by Mark Ayre
Behind Abbie, Dirty Knees rose.
"You need to arrest her," he said, pointing at Abbie but looking at the officers.
Abbie laughed. "You must be joking? The nice officers had been running for at least thirty seconds when I turned from you to pick up Lanky. They must have parked thirty seconds before that. Given the tree line, I’ve no idea how they spotted us while driving by, but what they must have seen is you standing over Lanky, looking ever so threatening. They know what you did."
Abbie was focused on Dirty Knees, but he wasn't looking at her. His eyes were fixed on the uniformed officers.
"You're under arrest," said the guy cop, and Abbie was frustrated to see it was she his eyes found when he spoke. “For assaulting a police officer.”
“You know,” said Abbie, “you’re not supposed to arrest me for something you’ve yet to annoy me into doing.”
“It’s not them they’re saying you assaulted.”
It wasn't the male or female cop who said this. Slowly, Abbie turned to see Dirty Knees retrieve an ID badge from his suit jacket.
Abbie sighed. Phase two was about to end with some serious disappointment on her end.
"Detective Idrissa Ndidi," said Dirty Knees, "and you're in a whole heap of trouble."
Eight
The uniformed police officers, Evans and Franks, cuffed Abbie and drove her to the station. Here they took fingerprint impressions, her belongings, and a photograph of her holding a board.
This was not the first time Abbie's prints and photos had entered the police database. But when Evans and Franks looked Abbie up, they would find no matches. Furthermore, in less than two days, Abbie would be gone, and so would all record of her stay in this chilly building. Once again, she'd be wiped from the system as though she didn't exist.
Working with Ben, and for whatever organisation he represented, had more than a few perks.
And speaking of Ben...
"I need to make a call."
Ben didn't answer, so Abbie left a message. No panic. He was often around, more often than could reasonably be expected, but not always. He'd get back to her soon enough.
Next was the cell. Abbie turned to Franks after stepping through the door.
"When I said I was after a decent hotel, and money was no object," Abbie looked around, "I think you got the wrong end of the stick."
Without a word, Franks closed the cell door, and Abbie was alone.
Ndidi arrived a few hours later.
It was 06.15am. From Abbie's cell, the detective led her through quiet corridors, past empty offices, to a row of interview rooms. Or interrogation rooms, if you were feeling less generous.
He picked the third room down. Unlocked it. Led Abbie inside and gestured to the padded chair across the plain table. The whole room was basic. It looked identical to the numerous other interview rooms Abbie had entered. It looked like every interview room you saw on TV. Minus the one-way glass, which Abbie had never seen. Too expensive, probably.
Abbie was under arrest. She'd been held in custody for the last few hours. A uniformed officer should have accompanied her and Ndidi to the interview room and should now be standing outside. It was also unusual for the interviewer to be alone. And although Abbie had never been arrested for assaulting a police officer, she guessed it was irregular for the victim to conduct the interview and lead the case.
To top it off, Abbie had no legal representation present. She would have complained but could see Ndidi had only a file to hand. No tape recorder in sight.
Which meant this wasn't official. It was off the books.
Taking the seat opposite Abbie, Ndidi placed the folder on the desk. Peeling back the cover, he removed three sheets of paper and put them on the surface, spinning them for Abbie to see.
Typed, small print paragraphs on police insignia letter headed paper. At the bottom of each page was a printed name and, above this, a scrawled signature.
"Potentially," said Ndidi, "you're in a lot of trouble." He tapped the pages, one after another. "You know what these are?"
"Lanky's name is Gary?" Abbie asked. "You don't see a lot of Gary's anymore, do you? Think I read somewhere the name's dying out. Isn't that sad? Wait, is that sad? Maybe not. Crap name."
Three sheets of paper were all the folder had contained. Closing the empty file, Ndidi put it on the floor beside his chair. He tapped each of the statements again, one by one.
"Do you know what these are?"
