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I meet Moses’ eyes and nod, his signal to hold her still. Then, without further delay, I sink the needle into her upper arm.
Ruth yelps and begins to fight, but her struggle is short-lived. In seconds she goes limp in my arms, her head resting on my shoulder. I pass the empty syringe to Moses, then settle back to lean against the wall and draw her up onto my lap. She’s still swathed in my jacket and snuggles against me. The fight has completely gone out of her.
Her eyelids are closed, her breathing slow and even. I give her a couple of minutes for the drug to take effect, then, “Can you hear me, Ruth?”
A few seconds pass before she nods.
“Good. Do you know who I am?”
She shakes her head. “No. But I don’t like you.” Her voice is thick, her words slurred but clear.
Fair enough.“Why don’t you like me?”
“You hit me. I’m scared of you.”
“There’s no need to be scared of me now, Ruth. All you need to do is tell me the truth.”
“I told you…”
I interrupt deliberately, to put her under pressure. The more stressed she is, the more difficult it will be for her to formulate lies and remember them. The sedative works by slowing down reactions and dulling reasoning power. The truth is simply easier, so that’s what she’ll default to. Probably.
“What’s your full name, Ruth?”
“Ruth Lowison,” she replies without hesitation.
“Thank you. Tell me, Ruth, what’s your job?”
“Police,” she mutters.
“What do you do in the police?” I press her.
“Constable. Trainee. Filing.”
“Filing?” Not quite what I expected. “What sort of filing?”
“Crime reports. Evidence. That sort of thing.” Her voice has steadied now. She sounds more certain of herself.
“Do you like being a police officer, Ruth?” I ask on a whim.
“No, I hate it. I don’t have commitment.”
Interesting“Oh? Why do you say that?”
“Sergeant Fisher says it. He’s right. I want to be a writer. Children’s stories. I’d be a good writer…”
A tear rolls down her cheek. I brush it away with my thumb. “Why did you join the police, Ruth? Why not be a writer instead?”
“My dad… He was in the Job, so I went in, too. I want to make him proud.”
“Is he proud of you?” I probe
She shakes her head. “He died. Heart attack…”
“I’m sorry. Is that why you’re crying?”
“I loved him. I trusted him.”
I file that away. It seems something may have happened to dent the hero-worship, but it’s probably old news and none of my concern. I can come back to that if I need to. I’m more interested in the here and now. “So, apart from filing, what else do you do in the police?”
