Page 3 of Cruel Hearts

I had plenty of time to dwell on that fact on the long journey to the police station.

Chapter 2

Thank fuck that the Glasgow cop-shop had a walled-off bay at the back for delivering prisoners. Because it was a Friday night, prime time for police stations, and I would have been mortified if they had dragged me naked, save for a precarious dressing gown, through the hordes of drunks and revelers.

Maxwell was the first to exit, clad in a pair of white boxer briefs that hugged his muscular ass. I might have felt sorry for the guy if he hadn’t caused my downfall. He had to bend over double not to bash his head on the low, metallic ceiling of the van.

“Out you get,” said the policewoman.

The front of my dressing gown gaped open as I bent forward to exit. With my wrists cuffed together and unable to stretch out an arm for balance, I took my sweet time descending the steps.

My bare feet froze against the cold tarmac. It was only a dozen steps, but I cursed the shitty psychological tactics that caused them not to offer me a pair of slippers. We followed Maxwell and the policeman to a heavy, metal door with a huge camera and waited to be buzzed in.

Maxwell got processed first by the duty sergeant, who took down his details and gestured for the policeman to take him for fingerprinting.

“Don’t bother taking my prints,” I muttered. “They’re already in the system.”

“Were you charged?”

“They were dropped.”

“Then the system would have deleted your details.”

My spine straightened. That was good to know.

We stepped into another room where a biometric machine that reminded me of an over-engineered photocopier scanned my entire hand. The policewoman had even told me to turn my head away from the glare. Classy. In good old Richley, they’d taken fingerprints the old-fashioned way. And they hadn’t offered me a wet wipe to remove the ink.

“This way.” She guided me out of the scanner room.

I glanced at the sign that said CUSTODY SUITE, fully expecting to be thrown in a cell to await the duty solicitor. Instead, the policewoman helped to straighten my gown before walking me to a windowless interview room.

This one was designed to incite maximum despair. A charcoal-gray carpet, a thin layer of gray paint over breeze blocks, and polystyrene ceiling tiles. A plastic table stood wedged against a wall with three chairs.

I turned around and gaped at her through the protective helmet, wondering if I’d seen those pristinely applied false eyelashes before. “Don’t I get a solicitor?”

Without a word, she shoved me in the back, making me stumble inside. Then she shut the door and turned the lock.

“What if there’s a fire?” I shouted at the door.

The policewoman said nothing. Not that I expected her to reply.

Since there was a storage heater under the table, I trudged across the room and flung myself into the chair to warm my toes. The gentle heat did nothing to thaw out the chill on my soles, but I bounced on the balls of my feet to get the circulation going.

Just as my feet started to tingle, the door opened and a tall, thin man stood in the doorway. He wore an Aran v-neck sweater over his shirt and tie, an indication that the Glasgow police station wasn’t heated enough for a minor in a dressing gown.

“Good evening, Miss Hancock,” he said in a London accent. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Cromar, and you’re in a wee bit of trouble.”

Right now, I wanted to fold my arms across my chest and affect a posture of casual nonchalance. Like I’d played this cat-and-mouse game so many times with the police that it had become boring. But handcuffs still held my wrists together. Fuck knew why. And it was just me and this super-high-ranking detective, which wasn’t right. The last time I’d been arrested on suspicion of attempted murder, they’d only brought out a detective sergeant and a constable.

“Where’s my brief?” I snapped.

He frowned and stepped into the room. “What makes you think you’re entitled to a duty solicitor?”

“You’ve arrested me, haven’t you? I know my rights.”

Keeping his eyes fixed on mine, DCI Cromar strode to the opposite side of the table. He spun the chair around, straddled it, and placed his forearms on the edge of the backrest. Like he was some kind of superhero.

Unease settled in my stomach like a flock of crash-landing butterflies, and I raised my forearms to my chest to hold the edges of my gown together.