Page 6 of Cruel Hearts

“This is no laughing matter.” He sounded like he was building up to a rant.

“If I may?” asked DCI Cromar.

I raised my head. Detective Constable McPhie slid into the seat opposite. The man was about five or six years older than me with lank, blond hair, pink cheeks, and hazel eyes brimming with a teachers-pet level of enthusiasm.

After the detective chief inspector repeated the standard caution that anything I said could be used against me in court, he asked, “How long have you been supplying cocaine to the students of Templar Academy?”

Mr. Burgh inhaled through his teeth, and the solicitor placed a hand on his wrist. My shoulders bunched up around my ears. This was the kind of asshole question meant to have me gibbering panicked denials and desperate to make a deal to snitch on anyone to get my freedom.

I leaned forward and stared into the detective’s smug face. He’d made a mistake by hauling me into an interview the night before for that bizarre little chat. It had revealed that he was more interested in Billy Hancock than in me, and he’d also told me how Elizabeth had achieved the feat of getting me arrested. Another mistake the police had made was to leave me overnight to piece everything together.

“Cocaine?” I tilted my head to the side. “Where on earth would you get such an idea?”

“The police raided your bedroom at Templar Academy and found a block of—”

“Are my fingerprints on this block?”

DCI Cromar froze.

The stirrings of triumph soothed the fluttering of my stomach, and I straightened. “Well, detective? Would you like to reply to my question? Did you find my fingerprints anywhere on the item that was planted in my room?”

Detective Constable McPhie piped up. “A forensics-savvy criminal would know to use gloves when—”

“Answer my client’s question,” the solicitor snapped.

“No.” DCI Cromar glanced down at his pile of documents. “Miss Hancock’s fingerprints were not on the block.”

I rested my forearms on the table and leaned forward. “What other evidence do you have that the block belongs to me and wasn’t planted by someone else?”

The two detectives exchanged helpless glances.

I turned to Mr. Burgh, hoping he could see that my arrest had been a set-up, but the man remained stony-faced.

The solicitor cleared her throat. “If you have no evidence against my client, I suggest you release her immediately and expunge her fingerprints from your records.”

Nobody spoke for several moments. Folding my arms, I sat back in my seat and waited for these bungling cops to admit defeat. Elizabeth had clearly wasted their time. The words danced on the tip of my tongue, but I held them back.

The police wouldn’t have sent out such a huge team on an anonymous tip-off—I had learned that years ago when I had tried to tell them about Billy Hancock’s cocaine haul. They just wouldn’t mobilize so many officers and dogs on the say-so of someone who wouldn’t leave their name and explain their connection with the criminal.

Elizabeth had used her familial connections—this Camden Liddell person—to arrange that raid. I knew this. She knew this. And most importantly of all, the police knew this, too.

“Tests indicate traces of cocaine on the outside of the block,” said DCI Cromar.

Mr. Burgh frowned. “What was inside?”

“Cooking flour,” replied the detective constable.

“Oh dear,” said the solicitor with a sigh. “You’ve wasted all these resources and arrested an innocent young girl because of a school prank.”

I bit down on the inside of my cheek to suppress a smirk. Things were going well, but I wasn’t about to celebrate until I was safely out of the police station.

DCI Cromar leaned forward. “There’s another possibility that Miss Hancock intended to sell flour to students under the pretenses it was cocaine.”

“That’s far-fetched, even for you,” said the solicitor in a tone that implied that she knew the detective chief inspector but found him unimpressive.

With a scowl, DCI Cromar said, “For the purposes of the recording, Detective Constable McPhie is showing Miss Hancock exhibit AS-two, a roll of fifty-pound notes.”

The younger detective pushed forward an evidence bag containing all my money. My lips tightened along with my insides. That didn’t prove I’d done anything wrong.