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There was something unstable about a woman who’d accuse a stranger of attacking her, hurting her, and fabricating evidence. She needed help. He had to trust the cops were smart enough to work that out; that they didn’t intend to make an example out of him. He needed to keep his head on straight.
They left him for a long time. He might’ve worn a groove in the floor. They came back with coffee and a sandwich. Then they put him in a line-up. Six other guys, his height and build, dressed down to match. He could’ve said no. Could’ve asked for a lawyer. But a positive identification barely mattered. Anyone could’ve worked out he was the caveman.
He had a decision to make. He could fight this with the kind of force that would tear the life of his accuser apart, expose her secrets and motives and reveal his innocence in this. Or he could let things take their course. Offer himself up.
Back in the small interview room, he paced again, and considered his alternatives. Before he’d found the cave, he’d argued culpability and been denied it, he’d asked for punishment and was given absolution instead. Did it matter if retribution came finally from the wrong source?
It wasn’t even a coin toss. If they charged him he’d let it stand. He was guilty of so much worse, it hardly mattered that the details weren’t correct. After all this time delivering his own handmade justice, the idea of handing himself over to professionals should’ve been a relief. And it was in so many ways. He felt the rightness of it, but still regret like heartburn twisted in his chest because he’d lost the chance to explain himself to the one person who’d looked at him and instead of seeing foulness, saw something worth her time and care.
25: Doubt
Midafternoon Nat stood over Foley. “How many homeless guys do you reckon have access to a multimillion dollar beachside home?”
Foley kept her eyes down. “You want me to play twenty questions?”
“I want you to tell me what you know.”
Nat might’ve rescued her from Toby, but Foley wasn’t interrogation free. “I did. Drum said someone he knew owned it and let him stay there.”
Nat made a noise of disgust and sat beside her.
“What was that for?”
“You let that stand. You didn’t think to ask about it.”
> Foley sighed. “I was sick. The hail apocalypse arrived. It occurred to me we’d broken in, but I trusted him when he said we hadn’t.” Nat repeated her annoyed snort. “I’m sorry if that doesn’t get me my junior scoop badge.”
“You went to an empty mansion with a homeless guy you hardly know. I never thought you’d be so stupid. It could be you in there trying to prove you were assaulted.”
Foley looked away, out towards the road where traffic moved. People going about their day like normal. Sitting here, waiting to see if the man she loved was a violent criminal, wasn’t any kind of less ordinary she’d imagined.
“That house is owned by a trust, like your bloody Beeton house. Can’t tell who’s behind it, but I’m working on it.” Nat’s phone rang and she stepped away to answer it, and Foley tried to distract herself with email, pretending to work, but she had the concentration span of a hangnail.
She turned her face up to the sun and tried to find a way to fault Drum’s behaviour towards her. After that one scary incident he’d been nothing but gallant, and even though she’d needled him by prodding at his silence, by testing his limits, she’d felt nothing but cared for, cherished and respected, yet he was inside that station being questioned about a shocking crime.
When Nat came back, Foley tensed for another reprimand, avoiding eye contact. Nat kicked off a shoe and picked it up. Its sole was cracked, the heel loose. It was a skinned knee, a headfirst roll down stairs, a broken foot waiting to happen. Nat poked at the heel, prodding it back in line. “I liked these shoes.” She put the shoe back on.
There was no saving the shoe. “Time to move on,” Foley said, her voice fracturing.
Nat bumped her shoulder. “It’s just a shoe, Scoop.”
Foley nodded, not trusting herself to speak without blubbering. They both knew she wasn’t talking about footwear.
Nat leaned in. “Don’t get too excited, but there’s something not right about Alison.”
“What?” Foley sniffed. No breakfast, no lunch, very little sleep, she was starting to unravel. Nat was right, she might’ve been Alison, but it was so hard to imagine that.
“Drum isn’t the first man she’s accused of attacking her. She’s got a history of assault accusations. Doesn’t mean they didn’t all happen, but it’s not as clear-cut as it was yesterday.”
Foley’s heart climbed so high in her throat it squatted on her voice box, her pitch was Chipmunks. “How many?”
“This makes five. But the real question is how many convictions.”
“How many?” she squeaked.
“None.”
She bent forward and pressed her face towards her knees. “Oh my God.”
