here.”
The officer at the door gave a short nod and Patel pulled the rear door open for Jude to slide inside. The seat was cold beneath him, the smell of vinyl and stale coffee pressing close. The door shut with a solid thud, sealing him in. And through the window, Warren stood rigid, arms folded, Patel in front of him, her face stern, words sharp enough to cut.
But Warren wasn’t looking at her.
He fixed his gaze on Jude. Locked and unwavering until the car pulled away. And Jude sat there, throat tight, staring back until the turn in the road swallowed Warren out of sight.
And out of his life.
* * * *
When Jude got to the station, it was a blur of activity.
He barely remembered walking through the automatic doors, only the sudden glare of strip lighting and the heavy security door clanging shut behind him. He wasprocessed. Not booked like a suspect, but still signed in, name logged, time stamped. A constable offered tea, coffee, water, his voice calm as if reading from a script designed to soothe.
A Victim Liaison Officer introduced herself to him. She took his details, explained what would happen: that he was a witness, that his safety was the priority, that support services could be arranged if needed. Jude’s ears buzzed. But he nodded, signed, scrawled where she pointed. Then before he could even blink, he was ushered into a square interview room where it was all blank walls, a table bolted to the floor and two chairs on one side, one on the other. A recording device sat at the centre, already primed, little red light glowing.
They were going to take his statement.
But no one had told him about Warren.
Not in the car. Not in the station. Not here.
And yet, despite everything—Callum’s knife at Warren’s throat, the arrest, the chaos—all he could think about was Warren. Who was he? Had every word been a lie? Even that morning in the shower? Had it been real, or another tactic in some undercover playbook? And why? Whyhim? Why had the police been watching him all along? What did that make Jude to Warren? Target? Asset?Mistake?
