“You don’t have to give me one if it makes you so uncomfortable.”
“It doesn’t—”
“Your face says it does. Either that or you’re thinking again.” She pokes me in the side. “Triple points for glowering.”
I laugh, lifting her under the arms and spinning her in a circle. A few fellow pedestrians have to shift out of the way, and I nod my apologies. Two women smile back at me, and a man glares. “Sorry,” I tell him with an insincere grin, smiling wider as his discontent grows.
“Please stop trying to throw me at people,” Crimson mutters, her cheeks glowing. She looks so much prettier with the deep flush of colour that it’s hard to feel sorry for making it appear there.
“Mr Webb,” a voice calls out as we pass a bench with a solitary occupant. “Fancy seeing you here.”
I stop at the authoritative tone, the skin on my back crawling as I recognise the man grinning up at me. “Detective Seward.” I glance over my shoulder, jerking my chin to tell Warren to stay back. “What a lovely day to fit people up for things they didn’t do.”
The officer’s smirk doesn’t shift in the slightest as he stands and moves to block our path. Although he’s a good few inches shorter, his bearing makes him appear at least my height. The shirt, tie, and trouser combo look like something he picked up from an op-shop and never got around to ironing.
His eyes scan over me like a terminator comparing me to his internal reference. Once finished, they move to Crimson, scrutinising her with the same attention until my temper flares.
“D’you mind?” I huff.
“Not at all.” The detective shifts slightly, moving even farther in front of us. “Quite lucky to run into you. Just have a few questions that never got cleared up.”
“And what?” My voice cracks as I try to restrain my anger. Crimson sends me a curious glance that soon alters to concern. “You can’t get clearance to interview me at the station, so you accost me in the street? Is that what’s happening now?”
“Nice to meet you,” the detective says, ignoring my outburst to offer his hand to Crimson. I push her behind me, out of reach, growling low in my throat.
Seward’s grin changes to a smirk at my reaction. “Bit young for you, isn’t she? You know there’s an age-limit of eighteen to become a sex-worker, right?”
My fingers curl and I close my eyes, forcing them to relax. He wants me to lose my temper, get sloppy. If I lose my rag and spill forth a slew of words, I might inadvertently say something that gives him another avenue to pursue me.
Why can’t he do the decent thing and let himself be bought?
“I am eighteen,” Crimson says, taking a step sideways to get a clear view at the detective. “But I’m sure your bosses would love to know you’re approaching young women on the streets, hounding them to find out if they’re employed in the sex industry. What’s your name again?”
“Careful, love. You step forward to protect murderers and someone might get the wrong idea about the type of company you keep.”
“Right. Because I couldn’t possibly take offense at your insinuations for any other reason, Detective. I hope you package that logic more sweetly for your superiors because I find it difficult to swallow.”
Her eyes have turned from sparkling blue to flat grey. The nostril pinch she couldn’t recreate earlier is in full swing, and her arms are folded, chin jutting forward in a dare.
“Get back to the apartment,” I tell her, twisting her body and giving her a pat on the rear to send her on her way.
On another occasion I’d welcome her staunch defence, but let things progress a minute longer, and she’ll dare this detective into digging further. He’s already like a dog with a bone, no need to tempt him with any extra treats.
Blotches of bright red stain her chest and throat as she turns to look at me over her shoulder, retracing our steps. We hadn’t even got two blocks. My rage flares. What’s the use of being free if I can’t leave my apartment without being stopped?
“Do you have any actual questions for me, or did you just want to insult my companion?”
“She seems a lovelygirl,”he says, placing far too much emphasis on the last word.
I don’t take the bait, staring at him with my face as blank as the fury inside me allows.
“Patricia Manliffe was in the station this morning, asking for a progress report on her husband’s case.”
I nod but don’t engage. There’s no way that Patty shuffled her arse anywhere within shouting distance of a detective off her own bat. If he’s speaking any truth and she was in the station, it’s because these incompetents dragged her there.
“Have you seen the pictures of her kids, lately? The younger one got stopped for shoplifting last week. He’s going off the rails but having a dead dad will do that to you.”
“Missing.”
