The Stranger by Mark Ayre (books you need to read TXT) 📗

to murder. If she was guilty. And they hoped she was. Because she was already in their custody, and didn't that make their job all the easier?

Unfortunately for the cops, Abbie'd had numerous run-ins with the police. Had been grilled about multiple killings on multiple occasions. She had never been arrested, which was ideal because she had committed none of the murders about which she had been questioned.

This prior experience meant Abbie used her time alone to consider what might have happened to Danny rather than fret about what Eddie might be saying or what the police might be thinking. She wasn't worried about whether they might arrest her. She thought only of her hotel room and of the dead body. Of what might have happened. She had her ideas, and she analysed them in the silence of the interview room.

The only other issue that concerned her was the clock. There wasn't one in here, but she could none the less hear the ticking.

It was 10.14. Almost a quarter of Abbie's time had passed.

When the police finally let her go, how long would remain before Eddie ended up like his brother?

10.36.

That was when the door opened and a tall man in a pressed suit entered. With him, he carried a closed file and a tiny silver recorder. Both he placed on the table before sitting opposite Abbie. After clearing his throat and somehow failing to offer Abbie a drink, he started the tape and went through the preliminaries. Time, date, etc. He said his name (DI Sanderson) and asked Abbie to identify herself.

"Abagail King."

"Thank you." He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. We've been speaking with Mr Edward Dean, who I believe you know."

And here was the pause. Sanderson adjusted the file on the table and cleared his throat again. He leaned back and loosened his tie, just a touch. It would have offered no added comfort. It was all for show.

Abbie allowed the charade and silence to drag a little while. Waited until she was sure he was only a couple of seconds from resuming the conversation. Then leaned forward.

"I'm sorry."

Sanderson was in his fifties with greying hair and the kind of lines that came not only from age but from working too hard for too long. Abbie was sure he was a professional. Regardless, police work was taxing and too often thankless. At her apology, Sanderson sensed a quick win and, though his mouth remained a straight line, he could not keep the excited glimmer from his eyes.

"What would you have to be sorry for?"

"The underfunding of the police force," Abbie said. Her frown suggesting she was surprised he had to ask. Wasn't this obvious? "It's a crime—no pun intended—how successive governments have strangled the money you have available to do your jobs. I mean, the fact you don't have the budget to hire another detective, to enable you to interview both Eddie and myself at the same time. Tragic. Something must be done."

Sanderson's mouth remained a straight line. If he had similar control over the rest of his face, he might have kept the streak of anger from his eyes and brow.

"Are you going to make this difficult?" he asked, with some restraint.

"No."

She meant this. Despite the hours she had spent in crummy cookie-cutter interview rooms over the last few years, Abbie had great respect for the police and the tough job they did. Making fun of Sanderson was a calculated move designed not to piss off or humiliate him but to make evident that his usual tricks would not work on her. In the past, she had found this led to a more straightforward, open conversation.

That was assuming Sanderson was reasonable. Professional. If he wasn't, he might frame or even attack her. Those were concerns to be handled as and when they presented themselves.

"You told my colleague you didn't want a lawyer?" asked Sanderson.

"Not under arrest, am I?"

"No."

"Well, then. I'm going to tell you what I know. I see no reason to deviate from the line of events, so I can't imagine what use legal counsel would be."

Sanderson nodded but smartly offered no comment on what he thought of this idea. Even a couple of words might have suggested whether or not he believed Abbie guilty.

After another short pause, he asked, "Do you know what Eddie has told me?"

"I can guess."

"Care to?"

"Okay. Most of the facts Eddie gave you would be true. He would have told you I appeared while he was having a fight with his brother and intervened. That I deduced his brother was in some danger after overhearing Eddie beg him to leave town. I offered my hotel room to Danny after Eddie decided it was too dangerous for Danny to go to his own home, and I suggested it was not wise for Danny to stay with Eddie and his pregnant wife. All right so far?"

Abbie didn't expect Sanderson to answer. She wasn't disappointed.

"Carry on."

So she did.

"He'll tell you he was suspicious of my motives. I offered to sleep in my car while Danny slept in my hotel room, but Eddie feared I worked for the people with whom Danny was in trouble. He was afraid I would sneak into the hotel late at night and murder his brother. So, we decided I would stay in Eddie's spare room. He said he would hear me if I tried to leave. Given the proximity of his room and the spare, and the creakiness of the sofa bed on which I slept, I would have to agree with that hypothesis. That decided, we took Danny to the hotel and Eddie and I returned to his home. I had a short conversation with Jess, Eddie's wife, then went to sleep. In the morning, Eddie drove me back to the hotel, where we found Danny in a far deader state than he had been left by his brother the previous night. I called the police, Eddie accused me of murder, and that