He did, and to Turner's relief, Riggers stayed silent. They stood side by side and observed the off-licence until the last few customers had drifted away.
"Let's go."
Turner strode down the pavement and slammed into the shop, sending the door hard back against the wall. The shopkeeper looked up with a frightened face.
"I'm sorry, sir, we're closing up for the night. I've just started cashing up."
Riggers pushed in behind Turner, brandishing the baseball bat still wrapped in the black bin bag. "Cashing up is exactly why we're here. Don't play games or I'll shoot."
"For fuck's sake." Turner gripped the end of the wrapped bat and pushed it down. He made apologetic eye contact with the terrified shopkeeper. "It's not a gun."
"What the hell are you doing, man? Christ." Riggers leapt forward towards the counter, where the pale shopkeeper was sweating and panicking, his trembling hands knocking the piles of coins all over the surface. Turner stayed by the door, looking over his shoulder.
Riggers looked back at him. "Come on."
"No, wait. Someone's…"
And then all hell broke loose as the door was flung open once more, and blue lights strobed through the windows, and heavy hands wrestled Turner to the floor. Black clad police officers, armed with tasers, felled him with ease and he didn't resist.
Emily, you brave, beautiful woman. Well done.
He stretched out on the sticky lino, holding his arms out in front of him to accept the cuffs. One stocky police man sat on his upper back and another gripped his legs, anticipating a fight back, but Turner stayed floppy.
His face was pressed against the stale-smelling floor but he could just see, from one eye, the wild figure of Riggers flailing uselessly under the brute force of three men. He was screaming out a stream of obscenities, cursing the police, the shopkeeper, and Turner.
Turner stayed quiet and passive. He was hauled to his feet, not unkindly. The police men had no interest in making things harder when the arrestee was offering no fightback. Behind the counter, the shopkeeper was looking shaky, and he looked with particular curiosity at Turner.
Turner dropped his gaze to the floor in shame, and allowed the police man to lead him out to the waiting van.
Behind him, Riggers was fighting every inch of the way. His head bounced off the door jamb as he was dragged through it, and he began hurling threats of legal action. Turner sighed, and clambered into the van. The burly police man who was leading him caught his eye, and allowed a small smile to crease his pink face.
"You've got more sense than your mate, at any rate."
More than you know. He nodded and made himself as comfortable as he could on the narrow bench. It was going to be a long night.
* * * *
Emily worked her way through the whole bottle of wine quite quickly. The more she drank, the worse her choices of music were. By the time she was on the dregs of alcohol, she had dug out an old CD that was apparently entirely themed around the concept of doomed love and loss and ultimate rejection. Wailing women howled their delicious agony into the night and Emily sobbed with them.
By now, she knew that the game would be played out.
She was awoken to a thunderous hammering on her flat door. She was lying on her bed, partly clothed and smelling unpleasant. She sat up very gingerly, afraid that at any moment the skin on her scalp would split open and her brains would ooze out. Her pickled, wine-soaked brains.
The hammering did not abate and she realised who it must be. I can't keep the police waiting. They'll be pulling out the Big Red Key next. She stumbled to the door as quickly as her aching body would allow, keen to avoid having the entrance bashed in.
"I'm on my way," she called out, but her voice was a dry croak. Her hands were weak where she had slept strangely, pressing on nerves, and it seemed like an age before she opened the door to the two police officers.
They'd sent a woman and a man, and it was the small, slight woman who spoke.
"Emily Carrera?"
"Yes. Sorry… just woke up…"
"We'd like you to come down to the station. We've some questions for you."
Like a tired cliché, the first thing she could think of to say was, "Am I under arrest?"
The woman nearly smiled. "No. You can refuse." She said it in a tone of voice that suggested that no-one ever refused. Emily nodded and ran a hand through her matted hair.
"Can I possibly freshen up? Just two minutes? Please, come in."
