‘Like my colleague said, she’s being looked after.’
‘But you need to put special protections in place, she’s not safe, her father is—’
Holt cuts me off with a raised hand.
‘We’ll get to all that in a few minutes, Ellen.’
Gilbourne says, ‘You really don’t need to worry about the baby anymore, Ellen. The relevant social services teams are doing all they can to get her back to her family, and we certainly all appreciate you bringing her back to us.’
‘I was just trying to do the right thing.’
‘Of course,’ he says, but there’s something strange in his tone, something almost apologetic. To his partner, he adds: ‘Let’s get started, shall we, Nathan?’
Holt busies himself with a boxy black device attached to the table that I assume is some kind of audio recorder. He presses a button, checks the display and then his watch before reciting the time, date and location of the interview.
‘Present are DS Nathan Holt and DI Stuart Gilbourne,’ he says, ‘with Ellen Devlin and duty solicitor Chris Betteridge. First of all, Ellen, can I just check you’ve received medical attention for your injuries, and you’ve had something to eat and drink in the last hour, and that you’re not in need of any specific medication at this time?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m OK.’
‘Not in too much pain from your foot, are you?’ His face is blank, devoid of emotion. ‘Heard you had some nasty cuts.’
‘They’re all cleaned up and I’ve had paracetamol from the paramedic, it’s fine.’
‘Good,’ he says, opening the folder on the table in front of him. ‘Ellen Devlin, I’m arresting you on suspicion of kidnapping and false imprisonment and possession of a firearm. You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’
I swallow and nod, my throat suddenly dry.They’re arresting me.Betteridge had told me they would but it’s still unsettling to hear the words.
‘Can you speak up, please?’ DS Holt says, gesturing towards the black box. ‘For the benefit of the recording?’
‘I understand.’
‘Right. So how about you tell us, in your own words, what happened?’
15
Dominic
Dominic turned his head towards the weak light over the mirror. He needed to be able to see what he was doing. It wasn’t much of a wound, but he needed to close it up to stop infection getting in. He couldn’t afford to get sick. And more importantly, he had to blend in better on the street. He still had a lot of work to do and he needed to be able to move around without attracting undue attention. He’d already cleaned and disinfected the area with vodka – the sting enough to make him grip the edge of the sink with white knuckled hands – and now it was time to stitch.
The needle was sterilising in a glass half-filled with more vodka. He fished it out and pushed surgical thread through it. He’d done this before, years ago, but never on himself.Pain is the price of failure. There’s much more pain waiting if you fail again.The wound was about two inches long; the pistol butt had torn the skin in a straight line, leaving it surrounded by livid purple bruising that was darkening by the hour. With his left hand, he pinched the wound, squeezing the separated skin together over his cheekbone. He gripped the needle in his right hand and pushed the point through unyielding skin, his teeth gritted against a fierce flare of pain.
The B & B was a shithole – cracked plaster hanging from the ceiling, mildew in the corners and a wet dog smell in the corridors – but they let him pay cash which suited him fine, and they didn’t ask questions when he walked in, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled low to disguise the blood on his face. He couldn’t go back to the studio. Not now. And he certainly couldn’t go to a hospital, either. Not where there might be police snooping around, checking treatment records and looking for someone fitting his description.Fucking police.He went cold with fury at the thought of them.
Each puncture of the needle brought a new grunt of pain, a low growl at the back of his throat. He stopped to take another hit of vodka straight from the bottle, relishing the rasp as it burned its way down his throat. He stared at his busted-up face in the mirror. He had showered, but he could still smell the smoke in his hair, the stink of petrol splashed onto his jacket and jeans seeming to fill the small room.
He wasn’t a violent man. Not normally. His size, his build was normally enough to get him what he wanted, to convince people that confrontation was not a good idea. But sometimes people didn’t behave the way you expected them to.
Like the stranger. Ellen Devlin.
Dominic took another slug of vodka and put the bottle back down by the sink.
He pulled a fifth stitch through, cinched it tighter. Unlooped the thread from the needle and tied it off close to the skin. It was an ugly job, the stitches messy and uneven, but it was better than leaving it open. There would be a scar, but he didn’t care about that. He had plenty of them already, some of them visible, some not. He found a wide plaster in his first-aid kit and stuck it over the top to cover the stitches.
The pain was a savage throb across the right side of his face, but he deserved it. All of it. Because he had been close.Soclose. And he’d let her get away. He put the vodka bottle to his lips and took another drink, the pain blurring a fraction more as the alcohol hit his empty stomach.
He left the small bathroom and sat down on the single bed with its creaking springs and grey sheets. He picked up his phone and selected the number again. Listened to it ring and go to voicemail. Hung up without leaving a message. Again.
Shit.
