The Stranger

by Mark Ayre

  With an oof, he stumbled, allowing Abbie to wrench free his other hand and spin to face him.

  He punched her in the chest.

  As she smacked her car, he kicked her in the stomach.

  Falling, Abbie rolled, coming up at the car’s front. When he went to punch her, she knocked his hand aside. He came forward, shot a shoulder like a battering ram into her throat. As she turned to block the move, his hands came, grabbing her top, lifting her from the ground as though she weighed no more than a length of rope.

  She was in the air.

  Then on the bonnet.

  Ronson let go. She bounced.

  Hit the concrete.

  She was trying to rise. Ronson was there.

  She raised a hand as his foot came in.

  Roared in pain as he booted it like a football.

  As that hand was cast aside, Ronson punched her in the head, sending her sprawling to the floor. The moment she hit the concrete, he kicked her side, rolling her onto her back.

  With a boot, he tried to stomp her. With both hands, Abbie caught his foot. As he continued to drive it towards her, her elbows smashed the road.

  Screaming, Abbie rolled as Ronson pulled away his foot. She tried to rise. A nudge from his booted toe was enough to roll her over.

  “Looks like Kline was holding me back,” said Ronson, laughing. He came again. Abbie rolled. Dodged his foot. Her body screamed at her to stay down, and she climbed from the concrete onto unsteady feet, staggered back, turning to face her assailant.

  “Is this a Francis sanctioned attack?”

  Ronson beamed. “Nope. This is personal. You embarrassed me at the kid’s place. I couldn’t let that slide.”

  He came again. Abbie ducked a fist, but at the same time, Ronson brought the open palm of his other hand to her waist.

  Following her meetings with the car and the concrete, Abbie was sluggish. Ronson got her jeans, gripped them in a fist, and shoved.

  On the curb, she tripped, stumbled, fell to the pavement. Rolled, reached for the gravel driveway close to, and rose.

  Ronson jumped onto the pavement.

  Abbie hurled gravel in his face, and he retreated a step. Abbie hopped forward, lifted a leg, and booted him in the chest.

  Already on the edge of the curb, Ronson tripped, went over.

  On the pavement, he tried to rise, fast, as Abbie had done. Ronson had more bulk to lift than did Abbie, and before he could get up, she had kicked him in the head.

  In the road, he rolled. This time he did rise.

  Still smiling, he made one hand into a fist and kept the other flat, fingers spread. Having taken much more damage than him, Abbie hoped a car driving too fast and recklessly would appear and flatten Ronson.

  Better than a car, a van or a lorry. Possibly a train.

  A car did turn onto the road.

  Ronson came. Swung a fist, which she dodged, then punched her in the stomach. Then hurled her to the road. Then kicked her in the chest. Then stomped on her leg. Then stood over her with a victorious smile.

  From inside his jacket, he withdrew a knife. Gripping the hilt, he pointed the blade at Abbie. It was only three inches long. Big enough to do the kind of damage he was after. One swipe along the throat, and Abbie could be dead.

  The sirens started.

  Shocked, Ronson turned.

  Having been trained never to become distracted during a fight, Abbie swung a boot into Ronson’s inner thigh.

  The police car was there.

  Springing to her feet, Abbie grabbed Ronson’s fist as he regained focus on the fight.

  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 Micha
el 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, between football games. You know how it is. What do you say?”

  Everything was set up. Sanderson repressed a sigh. Warren looked as though she might like to lean across the table and punch Abbie in the nose. Abbie was thankful for her resistance. Very professional.

  “Fine,” Abbie said. “You need more than half an hour, we can do the interview at the pub. Have a few drinks, a few laughs, it’ll be very productive. What do you say?”

  There was a long, long silence. Somehow, Abbie resisted breaking it.

  Sanderson said, “Are you done?”

  “You know, people often ask me that when I finish talking?”

  “Shocking.”

  Abbie laughed, then winced. Before she could stop it, her hand went to her side, where a bruise was already beginning to rise.

  Sanderson pointed as Abbie took the hand away. “We will talk about that.”

  “What’s to talk about?” Abbie said. “I was attacked at knifepoint. Beaten half to hell. You guys came along, and I managed to fight back, to put the knife into this bastard’s leg. Gave you guys a perfect chance to arrest him. Not that you were interested.”

  “We have people searching for your attacker. We’ll take your statement regarding the matter later. For now, can we begin the interview?”

  Sanderson reached for the tape. Abbie almost let him. Fears played across the back of her mind. Having played the humour card, she needed to ask something real and couldn’t tell which way it would go.

  She thought of gloved hands pulling at her things and knew it was worth the risk.

  “Stop,” she said, as Sanderson prepared to press start.

  “We should start the tape,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to miss anything pertinent.”

  “I have a request.”

  This time Sanderson did sigh, perhaps expecting another bit. A glance at Warren told him she believed mother could be gained by indulging Abbie any longer.

  Luckily for Abbie, Sanderson ignored Warren. With a roll of the hand, he indicated Abbie should go for it. Quickly.

  “You’ve taken my bag—“

  “We have every right to search your possessions. You’re under arrest. We have a warrant. If you would like to see it—“

  “Forget your warrant,” said Abbie. “There’s a book in there. The Stand. It’s precious to me. I understand you’ll need to be thorough in your search, but I would appreciate it if you took some care when handling the book.”