The officers glanced at each other, and the man gave a slight nod.
"Sure," the woman said. "I'm PC Taylor and this is PC Gibbs. We'll wait in your living room."
Emily staggered into the bathroom, clutching some fresh clothes, and fired the shower on. She didn't want to piss the officers off by making them wait, but she had to sluice off the murk of the previous evening. She didn't think they'd barge in and wrestle her out of the shower.
After the quickest shower in the history of hygiene, she emerged, hair still dripping wet, dressed in baggy jeans and a long sweater. The police officers hadn't sat down, and were clearly keen to go.
There was something about the act of sitting in the back of a police car that made her feel incredibly guilty. She was acutely conscious of passers-by. What would the neighbours say? She almost laughed at her paranoia. It was worse than walking into her brother's law offices, and she squirmed.
"Is everything all right?" PC Gibbs, the man, was in the passenger seat, and looking back at her.
"Yes, sorry. Nothing. It's all a bit surreal. But I kind of expected this."
The journey was swift and she found herself in a part of a police station that she'd never expected to see. PC Taylor almost apologised for taking her into the custody suite. "I'd have used one of the other interview rooms but they're all booked up. This isn't so nice, and you're not under arrest so we'll not go through the process of booking you in. Er, would you like a cup of tea?"
"It's vile," PC Gibbs offered helpfully. "It's out of a machine."
"Yes please."
"You are properly hung over, aren't you? Okay, then. Life in your own hands, and all that. Milk, sugar?"
"Milk, no sugar."
"Julie Andrews coming up."
"Huh?" Emily looked quizzically at PC Gibbs but he had scurried off.
PC Taylor took Emily through to a small room with grey plastic seats matching the grey lino and scuffed grey walls. "White, none. White nun. Geddit?"
"Oh god."
PC Taylor smiled a warm, genuine smile. "Yup, you didn't bank on ending up with the comedy police officers, did you? Anyway, it's Inspector Kelly that wants a word. He'll be along directly."
Emily sat on the slippery chair and wove her fingers together as PC Taylor fiddled with the tape recorder on the table in front of them. Eventually her tea arrived in a beige plastic cup, accompanied by an older man with a bald head and impressive grey sideburns. PC Gibbs disappeared again, but PC Taylor stayed, and the tape recorder was flicked on.
"Do you know why you're here?"
The Inspector clearly wasn't for beating about the bush, and Emily took a deep breath. All she could do was tell the truth, and hope to god that Turner would tell the truth too.
"Because of the phone call I made last night, telling you about a robbery that was about to take place at the off-licence on West Road."
"That's right. Go over the details again for me, if you will."
And so Emily explained that she knew about Turner and Riggers' plans. She told them about Riggers and his idea that photos would somehow incriminate her in the plot. She told them about how Turner had decided that the robbery should be foiled.
"But why? Why did he still go through with it?"
Emily smiled grimly. "It was the only way to bring Riggers - sorry, Andrew Rigby - down for sure. Oh god, that sounds like entrapment or something." She started to regret what she'd said, and stumbled to a halt.
The Inspector folded his arms and sat back in his c
hair while PC Taylor, next to him, leaned forward and nodded encouragement. "But it also incriminated Turner Black."
"Yes," said Emily, and felt a surge of pride. "Because he's committed crimes, and he knows he needs to pay his debt."
"Crimes?" The Inspector's interest was piqued and he sat forward abruptly. "Go on."
Emily outlined what she knew - only the barest details, but hopefully Turner would be filling them in on everything. It was a huge gamble, but turning evidence like this could be in his favour.
But whether it was in his favour, or against him, Turner had decided that enough was enough. And a clean break could only be got if he wiped out all his previous crimes.
PC Taylor voiced her concern. "But why on earth does he feel the need to confess all of this? Not that we're complaining. But why does he want you to tell us?"
"Have you spoken to him yet?" Emily asked.
