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It has a ring of truth to it. I begin to wonder… “You think they came to Scotland?”
She nods. “They must have. I came across the name of a house. This house, I think. So, I came here to ask.”
“There’s no Naomi here,” I tell her. “You’ve been on a wild goose chase.”
“I know. I realise that. I… I don’t know what sort of a place this is or who you are, but it has nothing to do with me. Please, let me go. I won’t say anything to anyone. I just want to go home…”
If only it were that simple. Whatever her reasons for blundering into my domain, the fact is, she’s here now and she’s already seen more than enough. It may have been an honest mistake, I’m almost ready to believe that, but we still have a situation here that needs dealing with.
My thoughts are interrupted by a sharp knock on the cell door. I leave Ruth where she is and step outside into the corridor.
Mickey is there, and he has a woman’s handbag tucked under his arm.
“Found this in the car, boss.”
“Is that hers?” I ask, tipping my chin towards the handbag.
“Think it must be,” he replies. “We were searching for any ID, something to show who she is and who she works for.”
“Right.” It’s what I’d have expected them to search for. “And?”
“And, this.” Mickey hands me a small wallet, the sort of thing people sometimes keep credit cards in. It opens to reveal the Queen’s insignia embossed into the leather on one side and a photo ID card in the little clear window opposite.
Constable 6129, Cambridgeshire Police. Ruth Lowison.
I stare at the words printed on the warrant card. So much for a missing adopted sister. I so nearly fell for it.
“She’s fucking police,” I breathe.
“Looks like it, boss.” Mickey agrees. “I’m guessing this is awkward.”
“Too fucking right it is.” I spin on my heel and march back into the cell.
CHAPTER4
Ruth
He’sdifferent when he comes back into the cell. Harder, somehow, though I wouldn’t have thought that possible. He’s more focused. And even more terrifying than before.
He paces around me, glaring. I swear, I can almost hear his teeth grinding.
I steel myself for another stroke from his belt, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he ceases his prowling and leans against the bare stone wall, arms folded, and regards me under lowered brows.
If he was just a little less scary, I might even think him handsome. His hair is blond, cropped short, and he obviously works out if his chiselled biceps and sharply sculpted pecs are any indication. A little over six feet, and built like an athlete, he’s the sort of man who would always attract a second look. His eyes are a stormy grey and put me in mind of molten steel. His jaw is square and has a firmness to it, a quality that suggests he is not accustomed to compromising or dissent. This man means business, and he expects to be obeyed.
He expectsmeto obey him, to tell him the truth. Which I have. I had no choice.
He shoves himself off the wall and circles me again. He rests his palm on my throbbing buttock and squeezes.
I wince but offer no protest. What would be the point? In any case, my police training was drilled into me. Don’t escalate a situation if you can help it. Keep calm, remain quiet. Wait for backup to arrive. Don’t provoke an aggressor unless it’s to save life or prevent further harm.
I doubt there’s anything I could do to prevent whatever he has in mind, and no help is coming, I’m sure of that. Even so, I do as I’ve been taught and hope for the best.
“Sore?” he enquires softly, as though he actually cares about my comfort.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“I can make you a lot more sore. You do realise that, I hope.”
