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

Too late.

Abbie used all her strength to swing Ronson’s fist down, in an arc, towards his leg.

A second too late, he remembered he was still holding the blade.

“Police. Stop.”

Ronson howled. Swinging back, he punched Abbie’s jaw and sent her reeling, spinning, crashing to the ground.

Cops surrounded her, their arms around her arms, dragging her up. Ronson was running. Despite the knife in his leg and the muscles he was carrying, he picked up good speed. In a second, he’d be gone.

“Get him,” she was saying to the faceless cops. “That bastard attacked me. It was self-defence. You get him.”

Then Sanderson was there, shoving his ID in Abbie’s face like an aggressive parent, showing a picture of his kids.

He said, “Abbie King.”

“Get off me,” she said, jerking away from the police. Then they had her again, and the cuffs were on her wrists, and she realised this was about more than a scrap in the street: knife attack or no knife attack.

“Abagail King,” Sanderson tried again. “I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder.”

Twenty-Six

Wrists in cold cuffs, arms in careless hands, Abbie was pressed into the cramped back of a police cruiser and driven away. No one seemed to care she had an appointment to keep.

At the station; possessions were confiscated, pictures and prints taken. Abbie watched a cop walk off with her drawstring bag (containing The Stand) and wanted to scream. Somehow kept calm. Explained she knew her rights. She didn’t want an attorney but did want to let someone know where she was.

This request was met with dead eyes from a police officer who looked more like a convict in a stolen uniform than an actual cop. Abbie was sure he would turn her down. Perhaps give her a punch and kick for good measure.

Instead, he nodded.

At the phone, without her mobile and with no address book, Abbie had only two numbers worth calling. Ben made the most sense. Still angry, Abbie could not bear to hear his voice.

She called Michael.

“Abbie?”

“Michael, I have to ask you to take a leap of faith. It involves risk, but there’s no one else I trust. I need your help.”

“Anything.”

Against her better judgement, Abbie revealed to Michael the street two down from where she had been arrested. Told him to find the black Vauxhall Insignia and knock on the driver side door.

“The window will open. When it does, you say, Sparrow. Nothing else. The driver will hand you a bag and leave. Under no circumstances are you to look in that bag. You’re to find somewhere to hide it, but somewhere you can get it fast and bring it to me when I call.” She resisted the urge to add, if I call. “Understand?”

“Yeah. I got it.”

“Once it’s hidden, find Eddie Dean. You know who that is? He’s the one whose brother died last night.”

“I know of him. How am I supposed to find him?”

Abbie gave the address. “Find him or his wife, and warn them: Eddie must not meet Francis until he hears from me. Tell him to stay well away from The Nightingale Club. He must, must, must wait to hear from me. Tell him he doesn’t know everything. He’s in more danger than he thinks. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“I know I’m asking a lot—“

“No,” he said. “I want to help. You’re going after Francis, aren’t you?”

A cough. From behind Abbie. The officer wasn’t close enough to hear her conversation. He was indicating her time was up.

“I’ve been arrested,” she said. “I get out, that’s exactly what I’ll do. I got to go. Thank you so much for your help.”

The policeman was there before Michael could reply. Abbie said a hurried goodbye and placed the handset back in the cradle. Turned to the convict looking police officer with the blank expression. She beamed at him.

“I bet you have a wonderful smile,” she said. “You should give it a run out now and then.”

Without a word, he escorted Abbie to her cell.

It was 9.48 am.

Were all police interview rooms the same? Did the taxpayer’s dollar not permit variety? Were no police officers interested in unique flourishes? Something to set their interview rooms apart from the rest.

In bland, boring, ununique surroundings, Abbie waited. Trying not to count down the time. Praying Michael had reached Eddie, and if not Eddie, Jess, and that Jess had reached Eddie.

Abbie hoped she would soon be free. If she wasn’t, it wouldn’t matter how hard Eddie tried to stay clear of Francis; before the day was out, so would be his time on Earth.

The police could hold Abbie for 24 hours without pressing charges. If they choose to exercise that right, it was over.

Maybe she should have called Ben.

It was 10.26 am.

The heavy door opened, admitting Sanderson and a second officer named DS Warren. When they entered, Abbie was checking the wounds Ronson had gifted her in their most recent scuffle. At the cops’ arrival, she dropped her top, hoping they hadn’t seen.

Yeah, right.

Carrying a file, something in a clear plastic bag, and his trusty tape recorder, Sanderson came to the table. He and Warren took their time over pulling out their chairs and getting settled. As though Sanderson had learned nothing from his previous interaction with Abbie.

“This is a bit embarrassing,” said Abbie as they got set up. “I considered not bringing it up, then I thought, no, they would want to know.”

Sanderson met her eye but said nothing. It was rubbish when they refused to play along.

“Exactly,” she said, as though Sanderson had responded. “Basically, I have a prior engagement, and it clashes with this interview you want to conduct.”

Still nothing from the cops. Abbie held up her hands.

“No, don’t apologise, you weren’t to know. And hey, don’t think this little meeting isn’t important to me. Sanderson, I love our time together. You, new cop, I think we’re going to get on great. I want to do this. So, how are you fitted up for tomorrow afternoon? I got a little time between five and five-thirty,