Hidden Heart (Love Is The Law 1) (16 page)

Riggers shrugged. "You worry
too much. Prison's changed you."

Turner lashed out and grabbed
Riggers by the collar of his black hoody. He drew the struggling man close to
his face and hissed, "Of course prison has changed me, you little
prick." He let go, pushing Riggers back over the gearstick, and leapt out
of the car. He slammed the door closed and leaned against it, waiting for
Riggers to come crawling around.

He did, and to Turner's relief,
Riggers stayed silent. They stood side by side and observed the off-licence
until the last few customers had drifted away.

"Let's go."

Turner strode down the pavement
and slammed into the shop, sending the door hard back against the wall. The
shopkeeper looked up with a frightened face.

"I'm sorry, sir, we're
closing up for the night. I've just started cashing up."

Riggers pushed in behind Turner,
brandishing the baseball bat still wrapped in the black bin bag. "Cashing
up is exactly why we're here. Don't play games or I'll shoot."

"For fuck's sake."
Turner gripped the end of the wrapped bat and pushed it down. He made
apologetic eye contact with the terrified shopkeeper. "It's not a
gun."

"What the hell are you
doing, man? Christ." Riggers leapt forward towards the counter, where the
pale shopkeeper was sweating and panicking, his trembling hands knocking the
piles of coins all over the surface. Turner stayed by the door, looking over
his shoulder.

Riggers looked back at him.
"Come
on."

"No, wait. Someone's…"

And then all hell broke loose as
the door was flung open once more, and blue lights strobed through the windows,
and heavy hands wrestled Turner to the floor. Black clad police officers, armed
with tasers, felled him with ease and he didn't resist.

Emily, you brave, beautiful
woman. Well done.

He stretched out on the sticky
lino, holding his arms out in front of him to accept the cuffs. One stocky
police man sat on his upper back and another gripped his legs, anticipating a
fight back, but Turner stayed floppy.

His face was pressed against the stale-smelling
floor but he could just see, from one eye, the wild figure of Riggers flailing
uselessly under the brute force of three men. He was screaming out a stream of
obscenities, cursing the police, the shopkeeper, and Turner.

Turner stayed quiet and passive.
He was hauled to his feet, not unkindly. The police men had no interest in
making things harder when the arrestee was offering no fightback. Behind the
counter, the shopkeeper was looking shaky, and he looked with particular
curiosity at Turner.

Turner dropped his gaze to the
floor in shame, and allowed the police man to lead him out to the waiting van.

Behind him, Riggers was fighting
every inch of the way. His head bounced off the door jamb as he was dragged
through it, and he began hurling threats of legal action. Turner sighed, and
clambered into the van. The burly police man who was leading him caught his
eye, and allowed a small smile to crease his pink face.

"You've got more sense than
your mate, at any rate."

More than you know.
He
nodded and made himself as comfortable as he could on the narrow bench. It was
going to be a long night.

* * * *

 Emily worked her way through the
whole bottle of wine quite quickly. The more she drank, the worse her choices
of music were. By the time she was on the dregs of alcohol, she had dug out an
old CD that was apparently entirely themed around the concept of doomed love
and loss and ultimate rejection. Wailing women howled their delicious agony
into the night and Emily sobbed with them.

By now, she knew that the game
would be played out.

She was awoken to a thunderous
hammering on her flat door. She was lying on her bed, partly clothed and
smelling unpleasant. She sat up very gingerly, afraid that at any moment the
skin on her scalp would split open and her brains would ooze out. Her pickled,
wine-soaked brains.

The hammering did not abate and
she realised who it must be.
I can't keep the police waiting. They'll be
pulling out the Big Red Key next.
She stumbled to the door as quickly as
her aching body would allow, keen to avoid having the entrance bashed in.

"I'm on my way," she
called out, but her voice was a dry croak. Her hands were weak where she had
slept strangely, pressing on nerves, and it seemed like an age before she
opened the door to the two police officers.

They'd sent a woman and a man,
and it was the small, slight woman who spoke.

