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The woman’s mouth spreads into a thin smile and she beckons over a uniformed cop. “Mr Morgan has agreed to answer some questions, if you can drive him to the station.”
About to protest that wasn’t what I agreed to, my phone rings. Myf.
“Dylan? I saw the news. What’s happening?”
“I can’t talk now,” I mutter. “I’m talking to the police.”
“Is it true?” I don’t answer. “Shit, Dylan. Is Jem with you?”
“No, the stupid fucker left.”
“Where are you?”
“At the Grosvenor but I’m about to go to the local fucking police station.”
“I’m coming back.”
“No, stay away Myf.”
“No way.”
“Try and find Jem.”
An exasperated noise comes down the line. “He doesn’t talk to me.”
“Just try.”
The detective is listening to every word with narrowed. “I have to go, Myf.”
