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Amelia followed suit, her measuredsteps a stark contrast to the turmoil swirling within Finn. They exited theinterview room, silence enveloping them like a shroud until they reached theadjacent observation room where Rob awaited, his expression unreadable behindthe reflective surface of the two-way mirror.
"Did you get all that?"Finn asked, eyes not leaving the mirror, half-expecting Maggie's reflection toreveal some hidden clue.
"Every word," Robconfirmed, his tone flat, the weight of procedure pressing down upon them.
"Vilne's involved," Finnasserted, the name tasting bitter on his tongue. "Facilitating thissomehow."
"Right now, we've only got herword for it," Rob replied, skepticism lacing his words. "And withouta solid alibi—"
"Trust me," Finninterjected, the memory of his pursuit of Vilne in America searing through thefog of fatigue. "Vilne manipulates. He pulls the strings and puts othersin harm’s way." His hands clenched involuntarily, the frustrationpalpable.
"Be that as it may," Robsaid, meeting Finn's gaze with a steadiness that bordered on challenge,"without an alibi, we have no choice but to move against Beckett."
Finn’s gaze lingered on the doorthrough which Maggie Beckett had disappeared, her plea echoing in his mind. Heturned to Rob, who was already preparing to leave the observation room, theweight of authority clear in his stance.
"Rob," Finn started, hisvoice steady despite the fatigue that clawed at him. "We need to considergiving Beckett's friend immunity."
Rob stopped mid-stride, a frowncreasing his brow. "Immunity?"
"If she comes forward to vouchfor Beckett's whereabouts during the murders," Finn clarified, leaningagainst the cold wall, feeling it leech into his bones. "But we'd need tocheck for reliability, it's possible the friend could make up the alibi. Eitherway, I think immunity might be worth it."
“That’s not usual protocol,though,” Rob said.
“But it is something the HomeOffice could do for us, isn’t it?” Amelia added.
Rob mulled it over, his face a maskof contemplation. "Alright," he conceded with a nod, recognizing thelogic in Finn's request. "But I want her statement first thing." Withthat, he strode out, leaving the room feeling suddenly larger, emptier.
In the sudden quiet, Amelia movedcloser to Finn. Her hand reached up, her touch light as a whisper against hischeek, pulling his weary attention towards her. "That was very kind ofyou," she said, her voice a gentle murmur amidst the clamor of the day’sevents.
Finn offered a lopsided smile, thegesture not quite reaching his eyes. "Beckett deserves a fair shake if heralibi is true," he replied, trying to shrug off the heaviness thatenveloped him.
Amelia studied him for a longmoment, her concern evident even as she maintained her professional composure."I think we should get some sleep," she suggested, her voice imbuedwith a soft firmness that brooked no argument.
"Sleep," Finn echoed,humor finding its way to the surface despite the gravity of their casework. Hewanted to joke about Amelia joining him, but his tired brain stopped him fromstepping over that seedy line. "Or we could go for a late-night datesomewhere?"
The corners of Amelia's lips liftedinto an amused smile as she headed for the door. "You wish," shetossed back over her shoulder as she exited.
Left alone, Finn let out a breathhe hadn't realized he'd been holding, the shadows of the room creeping aroundhim. Thoughts of the case, of Maggie Beckett and Max Vilne, spun through hismind like a carousel gaining speed, but he pushed them away for now. Sleep wascalling, a siren song he couldn't ignore any longer.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dampness clung to the air like asecond skin, seeping into the very bones of anyone brave — or foolish — enoughto tread these forgotten depths. The underground tunnel snaked beneath London'sbustling lifeblood, a desolate artery where only shadows and vermin dared todwell. The silence here was a living, breathing entity, punctuated only by thesoft scuttling of rats. They darted between the tracks, their tiny heartsthrumming with a survival instinct that mirrored his own purposeful intent.
The killer's footsteps echoed, asteady rhythm against the rough-hewn walls, each step resonating with singularfocus. His mind, a well-oiled machine, whirred with thoughts of the next kill.Anticipation tightened his muscles, yet outwardly he remained as calm as thestone that surrounded him. There was no room for emotion here — not fear, notexcitement. Just the task at hand. Just the thirst that needed quenching.
Ahead, the dark maw of a shaftloomed. He approached, eyes adjusting to the abyss that beckoned him upward.With practiced ease, he scaled the rungs embedded in the wall, ascending fromthe bowels of the earth towards the night's canvas. The city's underbellyreleased him reluctantly, exhaling a breath as if expelling him from itssecrets.
He emerged into a waste ground, anurban graveyard where the discarded and forgotten found their final restingplace. The moon, a sliver of indifference in the sky, cast long, claw-likeshadows that twisted amongst the rubble and detritus. A fence stood sentinel,its chain links a feeble barrier to the world beyond. He made quick work of theclimb, his movements silent and assured, dropping down on the other side with amuted thud.
The outskirts of society unfoldedbefore him. Here, amidst the cardboard kingdoms and tattered sleeping bags,London's homeless lay scattered like fallen leaves. They paid him no heed, toowrapped up in their own tales of woe and survival. Their faces were etched withlife's hardships, each wrinkle a testament to battles fought and lost.
He moved among them, a specterunseen, weaving through the patchwork of human despair with a grace that beliedhis intentions. They were all potential witnesses, but he knew they sawnothing. Invisibility was his ally in this place; it cloaked him just aseffectively as the darkness did.
The killer's pulse thrummed with arhythm that mirrored the frenetic heartbeat of the city itself. Hisanticipation was a living thing, coiled tight within his chest, ready to springforth into glorious action. This kill would be a spectacle, one that would drawthe consultant detective and his stoic Inspector into an ever-tightening web ofintrigue. Henry Walsh, the unsuspecting streamer with a military buzz cut,would soon play his part in this grand design.
A quiet street corner unfoldedbefore him, bathed in the sickly yellow of a solitary streetlamp. There stoodhis quarry, silhouetted against the dim glow, a figure of digital fame about tobe snuffed out by hands that sculpted death. The killer's shadow merged withthe darkness as he observed Walsh, who checked his watch with growingimpatience. It was almost time.
The sudden vibration against histhigh broke the killer's deadly reverie. A message, its contents a leashtugging at his autonomy. Max Vilne’s name flashed on the screen, a puppeteerpulling unseen strings. The text was succinct, a command disguised as abargain: a message for Finn must accompany the body, or the final piece of theTempus Engine would remain elusive.
