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Someone was setting me up for Gabe’s murder. They had to be. From what Malik had just said—no sign of forced entry, no evidence of an intruder—this wasn’t a case of mistaken identity or a botched burglary. This was a hit, by someone good enough to break in and kill Gabe without leaving any kind of evidence, and now they were covering their tracks by framing me. And unless they’d made a mistake, which they hadn’t so far, it would come down to whether Malik believed me when I said that I hadn’t taken out that policy.
My hands were trembling. I remembered back when I first started going out on jobs, the way I would get the shakes beforehand. I remembered Gabe kneeling in front of me. Breathe in through your nose, three, two, one… out through your mouth, three, two, one. In through the nose, three, two, one… out through the mouth. You’ve got this.
I found I was breathing, slowly, shudderingly, my teeth clenched against the panic. Think, Jack, think. You’ve got this.
Okay. So I couldn’t confide in Malik. She’d made it very plain that all she was waiting for was evidence of my guilt—and if I showed her that email, I would be handing that to her on a plate. Could I delete the email? That would remove it from the server, and might buy me some time, at least until the solicitor got here, but I was clearly on their radar. It was almost certain they had set up some kind of backup on my phone, to make sure I didn’t wipe any incriminating data. It was what Gabe would have done, I was sure of that. And I knew enough from talking to him to know that nothing is ever really destroyed, not just by pressing delete and emptying the recycle bin. If they had me in their sights, they would comb that phone until they found something.
On the other hand, if they’d seen the email already, and clocked me deleting it off the server… well, that would just about finish me. It would look like I was attempting to destroy evidence. So no. I couldn’t do that. It would be suicide.
But sitting here with the email lurking in my inbox, waiting for someone to read it, that felt equally impossible. It would be just a matter of counting down to my arrest. And if that happened, I had absolutely no confidence that Miles and Malik would find Gabe’s killer. As far as Malik was concerned, I was already guilty—the email would be the final nail in my coffin. I could have coped—almost—with being arrested for something I hadn’t done, even the idea of going to trial for it, but what I couldn’t cope with was the idea of Gabe’s killer walking around out there, free and laughing at us both. By the time my case got to court, no matter what the verdict, whoever had done this would probably have fled the country, covering up their tracks and making it impossible to ever get justice.
So that was it. Two choices—hand Malik the email now or wait for her to find it—both of which almost certainly ended up with Gabe’s killer going free.
Or could I… The thought came to me, almost as an impossibility. Could I just… leave? I wasn’t under arrest, after all. Not yet. I was, what had Miles called it? Attending voluntarily. But then I remembered Malik’s words at the start of the interview. You can leave at any time. However, a decision to arrest may apply should that happen and you decide to leave without being interviewed.
That was what that had meant—that veiled threat. You are here voluntarily—but we’ll arrest you if you try to leave.
Fuck. Fuck.
In through the nose, three, two, one… But I hadn’t got this. I hadn’t got this at all. I was flailing, and badly. If only, if only Gabe had been here, whispering in my ear via the headset, or better yet sitting beside me, real and warm and inexpressibly reassuring. But he wasn’t. I was alone. And I had no idea what to do.
I was sitting, my head in my hands, trying to figure out my options, when the door handle turned and Miles’s smiling face came through the gap.
“Hiya, Jack, sorry for the delay, we were just trying to get hold of your solicitor. She’s on her way; she’ll be about twenty minutes. Would you like a drink of anything? Tea? Coffee?”
“Um…” I swallowed, hoping that the maelstrom of emotions churning inside me didn’t show on my face. Think of it as a job—this is just another job. You’re playing a role. “Um, yes, thanks so much. Tea would be great.” He nodded and was turning to leave when something occurred to me. “Decaf, if you have it. Or even peppermint? But don’t worry if you haven’t got any, normal’s just fine.”
Miles looked doubtful.
“Yeah, I’m not sure if we’ll have any of that, but I’ll have a look.”