"Emily Carrera?"

"Yes. Sorry… just woke
up…"

"We'd like you to come down
to the station. We've some questions for you."

Like a tired cliché, the first
thing she could think of to say was, "Am I under arrest?"

The woman nearly smiled.
"No. You can refuse." She said it in a tone of voice that suggested
that no-one ever refused. Emily nodded and ran a hand through her matted hair.

"Can I possibly freshen up?
Just two minutes? Please, come in."

The officers glanced at each
other, and the man gave a slight nod.

"Sure," the woman said.
"I'm PC Taylor and this is PC Gibbs. We'll wait in your living room."

Emily staggered into the
bathroom, clutching some fresh clothes, and fired the shower on. She didn't
want to piss the officers off by making them wait, but she had to sluice off
the murk of the previous evening. She didn't think they'd barge in and wrestle
her out of the shower.

After the quickest shower in the
history of hygiene, she emerged, hair still dripping wet, dressed in baggy
jeans and a long sweater. The police officers hadn't sat down, and were clearly
keen to go.

There was something about the act
of sitting in the back of a police car that made her feel incredibly guilty.
She was acutely conscious of passers-by.
What would the neighbours say?
She
almost laughed at her paranoia. It was worse than walking into her brother's
law offices, and she squirmed.

"Is everything all
right?" PC Gibbs, the man, was in the passenger seat, and looking back at
her.

"Yes, sorry. Nothing. It's
all a bit surreal. But I kind of expected this."

The journey was swift and she found
herself in a part of a police station that she'd never expected to see. PC
Taylor almost apologised for taking her into the custody suite. "I'd have
used one of the other interview rooms but they're all booked up. This isn't so
nice, and you're not under arrest so we'll not go through the process of
booking you in. Er, would you like a cup of tea?"

"It's vile," PC Gibbs
offered helpfully. "It's out of a machine."

"Yes please."

"You are properly hung over,
aren't you? Okay, then. Life in your own hands, and all that. Milk,
sugar?"

"Milk, no sugar."

"Julie Andrews coming
up."

"Huh?" Emily looked
quizzically at PC Gibbs but he had scurried off.

PC Taylor took Emily through to a
small room with grey plastic seats matching the grey lino and scuffed grey
walls. "White, none. White nun. Geddit?"

"Oh god."

PC Taylor smiled a warm, genuine
smile. "Yup, you didn't bank on ending up with the comedy police officers,
did you? Anyway, it's Inspector Kelly that wants a word. He'll be along
directly."

Emily sat on the slippery chair
and wove her fingers together as PC Taylor fiddled with the tape recorder on
the table in front of them. Eventually her tea arrived in a beige plastic cup,
accompanied by an older man with a bald head and impressive grey sideburns. PC
Gibbs disappeared again, but PC Taylor stayed, and the tape recorder was
flicked on.

"Do you know why you're
here?"

The Inspector clearly wasn't for
beating about the bush, and Emily took a deep breath. All she could do was tell
the truth, and hope to god that Turner would tell the truth too.

"Because of the phone call I
made last night, telling you about a robbery that was about to take place at
the off-licence on West Road."

"That's right. Go over the
details again for me, if you will."

And so Emily explained that she
knew about Turner and Riggers' plans. She told them about Riggers and his idea
that photos would somehow incriminate her in the plot. She told them about how
Turner had decided that the robbery should be foiled.

"But why? Why did he still
go through with it?"

Emily smiled grimly. "It was
the only way to bring Riggers - sorry, Andrew Rigby - down for sure. Oh god,
that sounds like entrapment or something." She started to regret what
she'd said, and stumbled to a halt.

The Inspector folded his arms and
sat back in his chair while PC Taylor, next to him, leaned forward and nodded
encouragement. "But it also incriminated Turner Black."

"Yes," said Emily, and
felt a surge of pride. "Because he's committed crimes, and he knows he
needs to pay his debt."

"Crimes?" The
Inspector's interest was piqued and he sat forward abruptly. "Go on."

