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

This was true. Abbie decided not to say anything further. Not until Sanderson spoke again. She leaned back. Tried to relax.

“Eddie said he got up several times during the night and peeked into your room."

This was frustrating. It meant Sanderson had known from the beginning Abbie couldn’t have killed Danny. Her vanity had encouraged her to spill a lot of information she could have kept close to the chest.

Holding her emotions, she said, “How creepy."

"Creepy," Sanderson agreed, "but fortuitous. Eddie is confident there was no window of opportunity long enough for you to get to the hotel and back without him having known. You're right. That theory was quickly discarded, though he did want it on the record."

"In case I teleported?"

"Or had some other method of super-fast transportation. You must remember the grief-stricken often do not think clearly."

Abbie’s mind was dragged back to dark days. To the smooth skin of her still sister. To a blazing row between Abbie and her mother, ending only when the older woman, mad with grief and fury, took up her sharpest kitchen knife and came at her remaining daughter…

"No," she agreed. "They don't."

“But you could have text someone an address without him knowing. Easy."

“Easy,” she agreed again. “Didn't happen, though."

Sanderson drummed his fingers on the table. Considered.

"You allowed my colleague to see your phone."

"Yep. Unlocked it and everything."

"But you wouldn't let her see inside your bag."

"Is that a question?"

"No, but this is: if you have nothing to hide, why would you refuse to let my colleague take a look at the contents of your bag?"

Abbie smiled. "Who said I have nothing to hide?"

Sanderson raised his eyebrows. The glimmer was back.

"Don't get excited," Abbie said. "I've nothing to hide within the confines of this case. But my bag is private. Not only private but, once you accept I cannot have committed the murder, irrelevant."

"Not necessarily. You might have a second phone."

"I might," she said. "But I don't."

"I can't know that without taking a look."

“And you'll never know without obtaining a warrant."

Sanderson smiled, paused. Abbie tried her hardest not to reach down and touch the bag, which sat at her ankle. If they acquired a warrant, they would find no weapon nor evidence of wrongdoing with regards to the Danny case in her bag. It was unlikely they would link her to any criminal case, hot or cold, with the contents. Still, Abbie hoped Sanderson would not obtain the warrant. For one thing, her battered copy of The Stand would, ironically, likely not stand up to the rough, uncaring hands of one or more police officers. If the cover fell off or any of the pages fell out, Abbie would be devastated. And someone would have to pay.

Best not to go down that road.

Having allowed the pause to drag on to his desired length, Sanderson said, "Let's talk a little more about you."

"Must we?"

"No, but indulge me."

"Go on then."

"Your phone had only one call in its log, outgoing or incoming. That was to the hotel where you booked your room in the early hours of the morning. Is that correct?"

"Yes. It's a new phone."

"You don't have any contacts, either."

"I don't have any friends," said Abbie. "And I've never needed a plumber."

"But you have a permanent address?"

"Yes. As well as my phone, I showed your colleague my driving licence."

"You did."

Another pause. Pointless. Abbie knew what he was going to ask. This was such a waste of time. She could walk out; had considered it numerous times over the last hour and change. She wasn't under arrest. Departure was her right.

But curious police officers were annoying police officers. Best to try and ride this out.

"Your home address is a three-hour drive from here," said Sanderson. "What time did you arrive in our humble town?"

Such facts could be checked. Abbie said, "Just after two in the morning."

"So you must have left home around eleven?"

Abbie hadn't come from home but a hotel. Seeing no reason to mention this, she shrugged. "Something like that."

"So the obvious question is: why?"

This was always the problem with police interviews. In the same way that she could never explain satisfactorily to Eddie why she had intervened in the fight between him and his brother, she had no rational explanation for the police officer as to why she had turned up in town at a bizarre time. She wasn't going to mention prophetic dreams. She wasn't stupid. So she had to find another way to get around the highly suspicious circumstances of her turning up in the early hours and almost immediately entangling herself in the lives of two brothers, one of whom was dead before the sun rose that same day.

Luckily, this wasn't her first rodeo.

"I suffer from nightmares," said Abbie. "Horrible nightmares. I wake, and they remain. They're like a debilitating headache, and they get worse the longer I stay in bed. I've found staying home after such a nightmare is not an option. I have to get out. If I don't, the nightmare will continue to cling to me, drag me down, drown me. Dramatic, I know. But I've no other way to describe it."

Sanderson passed no comment. He rolled a hand: Go on.

"As I mentioned, I've no friends to whom I can turn. I work for myself, so there's no colleagues. My family are all dead or estranged. I'm on my own, and on nights like these, I can't be on my own. So I drive, and I drive, and I search for people. Luckily these nightmares only afflict me a few times a year, and each time I try to travel somewhere new. When I arrive, I seek out people. I look for something to take my mind off the nightmares. In this case, I went into a place called Perfect Chicken and bought a drink. I paid for a hotel, then I met the Dean brothers. It was a random encounter. That's all."

Having delivered this speech, Abbie leaned back without breaking eye contact