I let out a shuddering breath as he shut the door. I didn’t want tea and I certainly didn’t care whether it was decaf, but I had banked on kindly, well-meaning Miles trying to make it happen, and even a few minutes’ delay as he asked around his colleagues for whether anyone had peppermint tea was a few minutes in my favor.
Because, somehow, a realization had settled over me—a cold, hard certainty.
I wasn’t waiting here to get arrested for a crime I hadn’t committed. I was getting out.
I forced myself to sit very still as I listened to Miles’s footsteps disappearing down the corridor. When at last the sound faded I stood and walked to the door. My heart was hammering, but I made myself breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. This was just another job. I’d done this a hundred times before, hadn’t I?
In my head, I rehearsed the stories I would use if I was challenged. If Malik or Miles caught me, I would say I was on the way to the toilet. If someone else found me, I would give a false name. Kate was a good one. No surname unless they pressed me, but there were enough Kates around my age that there was always a strong chance of finding one in any organization. Beyond that, I would have to improvise. I wasn’t dressed smartly enough to pass as a solicitor and I didn’t have any of my usual kit. This would be down to whatever I could find in the station, and how far I could blag my way out of any given situation.
Miles had turned left, Malik presumably right, but by the sounds of it Malik had been going to find a colleague, which meant there was a strong chance she would be closeted in an office somewhere, whereas Miles might be returning with the tea any moment. Besides, right was the way I had come, and my best chance at finding the main exit.
I turned right. The corridor led past a row of interview rooms, offices, and closed doors. I walked quickly and purposefully, my coat slung over my arm, trying to look like someone who belonged, someone with places to go and people to see.
Left at the corner. Straight on past some kind of locker room. Then a T junction where I had to turn… damn, I couldn’t remember. I hesitated, trying to recall the route I’d taken with Malik that day. Normally, on a real job, I paid close attention to the building’s layout, but an hour ago it would never have occurred to me that I could end up in this situation, and I hadn’t made any particular effort to remember our route. I shut my eyes, trying to visualize the turns we’d taken. Past the entrance desk. Through a door. Along a corridor past a photocopy room and then… left… surely? Yes, left. Which meant I had to turn right.
I turned, walking swiftly along the deserted corridor, and my spirits gave a little glad leap as I recognized the open door with the photocopier inside. I was on track. This whole thing was almost too easy. A few minutes, maybe less, and I would be outside in the fresh air.
And then I got to the door.
I remembered coming through it the other way, but now I remembered something else, Malik tapping something to the left of the doorway. At the time I hadn’t even thought about it—I’d just assumed she’d pushed some kind of release button, but now I saw it: a beige plastic card reader. Presumably she had been holding some kind of fob or card, and it was that she’d tapped against the reader. Shit. Shit. There was a “break glass” fire alarm button next to the reader which might unlock the door for safety reasons, but it was a big gamble—too big for me to risk. If I set off an alarm it would bring every officer in the building running towards the exit—and me.
What could I do? With my tools I could possibly have forced the metal plate—it looked like a simple electromagnetic contact—but I had nothing but the clothes I was standing up in. Was there a way around, or a back exit? Arrests were an occupational hazard for pen testers, and from the rare occasion that I had got as far as the custody suite, I knew that they were extremely secure, but that the rest of the police station wasn’t usually Fort Knox. When I was dating Jeff, for example, the station he worked at—but I pushed that thought away. I couldn’t deal with thinking of Jeff right now. Encountering him would be the only way this situation could get worse.
Suddenly I heard footsteps, a woman’s shoes, coming from around the corner of the corridor. Should I stand my ground? Try to tailgate through the door? But it might be Malik—in which case I’d be sunk.
I dithered for what felt like an eternity but was probably only a second or two, then at the last minute I lost my nerve and ducked into the photocopier room, bending over the copier as the person passed behind me. It wasn’t Malik. I couldn’t see exactly who it was, but I could tell from the shape that it was someone older and heavier. She paused at the door, and I heard the click of the reader activating, then she passed through.