Emily outlined what she knew -
only the barest details, but hopefully Turner would be filling them in on
everything. It was a huge gamble, but turning evidence like this could be in
his favour.

But whether it was in his favour,
or against him, Turner had decided that enough was enough. And a clean break
could only be got if he wiped out all his previous crimes.

PC Taylor voiced her concern.
"But why on earth does he feel the need to confess all of this? Not that
we're complaining. But why does he want you to tell us?"

"Have you spoken to him
yet?" Emily asked.

"We're asking the
questions," the Inspector said, but Emily surmised that they had, and she
hoped that he'd confessed like he said he would. Their stories - their
truths
- had to match.

"He wants to make a fresh
start. But he can't do that with unconvicted crimes dogging him. They're all
potential blackmail things. And morally, too."

"Morals!" Both police
officers seemed taken aback. PC Taylor twitched her mouth but the Inspector
outright hooted. "Morals only happen when it suits people."

"Maybe it does suit him,
then, right now," Emily said stubbornly.

"You're defending him…"
PC Taylor said softly, and there was a light of understanding in her eyes.
"You're in a relationship with him."

"Of course she is," the
Inspector said dismissively, but Emily looked at the woman police officer and
knew that she knew what it meant.

"He's going straight for
me," she said very quietly, aware of how dramatic that sounded. And how
naïve.

PC Taylor nodded, and the
Inspector rolled his eyes sceptically. "Okay, then. He's discovered a
sudden sense of guilt. Tell me more about the past crimes, if you will."

Emily played with the now-cold
plastic cup, and plunged back into her recitation of his past misdemeanours.
Her stomach was starting to rumble, at odds with the hangover headache that was
also kicking in with a vengeance. She had a feeling that it was going to be a
very long morning.

* * * *

It was mid-morning and Turner
waited in the interview room for his solicitor to return. The room was chilly
but he didn't mind. He hadn't slept, what with the arrest, the midnight
interview, the low, hard bed in the cell and the constant noise. The coolness
of the small room kept him alert.

The door was unlocked and Matthew
entered, looking impossibly dapper as always. He placed his briefcase on the
table with great care, and flipped the catches before sitting opposite Turner.

Turner didn't speak. He just raised
one eyebrow. He'd already accepted he wasn't getting bail.

"Approved."

"What?" Turner was
stunned. "You're joking."

"I am not a joker."

State the bleeding obvious
.
"Sorry. But how? No way have the police granted bail."

"Your prison sentence is all
run out, so they can't recall you under probation. They looked at the
circumstances and felt you were unlikely to abscond."

"Conditions?"

"None. The magistrates may
impose or modify that, of course; they may even cancel the bail. But the police
can't, and haven't, set any limits."

Turner shook his head in
disbelief. "I told them
everything.
"

"And they seemed to believe
you. It may have gone in your favour."

"Christ. Fantastic!"
Turner started to grin, and he sat forward in delight. "Thank you!"

Matthew Carrera didn't return the
smile. He shuffled some papers in his briefcase, and Turner noticed his hand
was shaking slightly. When he studied Matthew's face a little more, he realised
the solicitor was furious.

"I ought to advise you that
you are certainly looking at a custodial sentence when this comes to court. The
fact that you've asked these other crimes to be taken into consideration may
help your case, but it will still be a relatively lengthy sentence."

"What about Andrew
Rigby?"

"I am not his
solicitor."

"Please, though, you must
know things. You legal types talk to each other. Please tell me he's being sent
down, too."

Matthew gave a slight shrug.
"I am not going to breach any professional confidentiality." Then his
demeanour shifted and he slammed the briefcase closed, removing the barrier
between them. "But while we are talking about professional conduct, I
would like to tell you that if you go near my sister ever again, I will find
you, and I will not be acting as a solicitor. I will not be acting professionally.
Do you understand what I am saying?"

"Are you threatening
me?" Turner could hardly believe it, coming from the slender, neat man in
his tailored suit and well-groomed ambience.