As quickly as it had begun, the interview ended. The girl was clearly in no fit state to continue. The tears grew into a crescendo of racked, desperate sobbing, which developed in intensity until it morphed up a gear into hysteria and there was no way she could continue.
The duty solicitor requested a break. Henry agreed, saying that he thought he had done enough for the moment and perhaps the best course of action would be to let her get some sleep and continue the interview process in the morning when the CID took over. The solicitor, who should not have been on duty that night anyway — he was covering for the woman who had been attacked by Kit Nevison — readily agreed.
The gaoler led the girl away.
Henry and Makin watched her go.
‘Sorry about that,’ Makin said. ‘Her name came to me in a flash — you know what it’s like. She’s on the periphery of Hellfire Dawn. She’s been seen in the company of Vince Bellamy a few times.’
‘That’s OK. I think she’ll be a different proposition in the morning when they get to her — all soft and pliable.’
‘Rather like me,’ Makin suggested, then stifled a yawn and laid a hand on Henry’s chest. ‘Excuse me.’ She shook her head and slid her hand slowly down his shirt, her eyes fixed on his. She checked the time — nearly 2 a.m. ‘Time I got to bed. What time do you finish?’
‘Six.’
‘Another four hours! I’ll be all tucked up and warm.’
‘I’m sure you will.’
DI Jane Roscoe stood just inside the door to the custody office, out of the eyeline of both Henry and Makin. She was watching their verbal and non-verbal exchange, but was unable to hear any of the words passing between them. Henry seemed stiff and stilted. Nervous. Worried, maybe.
Roscoe could see why. The woman was all over him.
It was so bloody obvious, Roscoe thought angrily, that the woman, whoever the hell she was, was coming onto Henry in a big way with the preening gestures: touching the hair; smoothing her clothing down; a hand on her hips which were pointed towards him; that clumsy hand on Henry’s chest, which Roscoe had seen with delight, had made Henry jump as though stung by a wasp; her increasing attempts at eye contact. Henry was not responding, but Roscoe could see it was only a matter of time before the woman dragged him into her web.
For some inexplicable reason, she found herself fuming as she walked towards the couple as nonchalantly as she could, confused over why she should be feeling this way. After all, she did not even like Henry very much.
‘I’m sure you will,’ she overheard Henry say to the woman.
‘Henry — have you got a moment?’ Roscoe interrupted breezily.
As they both turned towards her, Roscoe was pleased to see a shimmer of annoyance cross the woman’s face.
‘Hello, Jane,’ Henry said. ‘Have you met Detective Superintendent Andrea Makin? Metropolitan Special Branch.’
‘No.’ The single syllable sounded curt, rude and unprofessional.
‘Call me Andrea,’ Makin said coldly. She did not offer a hand, merely a faint smile.
‘This is DI Jane Roscoe,’ Henry said, completing the formalities. ‘She’s investigating Mo Khan’s murder.’
‘Ahh — so I’ve heard.’ Makin regarded Roscoe with a smirk. Suddenly Roscoe felt she wanted to crawl away and hide under a stone somewhere because she realised what a God-awful state she was in. Although she had washed and freshened up since the riot, her make-up was long gone and she probably reeked like an old settee and her rat’s tail hair was a disgrace. The complete opposite to Makin, who was damned near perfection, the bitch. Makin looked up at Henry with soppy eyes. ‘Anyway, Henry, no doubt you’ll be able to fill her in on the details she may need about Joey Costain. Goodnight.’ She shot Roscoe a false smile and swayed off with a last glimpse over her shoulder at Henry, who completely missed it.
Roscoe dropped her shoulders in relief and opened her hands.
‘What?’ Henry said, perplexed.
‘I’m surprised she didn’t shag you here and now.’
‘Who? Andrea? What do you mean?’
‘Are you a complete numbty?’ Roscoe hissed. She would have said more, allowed her mouth to run away with her, but held back because she was not yet sure where she was coming from with this. She shook her head sadly and almost said, ‘Men!’
The gaoler returned from the female cell area.
‘Said she wants to speak to you, boss,’ the PC said to Henry. ‘Off the record.’
‘Right, thanks. Coming?’ he asked Roscoe.
‘I’ve just got back from the hospital,’ Roscoe said to Henry’s back as they walked to the cell. ‘I’ve come in to let you know how Dave is getting on.’
Henry continued to walk and waited for the news, guts churning.
‘It’s touch and go,’ Roscoe said. ‘He’s critical, in intensive care. Badly burned upper chest, neck and face. He’s breathed in smoke and fire which has caused major injuries to his mouth, throat and respiratory system. He’s in a very bad way. The doctors say we did well to keep him alive.’
‘More by luck than judgement on my part,’ Henry said.
‘No it wasn’t,’ Roscoe stated firmly. ‘It was professional life saving. You did a great job. Don’t do yourself down.’
‘And so did you,’ he responded genuinely. ‘But enough of this mutual congratulation and back slapping. Let’s just hope he pulls through. Are his family aware?’ he asked over his shoulder.
‘Hmph,’ Roscoe snorted. ‘Two ex-wives, neither interested. A daughter of twenty-six who hasn’t spoken to him for three years and doesn’t want to start now, and a son somewhere in Europe on his year out, or whatever they call it, between school and university.’
‘Parents?’
‘Both dead.’
‘Jeez, that’s a shame,’ said Henry. He blinked a tear away at the thought of Seymour’s lonely predicament, only because it made him realise he could so easily end up in a similar position. The prospect of becoming a sad, old, lonesome bastard hit him with the force of an express train. He could end up on the verge of retirement with no one to care for, or to care about him. He swallowed dryly and thought: What the hell have I done with my life? Just cocked up time after time after time. That was the stark reality of adultery.
At Geri Peters’ cell door Henry dropped the loosely fitting inspection hatch and looked in. In her white, oversized zoot suit, the prisoner reminded Henry of the Michelin man. She was sitting on the edge of the low bed, head in hands, desperately alone. She looked up through her fingers. A little girl lost.
‘You wanted to see me.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she snuffled, wiped her eyes on a paper sleeve. She crossed the cell, stood by the door. The crying had abated. ‘What’ll happen to me?’
Henry shrugged. ‘Put it this way — don’t bank on seeing next Christmas, or the one after that,’ he said cruelly. ‘And if we make everything stick, you’ll be eating cold turkey Christmas dinner a lot longer than that, even.’
She closed her eyes despairingly, then raised them to the ceiling, rocking unsteadily on her feet. Henry thought she was going to fall over.
‘I’m frightened. Frightened of being here alone. Frightened of what might happen to me.’
‘You should be.’
‘I didn’t bomb that police officer.’
‘You’re the only suspect we have at the moment, dear, so I’m sure we’ll do a pretty good job of placing you at the scene and the petrol bombs we found in your possession are pretty good supporting evidence — unless you want to tell us who actually did it, and the name of the person you were with.’
She leaned her back against the door, arms folded.
‘If you didn’t do it, who did?’ Henry probed, picking up on the vibes emanating from her. She wanted to save her own skin, he could tell. ‘Or do you want to take the rap for committing murder — that detective could well die.’
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ she said, banging the back of her head on the cell door in time with each word. She whacked it hard, making Henry wince with vicarious pain. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she whined pitifully. ‘I’m afraid to tell you the truth.’