"We're asking the questions," the Inspector said, but Emily surmised that they had, and she hoped that he'd confessed like he said he would. Their stories - their truths - had to match.
"He wants to make a fresh start. But he can't do that with unconvicted crimes dogging him. They're all potential blackmail things. And morally, too."
"Morals!" Both police officers seemed taken aback. PC Taylor twitched her mouth but the Inspector outright hooted. "Morals only happen when it suits people."
"Maybe it does suit him, then, right now," Emily said stubbornly.
"You're defending him…" PC Taylor said softly, and there was a light of understanding in her eyes. "You're in a relationship with him."
"Of course she is," the Inspector said dismissively, but Emily looked at the woman police officer and knew that she knew what it meant.
"He's going straight for me," she said very quietly, aware of how dramatic that sounded. And how naïve.
PC Taylor nodded, and the Inspector rolled his eyes sceptically. "Okay, then. He's discovered a sudden sense of guilt. Tell me more about the past crimes, if you will."
Emily played with the now-cold plastic cup, and plunged back into her recitation of his past misdemeanours. Her stomach was starting to rumble, at odds with the hangover headache that was also kicking in with a vengeance. She had a feeling that it was going to be a very long morning.
* * * *
It was mid-morning and Turner waited in the interview room for his solicitor to return. The room was chilly but he didn't mind. He hadn't slept, what with the arrest, the midnight interview, the low, hard bed in the cell and the constant noise. The coolness of the small room kept him alert.
The door was unlocked and Matthew entered, looking impossibly dapper as always. He placed his briefcase on the table with great care, and flipped the catches before sitting opposite Turner.
Turner didn't speak. He just raised one eyebrow. He'd already accepted he wasn't getting bail.
"Approved."
"What?" Turner was stunned. "You're joking."
"I am not a joker."
State the bleeding obvious. "Sorry. But how? No way have the police granted bail."
"Your prison sentence is all run out, so they can't recall you under probation. They looked at the circumstances and felt you were unlikely to abscond."
"Conditions?"
"None. The magistrates may impose or modify that, of course; they may even cancel the bail. But the police can't, and haven't, set any limits."
Turner shook his head in disbelief. "I told them everything."
"And they seemed to believe you. It may have gone in your favour."
"Christ. Fantastic!" Turner started to grin, and he sat forward in delight. "Thank you!"
Matthew Carrera didn't return the smile. He shuffled some papers in his briefcase, and Turner noticed his hand was shaking slightly. When he studied Matthew's face a little more, he realised the solicitor was furious.
"I ought to advise you that you are certainly looking at a custodial sentence when this comes to court. The fact that you've asked these other crimes to be taken into consideration may help your case, but it will still be a relatively lengthy sentence."
"What about Andrew Rigby?"
"I am not his solicitor."
"Please, though, you must know things. You legal types talk to each other. Please tell me he's being sent down, too."
Matthew gave a slight shrug. "I am not going to breach any professional confidentiality." Then his demeanour shifted and he slammed the briefcase closed, removing the barrier between them. "But while we are talking about professional conduct, I would like to tell you that if you go near my sister ever again, I will find you, and I will not be acting as a solicitor. I will not be acting professionally. Do you understand what I am saying?"
"Are you threatening me?" Turner could hardly believe it, coming from the slender, neat man in his tailored suit and well-groomed ambience.
"I am telling you your future," Matthew said in a low growl that had exactly the same menace as a threat from a bruiser in a pub. "You will regret it, and you will be serving a very long sentence. Leave Emily alone."
Turner threw a few retorts around in his mind. You put us together. I'm going straight. You're not her keeper. Brothers don't have that much control over their families…
He kept quiet, and merely nodded.
"Right." Matthew stood up. "I'll see you in court. Dress smart, and be prepared to be leaving in a prison van."
Chapter Nine
It was one of those late summer days that started cool and misty, but by ten was warm and clear. The view across the rolling green hills of the Peak District was gradually revealed as the clouds rolled back.