Abbie raised her eyebrows. He was going to be dull, then. Whatever, if he wanted her to get to the point, she would. For now.
"Signed witness statements," said Abbie. "You know I know. Must we play this game?"
"I don't expect you to read them," said Ndidi, though he didn't remove the statements. "Can you guess what they say?"
Abbie glanced back at the sheets despite herself. Certain words jumped out.
"I imagine," she said, "The statements by Franks and Evans say they were patrolling the area when they noticed an altercation in the park. They pulled up roadside and, as they left their vehicle and approached, saw me, Abbie King, beating up their precious policeman boss."
"Well, I'm not their boss," said Ndidi, "though I do outrank them."
"You must be so proud."
"Other than that, you're spot on. What about this—“ he tapped the furthest right of the three statements. "Can you guess what Gary said when questioned?"
Abbie folded her arms, leaned back her head and let out a long puff of air.
"This is boring," she said. “Must it always be like this? You can't help yourself, can you?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Except you do," said Abbie. "You could have popped to your local fancy dress shop, bought a villain's moustache, then come to the station to stand over me and twirl it while letting off your best maniacal laugh. Then you’d explain your fiendish plan. It wouldn't have taken long: "ha, ha, ha, despite the fact we both know I attacked Gary and might have killed him if you hadn't intervened, I managed to get him to give and sign a statement saying you saw us talking and attacked for no reason we could see. As far as the record is concerned, you assaulted us both, and I did nothing, ha, ha, ha.""
Abbie looked at Ndidi. The cop's cheeks flushed. His embarrassment was evident, a look Abbie sometimes aimed to inspire in her conversational adversaries, but not this time. Her outburst had been born of pure frustration. She'd opened her mouth and out fell the words. It was dangerous to lose control like that, but it was done. Abbie would have to be more careful, moving forward.
When Ndidi managed to take hold of himself, he took a breath and said, "I would never have killed Gary."
Abbie shrugged. "What do you want me to do with that information?"
Ndidi looked at the sheets on the desk. He didn't know what to say.
"You know what I mean, don't you?" Abbie said. "You show me the statements because you think, if I draw the conclusion, rather than you telling me the situation, it'll be more crushing. A greater victory for you. It's pathetic."
Ndidi looked more ashamed, more embarrassed than ever. Abbie didn’t need to push like this but couldn’t help it. She was riled.
So was Ndidi. One by one, he grabbed the statements and piled them up. Snatching the file off the floor, he shoved the sheets in. Then the file was gone. Ndidi placed his palms on the table.
"I have three witness statements claiming you assaulted a police officer. I have the marks on my body plus my own testimony to give. In other words, I have you bang to rights."
He drew a breath, shook his head. Then forced a small, bitter smile.
"Obviously," he said, "assaulting a police officer is never smart. But your timing could not be worse."
There was something ominous about Ndidi’s tone. Something which suggested this wasn't just threatening discourse, intended to scare. Ndidi meant it.
"And why's that?" said Abbie.
"DCI Hammond.”
Abbie waited. When no more information was forthcomi
ng, she shrugged.
"If this is another game, I'm going to lose. Or you are, depending on the rules. What I'm saying is, I don't know any DCI Hammond and won't if you don't tell me."
Ndidi nodded. Sneered, as though Abbie's lack of knowledge signalled a character deficiency. As if she should know the names and ranks of every police officer in the country, past and present.
She let the sneer wash over her.
"DCI Alan Hammond was my boss and mentor," said Ndidi. "He was also respected and loved throughout this station and across the community. To the people of our fair town, he was a hero."
Mulling this over, Abbie nodded. Then said, "I'm guessing you're not going to tell me he received a slap from an old biddy down the bingo hall? That's not why people are so sensitive to police assault right now?"
"There was a botched robbery," said Ndidi. "Some low life piece of shit bust into Hammond's house, thinking the place was empty. They were wrong. Hammond was upstairs, asleep. He came down to find out what was going on. There was a fight. This low life got the better of the DCI. Cut Hammond’s throat and did a runner."
