“Just check my phone. You’ll see Sarah listed,” Matty said as the clock ticked over to midnight. “Ask Brandon!”
DS Saint sat back in his chair, glanced at his colleague, then back at Matty. “We did.”
“And there you go then.”
“He said he doesn’t know anyone called Sarah.”
Matty stared at him open-mouthed, trying to make the words make sense. “What? That’s not true.”
Saint’s mouth twisted and he shrugged. “He says she doesn’t exist, you say she does. Who should we believe? We’ve got an informant who saw a woman buying a large quantity of MDMA, pills, weed, speed, from Dean Fargo. Those drugs were brought back to your flat, and Brandon was seen selling them at various pubs.” He pushed a photo across the table, the glossy edge scraping against the laminate, of Brandon and his crew inside the pub, chatting to Gloria.
Matty swallowed when the next set of images were pushed in front of her. Sloan, then her own face, caught mid-step, mouth half open.
“That’s you, right?” he asked. “And that’s Sloan Slater…your girlfriend.”
She looked to her left at the duty solicitor now instructed to act on her behalf. He nodded.
“Yes, that’s me, and that’s Sloan, but we were only there to collect Gloria.” Panic rose hot in her chest. She couldn’t drag Sloan into this.
“Gloria?” the woman officer asked.
“Yes, Sloan’s mother.” She pointed at the picture and Gloria on the stool. “I work for her. I clean for her…make sure she has everything she needs.”
“Doesn’t look like she needs much help in these photos,” Saint said. Matty’s gaze moved to him.
“She escaped—I mean…” Matty swallowed. “Look, she got a new scooter, and she decided to take off and enjoy a pint at the pub. We tracked her down and went in to get her.”
“Do you sell drugs at Art, Matty?” the woman asked. “It’s busy these days.”
“It’s popular, yes,” Matty acknowledged.
“Lots of young people, all wanting to experiment,” the woman said. “Famous people hanging around.”
Matty stared at her. She couldn’t remember the woman’s name.
Saint added, “There’s a lot of scope to sell recreational drugs in a place like Art.”
“For the last time—” Matty’s voice cracked. “I’m not dealing. I’m not part of this.”
The solicitor leant forward. “Do you have any evidence that links my client to any of these claims?” He fingered the photos. “Other than photographs of Ms Bradford in a pub with…” He made a show of counting the other patrons. “Twenty other people, Detective?”
When Saint said nothing, the solicitor continued, “As I thought. So, until you do, I think my client will be best served by being released, don’t you?”
“Right now, what’s best for Matty is she starts talking about what she knows,” the woman said, jabbing a finger at Matty.
“Are we done here?” the solicitor said, not looking at her once. Saint nodded.
“What’s happening?” Matty’s voice came out thin.
The solicitor stood up. “Until you do have any actual evidence that my client is involved in anything more than living at the address you raided, we’ll be leaving.” He touched Matty’s shoulder. “Come along, Matty.”
She stood up, confused, looking from him to them and back again. “I can go home?”
“No,” Saint said. “You can’t go back there. It’s a crime scene until forensics sign it off, but yes, you can leave,” he added reluctantly.
Relief hit Matty so hard her knees threatened to buckle. She grabbed the edge of the table, just to stay upright.
“Really? That’s it?”