  “We always take care,” said Sanderson.

  “You take a kind of care,” said Abbie. “This is serious. I’ve not asked for a lawyer. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, but you be careful with that book. I mean it.”

  Sanderson considered. In Abbie’s eyes, he must have seen her request was no joke.

  “Why is this book so precious to you?”

  Abbie considered clamming up, but what was the point? In mentioning the book, she had piqued his interest. If she refused to give him a proper reason for dreading its ruination, he would be as inclined to tell his team to go harder on it than easier.

  “It belonged to—“ Abbie almost choked on the name. Already she had to dry her eyes. “Violet. It belonged to my sister. She died a decade ago. Wasn’t even eighteen. It’s all I’ve got left of her, and I know it’s stupid but please… make them be careful.”

  Revealing all this was a risk. When speaking to Eddie in the early hours, Abbie had told him she believed most people stayed on the right side of the line to remain as innocents. This was her true belief. Most police officers were honest people just trying to do their job. They wanted to make the world a better place. As in any profession, there were vindictive bastards among their number. People who liked to hurt those they were investigating, whether said person was guilty or innocent. Abbie had met a few. She was guessing Sanderson wasn’t one. She hoped she was right.

  Sanderson watched Abbie dry her eyes again. He thought a little more, then turned to Warren.

  “Tell whoever’s searching Abbie’s bag they are to check The Stand as thoroughly as they need to, but must ensure it remains in the same condition in which they found it.”

  Warren stared at Sanderson. Believing the request to be a waste of time, she could not understand why Sanderson wished her to indulge it.

  “Please,” said Sanderson. Though he outranked Warren, it took this plea for her to rise from her seat and leave the room.

  “She’s not happy,” noted Abbie.

  “No. But she’ll do as I asked. If you’re worried.”

  “Thank you. Now, what do you need to know? I don’t think I can help but—”

  Sanderson forestalled her with a hand. “When Warren returns.”

  “That’s a waste of time. You’re getting it all on tape. Why don’t we just—“

  Forestalled her again. “When Warren returns.”

  They waited.

  It was 10.39 am.

  When Warren returned, Sanderson offered everyone a drink. Abbie said no. Warren asked for water. Sanderson left.

  When Sanderson returned, the room was silent. He placed glasses of water in front of Warren and himself. After each cop had taken a sip, in turn as though it were some kind of relay drink race, Sanderson, at last, started the tape.

  They went through the preliminaries—name of the officers, name of the accused. Abbie was again asked to confirm she was waiving her right to have an attorney present.

  “I am.”

  “You know if you can’t afford an attorney, you can make use of our duty solicitor. They are independent of the police, and it won’t cost you anything.”

  One call to Ben and Abbie would have an eye-wateringly expensive lawyer to fight her case. That was probably the smart play. She was running out of time. For some reason (she was an idiot?), she couldn’t do it.

  To Sanderson, she said, “My mother told me never to trust a freebie.”

  “Suit yourself. Shall we begin?”

  “Let’s,” said Abbie. “Let’s begin with why I’m here. After all, it’s already been established I couldn’t have killed Danny. Have you found evidence to suggest I was in any way involved?”

  “No,” said Sanderson.

  “Well, then. “

  “But we do have c
ompelling evidence to suggest you might have killed someone else.”

  There was no denying it. That took the wind out of Abbie’s sails. All of a sudden, she was floundering. The confidence seeped away. Worse, the officers saw it. Something clutched at her heart.

  Twice before, a subject of Abbie’s prophetic dream had faced their final confrontation on the morning of day two.

  Had two just become three?

  Abbie had failed to save one of the two morning victims.

  Had one just become two?

  “Who?” she said. The police offices looked at each other. “Who?”

  They looked at her. Trying to deduce whether she was feigning surprise. Warren believed that was precisely what Abbie was doing. Sanderson seemed less sure.

  “Can you confirm for me where you were between 11 pm last night and 3 am this morning?” said Sanderson.

  Abbie stared at the detectives. Between eleven and three. Most of that time, she had been with Eddie. But Jess had seen her husband this morning. He’d gone for a walk. He’d been alive since Abbie last saw him. Definitely.

  Abbie opened her mouth to say so. Stopped herself. Sanderson raised his eyebrows.

  “Around eleven,” she said, forcing her voice into a calm tone, “I dropped off a boy named Michael at his home. Afterwards, I returned to my hotel, where I remained until around 11.40.”

  She paused. Sanderson and Warren were watching intently. Waiting for her to trip up. When she mentioned leaving the hotel, a faint look of surprise crossed both faces, plus some added annoyance on Warren’s. Abbie knew why. They had expected her to say she had been tucked in bed all night. That would have been stupid because Glenda had seen Abbie return between two and three am. The detectives had no doubt already spoken to the hotel’s owner. Abbie had no desire to lie about her whereabouts the previous night. Even if she had, she would have concocted a story that explained her absence from the hotel during these unexplained hours.

  No one interrupted. Abbie said, “At midnight, I met Eddie Dean. I was with him until shortly before I returned to my hotel, which would have been between two and three am.”