Ndidi let this sink in, though Abbie hadn’t known Hammond, so found it difficult to get too upset over the incident.
“You catch the killer?” she asked.
Ndidi shook his head.
“No suspects? Possible you think it was Gary? That would explain a lot.”
“That waste of space could never kill Alan Hammond, and don’t try turn this on me,” said Ndidi, just about holding his temper. “My point is clear. People around here are pretty damn upset about Alan Hammond. They hate that his killer's running free. It eats them up. So when they learn we have a police attacker in the cells, well,” he spread his hands, “do you know what transference is?”
Abbie smiled. “You’re intimating they’ll take out their anger at Hammond’s killer on me.”
“If they don’t go even further and assume you’re one and the same. Yes, they’ll pursue your case with extreme prejudice. They’ll seek surrogate justice to make themselves feel better.”
Abbie was still smiling. “Surrogate justice. I like that phrase.”
“Nice, isn’t it?”
“Yes, now shall we cut to the chase?”
“The chase?”
The smile tried to morph into a laugh, but Abbie held it. She thought she knew where this was going, but Ndidi was temperamental; he might change his mind. Abbie was on thin ice.
Leaning across the table, she said, "Let's not do this. You don't know me, but if you think I'm wet behind the ears, easily manipulated, let me disabuse you of that assumption. I'm no fool. You can't drag me into this interview room before the sun's finished climbing the horizon, with no uniforms or tape recorders in sight, and expect me to believe this is all some prelude to charging me with assaulting a police officer. Come on, give me some credit."
"Maybe you give yourself too much credit," said Ndidi. "Perhaps this is a curtesy. Can you honestly be sure I won't leave this room right now, return with a colleague and a tape recorder, and charge you?"
Abbie smiled. Tapped the table.
"I have a motto," she said.
"And what's that?"
"Never be sure."
Now Ndidi smiled. "Not very catchy."
Abbie shrugged. Said nothing further. This whole conversation teetered on a knife-edge. As convinced as Abbie was that she knew what Ndidi wanted to do, she was not fool enough to believe that was necessarily what he was going to do.
After a long silence, Ndidi said, "Do you want me to press charges?"
That was a question Abbie had been asking herself since Franks had slammed the cell door in her face a few hours ago.
The clock was ticking. Somewhere in town, a young girl's life was winding to a close. Every second was precious, and Abbie guessed it would be difficult to save any lives while trapped in a cell.
She needed freedom. Ndidi could keep her locked up for 24 hours before deciding whether to charge her or let her go. If he let her go, she would be into day two of her two-day window without having met the girl she had come to save—a perilous position. So maybe being charged was best. Once the police charged her, assuming Ben sent a lawyer, Abbie could apply for bail. A top-quality lawyer, which this would be, could probably get her out in a couple of hours.
In a perfect world, all this would happen before one of Davesh's team arrived for work and found the place littered with dead bodies. The moment the police learned what had happened at the dealership, the game would change. Abbie was new in town. A mile from the shooting, she had attacked a policeman, or so they were saying.
Connections would be made, questions asked. Why had she been out so late? What was her purpose in town? Abbie's situation would worsen. Her hopes of saving the innocent child would deteriorate.
Nothing frightened Abbie more than that.
So being charged or released might be okay, so long as it happened soon. The Hammond situation was a concern. The cops might decide to keep Abbie locked up as long as possible while they desperately sought cast-iron evidence to guarantee any judge would reject her bail application. They probably wouldn’t find any. Then again…
Glancing at the file on the floor, Abbie leaned in, bringing her face as close to Ndidi as the table allowed.
