Page 107 of Slack Tide Kill

Sally paused. She didn't turn.

"Wait," he repeated. "I'll tell you, OK? It's got to clear us though. Of all the murders, anything to do with them. And the trafficking!"

"No," Sally said, and went through the door.

"Just wait!" Rook cried after her, as the door closed. "Shit, this is what she always does, it's what she did with the damn car, playing chicken. Get back in here!"

She was already gone, into the OR2, where she stood at the glass and watched. Rook looked frantic. To her credit, DCI Mayhew remained calm. Carrack attempted to steady his client.

Then Mayhew spoke.

"Tell us what you saw from that scaffold, Jerome. That's your only hope for clemency now. That you aided a murder investigation. You don't want obstruction charges added."

Rook glared at Mayhew. "Obstruction? You can't do that." He turned to Carrack. "She can't, can she?"

Carrack remained steady. "It's a possibility. If it's later proven you had relevant information, which you knowingly withheld."

Rook slammed the table. "Fuck! Get her back."

"I don't think she's coming back," Mayhew said. "You deal with me, now. What did you see?"

"She works for you. Get her in here!"

"She doesn't work for me." Mayhew almost seemed to be enjoying the moment. "Talk, Jerome, or I'll start preparing the charges."

Rook raised his fist, but Carrack caught it. He guided it back down. He spoke in his ear. Rook whispered back. Perhaps two or three minutes passed as they conferred, then Rook sagged in his seat.

"I've advised my client to be forthcoming," Carrack said. "Jerome?"

Rook's lip curled. His eyes darted to the one-way glass. "She's watching this?"

"I expect she's gone to continue her investigation," Mayhew said, playing it perfectly. "There's a larger machine here, of which you are one small part. Help us, and that help will enter the record."

Rook's jaw worked under the surface. He peeled his gaze off the mirror and turned to Mayhew. "Fine. I'll tell you what I saw. And the fact is, you're going to shit yourselves when you hear it."

"Whose boats were they?" Mayhew demanded.

"Not boats," Rook corrected. His face split in a grin. "One boat. A Frankenstein's monster of a boat, sure, got its own bloody launch, couple of tanks, rear deck, but just one." His grin widened. "That mad bastard in the Mustang with you, Bledd? Decked my Dad once. I'd recognize his pile of steel junk anywhere, hot-docking wherever he likes and spying on everyone."

Sally stiffened at the glass.

"You're saying Arthur Bledd's boat arrived on Dungeness beach around 3 a.m. on the morning of the 9th?"

"That's the prick. Fancied him, did you, you dirty skank?"

Sally heard none of that. Her hearing compressed, like she'd just dived deep underwater. Could it be Bledd? Was Rook lying? It was possible. She'd considered him. He fit the profile. But then he'd led them to Cagen. Would the killer do that?

Or was this something else? The Rooks had clear bad blood with Bled, dating back to their father. It didn't seem like a lie, though, and this was a serious charge to make, all in service of some longstanding family grudge.

"You're certain it was Arthur Bledd's houseboat?" Mayhew drilled.

"Course I'm sure." Rook leaned back in his chair now, exulting in her shock. "Your golden boy, wasn't he? Out carving up boys in the middle of the night."

Sally flinched. The image came to her of Bledd easily scooping Jerome from the water. He was powerful. He'd have no trouble subduing an older woman like Cagen. Even a younger man.

"Ah, this is so worth it," Rook gloated beyond the glass. "Look at you now, you're going to faint."

Mayhew recovered. "Did you recognize anyone onboard, Mr. Rook?"