Emily and Turner had left the car parked in a small village, and had climbed along a well-used footpath that rose up and up. The path was less trodden as they got higher, and by the time they came out above the valley, they were following a mere trampled line of flattened grass.
"It's so serene. It's like a painting."
Turner was a little way ahead of her, carrying a small daysack loaded with snacks and drink. He stopped and turned, studying the view. "Every time I come up here, it's different. The weather makes so much difference to the light and the shapes, and the colours."
"You sound like an artist yourself!"
"I did a bit of art, when I was inside. The last time. I think I'll go back to it, you know."
Emily felt a lump form in her throat and she looked away. "I wish you wouldn't talk about it… today is just for us. Our last chance to be together."
Turner stepped over a tussock of grass and grabbed her by the waist, drawing her close to him. He fixed her firmly with his gaze, his eyes showing the flecks of orange quite clearly in the pure light of the hills. "This is not the last time, Emily, I promise you that. Everything I did - in the end - was for you. And it's the knowledge that you're waiting for me that will keep me going."
"I know, I'm sorry. But we don't even know how long your sentence is going to be."
His hands stroked up and down her back, soothing her and exciting her. "Do you have a limit on how long you're prepared to wait for me?"
"That's unfair!"
"Time is a funny thing." He dipped his head and her balance shifted as his lips met hers, pressing to her mouth with a delicious slowness. She closed her eyes and fell into the moment, feeling his breath on her cheek and the rise and fall of his chest against her. Just as she was pushing back at him, her temperature rising, he pulled away.
"Some moments last for ever," he carried on. "Some things never seem to end. But they do." He sniffed slightly and paused, looking over her shoulder at the view for a few seconds. "They say that the hardest, longest sentence is served by the families of prisoners, you know. It will be easy for me, banged up. Three meals a day and no decisions to make. But you, and my mum, and my sister, and my nephews - that's who end up punished, in the end."
"I don't get it. I'll be free."
He looked back at her, a sad smile on his face. "You will understand, soon enough, and y
ou'll remember this moment, and I am so sorry. For everything that you're about to go through, I really am sorry. Freedom's in the heart. Are you free? Are you doing what you want to do, really?"
"What do you mean?"
"The journalism. The social stuff, the activism, then the entertainment and the fluff. I haven't heard you talk about any of it."
Emily pulled away from him completely, and looked pointedly along the path that was still winding uphill. "We have had other things to discuss."
He took her hint and began walking on. "I know. I'm just saying, that it doesn't seem to be where your heart lies."
"I always wanted to be a journalist."
He half-looked over his shoulder at her, a quirky smile on his face pulling his cheek to one side. "Emily. People change."
* * * *
At the summit the wind was a little stronger, and they found a sheltered spot in amongst some twisted hawthorn bushes. From here, they could look out over many valleys and lower hills. Grey roads snaked in and out of view, and occasionally sunlight flashed off moving cars, causing sudden gleams and sparkles.
"It is so peaceful here," Emily sighed, sitting down on the spongy grass and heather.
"Listen harder."
"What?"
"Shush."
Emily let her ear tune in to the surroundings for a while.
"Now what do you hear?" Turner asked.
"I think I can hear cars, faintly. I heard that motorbike, anyway. Birds. An aeroplane."
"Civilisation, even here."
"I suppose." She leaned against him, and he slid his arm around her waist, drawing her even closer. "But still, it's remote enough for me."
"Your brother won't find us out here, I guess," Turner said with a suppressed laugh.
"Don't even joke about it."
"Are you bothered? Do you really think he'd come after me?"
Emily snuggled against his shoulder. "Wouldn't you, in his position? Haven't you pursued Riggers and even, let's face it, committed a crime just to ensure Riggers got sent down too?"
Hidden Heart (Love Is The Law 1) Page 12