“Neither us wants me charged. My reasoning is obvious. As for you… you attacked Gary. We both know that's true. If I get charged, I'm going to put what happened on the record. Now, before you start babbling about how no one will believe me, don't. I'm way ahead of you, and in a legal sense, you're right. I'd probably be convicted, and you'd get off scot-free. But I wouldn't do time. Not for a punch in the stomach. Meanwhile, you might not get into any trouble, but people would remember my accusations. If I get thrown into jail or disappear into the sunset, and then something happens to Gary, people would start to wonder. All eyes would turn your way. The questions would really begin."
Abbie leaned back, pointed at the file.
"It goes like this: if you still intend to go after Gary, to do him harm or worse, me being tried and convicted of attacking you both is the last thing you'd want or need. What do you say?"
Like smoke, frustration poured off Ndidi as Abbie spoke.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said when she was done.
He was angry. Abbie could see that. But she didn’t know what he wanted and wasn’t willing to keep playing this game, so she shrugged.
“Charge me then.”
Threading his hands, Ndidi leaned back, twisting his fingers as though trying to perform some rudimentary magic trick.
“I’m trying to do you a favour.”
Abbie smirked.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Ndidi said. He gestured to the file on the floor. “I can make all this disappear—no more statements. No charge, no conviction. No angry mob baying for your blood for attacking the police. You can be breathing fresh air before breakfast.”
“And all I have to do,” said Abbie. “Is disappear. Leave town. Never return.”
“Is that too much to ask? Why are you here, anyway? You didn’t live nearby, so what? Are you visiting family or friends? I’m sure they’d understand if you couldn’t stick around. You could make some excuse.”
Ndidi’s eyes burned with determination. Abbie met them and shook her head. She was still smiling, and she had no problem lying.
“Whatever you want, Detective. Let’s make this go away.”
Still trying to read Abbie, Ndidi said, “You’ll leave town?”
No chance.
“Yup,” she said. “If that’s what's needed. You think I’m here to take on police corruption? No, thank you. I’ve better things to be doing with my—“
Ndidi’s hand shot forward, grabbed her wrist, squeezed.
“How dare you,” he said.
Abbie raised her eyebrows. The detective’s grip was tight, it was starting to hurt, but Abbie showed no signs of pain or even discom
fort. She looked at his hand, then to his eyes.
“Excuse me?”
When Abbie met Ndidi’s eyes, his own jerked towards the table, saw what he was doing and yanked away his hand. Stared at the offending digits as though they’d betrayed him. The grab hadn’t been intentional or planned. Ndidi had lost control.
“You don’t like being called corrupt, huh?”
“I’m not corrupt,” he said.
“Okay,” said Abbie. She should have left it there. “My mistake. Obviously, I saw you beating civilians, falsifying statements, and holding off-the-record witness interviews, and I got the wrong end of the stick. Not the first time. Please, accept my apologies.”
Hands shaking, Ndidi was staring at Abbie as though he could not process what she was saying. Would not allow himself to process it, more like.
“I’m not corrupt.”
“Okay,” said Abbie. “Whatever.”
“I’m not. I’m not corrupt.”
Abbie didn’t respond. If Ndidi had somehow become trapped in a time loop, would it also ensnare her? Abbie would take whatever action necessary to escape such a torturous fate.
In the face of Abbie’s silence, Ndidi’s panic seemed to grow. He was like a little boy, lost in a supermarket, desperate to find his mother.
Amid his growing stress, he asked, "Can I get you a drink?"
“Don’t do that,” said Abbie.
Ndidi raised his hands. "I'm only asking."
"Good rule of thumb: people who offer a drink at the first opportunity—i.e. when you arrive at their house or are dragged into their interview room—are," she used air quotes, "'only asking'. People who ask in the middle of a serious conversation, when they have explaining to do, have an ulterior motive.”
“I don’t have to explain anything to you.”
“Correct,” said Abbie. “I can go then? Or are you charging me?”
By now, Ndidi’s breathing was funny, unmoderated. Without really trying, Abbie was getting under his skin. Still, he surprised her when he reached into his pocket and retrieved his wallet.
‘I’m not corrupt.”
“Paying me to change my mind won’t prove your point.”
