Page 39 of Slack Tide Kill

PC Hawlin looked at her a moment longer, then shook himself and checked his screen. "Detainee Rook's in processing. DI Gemmell just arrived and has started the prints." He scrolled further, sneaking another look at Sally. "His solicitor's been called, looks like a pro out of London, so it could be an hour or two before he's ready to get started."

Sally handed back the pen. "Which Rook did we catch?"

"Which Rook, ma'am?"

"There's four, and I know it's not Roarke. Which one?"

"Ah." He glanced back at the screen. "Gabriel Rook. The youngest."

"Thanks. Can you gather everything we've got on him and have it ready for us, ideally in a room to ourselves?"

Hawlin chuckled, then stopped. "Of course. Yes, sorry ma'am. One thing we've got plenty of here is spare rooms."

"Full background workup, family links, any previous contact, and anything he's said since we took him."

"Yes, ma'am." Hawlin hesitated, his eyes flicking over the mud caked on both of them. "And, uh. Showers, perhaps?"

"You have got a full thermal suite here, right?" Liam asked. "Massage, spa service, the works?"

Hawlin chuckled. "Uh, we have showers, sir. Also spare uniforms. Down the corridor, second door on the left. Towels should be in the cupboard just inside."

"Cuffs and a nightstick, too," Sally added. "PAVA spray if you've got it."

"I can't issue weapons, ma'am. The cuffs, I think we can–"

"We'll take whatever you can get," Sally said, and pushed on the access gate. Hawlin buzzed her through.

The corridor beyond was narrow and floored with gray squares of worn carpet, lined with scuff marks and stains. The air held a lingering dampness, old brick swollen with salt winds and rain. They passed several interview rooms, a poky canteen, the sergeant's room then went through a double swing door into an unexpectedly airy open-plan bullpen.

Skylights cut pale rectangles into a high, slanted ceiling, letting in what little daylight the storm clouds allowed. Some 15 double desks filled the space, largely empty and silent but for the low hum of fluorescent lights and the muted clatter of someone moving in custody farther back.

Liam whistled low. "Looks like an extension. Out the back of the old building. Someone got a budget bump and splurged it on this."

Sally headed across the barren space, past a briefing room and several green-carpeted offices.

"Maybe they kitted it out to tackle the small boats?" Liam murmured. "Don't make much sense, otherwise, given the whole place is part-time."

Sally didn't care. It was quiet and still and she liked it. Not like NCA HQ back in Vauxhall.

The locker rooms lay in a corridor off to the left. They collected fresh uniforms and towels and parted at the shower room door with an awkward nod. The women's shower room was little more than a tiled cube with two stalls and a metal bench. Sally stripped, leaving her sodden, scratched up running kit on the floor, and caught a glimpse of herself in a full-length mirror.

Every inch of her body was a washed-out gray where the marsh water had seeped through her clothing. Her arms, legs, face, neck and hair were black by contrast, crusted with mud.

Swamp thing, she reflected. Then she stepped into the shower and cranked up the flow. The moment the hot water hit her shoulders, something inside her unclenched.

Black water spiraled around the drain, thick with marsh silt and dried blood. She peeled the soaked bandages from her calves slowly, wincing as the adhesive dragged at skin already flayed raw by reeds and shingle. Underneath, the cuts looked uglier than she'd thought: long red lacerations crisscrossing both calves, edges swollen, bruises already blooming around them in dark purple.

She leaned one hand against the wall and let the water pound the mud from her hair, massaging the tangle of scar tissue where the Louisiana shooter's bullet had fractured her skull.

One in a million, they'd said. Buried in bodies. As helpless as the boy on the beach. She closed her eyes and just stood there for a time, accepting the darkness.

18 DONE GOOD

When Sally finally stepped out of the shower, steam fogged the mirror above the sink. She wiped a clear patch with the heel of her hand and saw the rich, purple bruise surfacing around her throat.

Her fingers rose and gently probed the swollen flesh. Sensitive, raw, hot.

Roarke Rook's work. Elder brother of the man she was about to interview.