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There is so much wrong with this that I just know I’m about to be knocked on my arse again. I get to my feet and step forward. Smithy moves aside to let me through, stepping in behind me, as the other officer takes one more look at me, turning her nose up, before spinning on her heels and walking toward the interview rooms.
“Don’t turn around and don’t talk. Don’t agree to anything, Sarg. Help is on the way.” My brow furrows at Smithy’s words, trying to work out what the fuck he’s talking about. I fight to not turn around and demand he gives me answers. Outside of the fact I’m being fitted up for something I couldn’t possibly have done, I’m clueless. Nothing makes sense, nothing feels safe. My mind can’t comprehend that a place I’ve felt safe in for years has suddenly turned into a nightmare.
I’m stopped outside the door to the same interview room I spoke to Noah in the last time I was here, and a shiver ripples over my bare arms.
Smithy reaches forward to open the door as a booming voice rumbles down the corridor behind us.
“Hold it.” Turning, I see a man in a crisp black suit and shiny brown brogues stomping towards us, his briefcase swinging to and fro in his grasp. His short brown hair, parted on the left, doesn’t even flutter with his rapid pace “That’s my client,” he announces as he reaches us. “And as is her right, I’ll need to talk to her before she is interviewed.” He scowls at Smithy and the female officer standing at my side.
“We weren’t aware a solicitor had been appointed.” Her rebuttal is sharp, and I can see his arrival, whoever the fuck he is, has irked her.
“The pleasure of surprises, Officer Hughes. Now shall we use this room, or do you have somewhere else suitable for us?” I look to Smithy because I’m honestly in no man’s land right now. There’s a spark of humour in his eyes as he answers, “You can use this room.” He turns around, and points to the room one door down on the opposite side of the corridor.
The guy thanks him and wastes no time in stepping toward the room, holding the door open for me.
I follow, but before I step inside the room, I turn to Smithy, who gives me a quick wink before he and Officer Hughes move off down the corridor.
He has his briefcase open on the table by the time I finally join him there. Taking a seat opposite him, I’m about to ask what the hell is going on when he speaks first.
“Okay, I’m Mr Scott, Ethan Scott, and I’m here to represent you.” He takes out a file before closing his briefcase and placing it on the floor beside his chair.
“Yeah, I got that bit. But who the fuck are you?” I demand.
He raises his gaze from the file to me, and I see a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth before he schools it.
“Well, as I said, I’m here to represent you—”
“Look, I didn’t request a solicitor, and I certainly didn’t call you, so who sent you?” I narrow my eyes at him, not trusting anything at the moment.
“Let’s not worry about that for the moment. I think we have more pressing issues to discuss.” Picking up a sheet from the file in front of him, he spins it, lays it on the table, then pushes it across to me. “I don’t need to bore you with the details of what this is.”
I drop my eyes to the sheet in front of me. They widen as it begins to register in my brain. Before I can formulate any words, Ethan continues.
“As you can see, this is a fingerprint lifted from the murder weapon. A Sig P210 I believe. Now, this is your fingerprint, which I believe they had on file here, correct?” I nod. “There are significant markers that match this one and yours, but it’s not a one hundred percent match, so we have some room.”
“Wait. How did you get these? This isn’t in the parameters of disclosure.” He stares at me silently for a moment before continuing on as though I said absolutely nothing at all.
“Do you have an alibi for the night of Theo Rogers’ murder?” When I don’t answer, he looks up at me, and I simply raise my brows and shrug. “Ah, I see you want to play hard ball with me. I can either help you Miss Whitmore, or I can leave you to rot in a prison cell for the rest of your days. The choice is entirely yours. But please consider the ramifications not only for yourself, but also of the many victims whose perpetrators could walk free if you were convicted of murder.” He pauses, as though waiting for the impact of that little look into my future to hit home. “And, of course, there’s still the question of your sister’s whereabouts.” The words roll off his tongue like he asked me about the weather.
I launch across the table, snatching hold of his skinny tie before he can register what’s going on. “What the fuck do you know about my sister?” I demand, tugging his tie hard and bringing our faces within inches of each other.
“I suggest you release me, Miss Whitmore,” he says calmly.
“And I suggest you start talking, Mr Scott. At this point, I really don’t have a lot to lose, so an assault charge isn’t going to make a whole lot of difference.” If what he’s just presented to me is correct, then I’m fucked already.
“I meant nothing more than searching for your sister will be extremely difficult from a cell. Even for you.”
I consider his words, and whilst I don’t believe a fucking word of it, he is right that searching for Star from a cell will be difficult, doubly so if I’m dead, which is a distinct possibility. Slowly, I loosen my hold on his tie and sit back in my seat.
He runs a hand down the front of his body, straightening his tie. “Alibi, Miss Whitmore?”
“Depends on the time of death,Mr Scott.”
He ruffles through some papers, ignoring my sarcasm, before saying, “The incident took place at just after 9 P.M. on Saturday 21st August 2018. I understand that you were away in Ireland that day, but what time did you return?”
I don’t show my surprise at him knowing where I was that day. “I arrived back in London at around 7 P.M.”
“And were you alone, Miss Whitmore?”
