Free Blood Lines by Grace Monroe

me?’
    I tried not to raise my voice because I didn’t want the neighbours to hear. This wasn’t the kind of area where the polis came calling.
    He ignored me and went through the routine.
    ‘You are not obliged to say anything. If you do say anything, it may be taken down and used against you in a court of law.’
    ‘Can’t you at least come in and say your piece?’ I fought the tears.
    ‘Get your shoes, Brodie.’ He’d given up looking at me when he spoke.
    ‘Duncan – can’t you be reasonable?’
    ‘I’ll come in – while you get your shoes.’
    Detective Inspector Duncan Bancho stood silent and stony-faced whilst I put my bike boots back on.
    ‘It’s a few years since I’ve been here, Brodie, but this place has gone downhill,’ he said. I got ready and walked down the stairs with Bancho. I sat like an automaton in the back of the police car, mercifully unaware during the journey to St Leonard’s.
    Sergeant Munro was on the front desk. Did that man ever go home? He was restrained and businesslike as he took my details. I even saw a spark of pity in the his eyes. Then I knew I was in trouble. I couldn’t afford to lie down and let DI Bancho kick me.
    ‘Are you going to tell me what this is about?’ I asked, as I sat down on a hard plastic chair in the interview room.
    Duncan nodded curtly at his colleague. ‘Detective Constable Margaret Malone will be assisting me today,’ Bancho informed the tape machine.
    DC Malone smiled across at me. She looked as if she must have put weight on recently; either that or she had shrunk her shirt in the wash, because the buttons were straining fit to burst. Her wispy blonde hair was in a bun at the nape of her neck, and she looked more like an air hostess for a budget airline than WPC Plod.
    ‘Call me Peggy,’ she said as she reached over and shook my hand.
    Peggy responded to Bancho’s unspoken put-down.
    ‘What? It’s not as if she’s your average criminal. She’s entitled to be treated with a bit of civility.’
    Duncan’s eyes flickered with anger, but interestingly he said nothing. Peggy, on the other hand, lifted her chin and looked up into his eyes. It was obvious that she had just put him back in his place and I couldn’t help but smile.
    Peggy Malone bent over the table, her tight black skirt clinging to her. Duncan Bancho stared at her, entranced, probably hypnotised by the hip–waist ratio of the creature in front of him who was fiddling with his recording device. I gratefully watched this domestic tableau, because it meant that he was ignoring me.
    Bancho walked up and down, towering over me. He left for five minutes but it seemed like an eternity.
    ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Peggy broke the silence and smiled at me.
    ‘She’s getting nothing at the moment,’ said Bancho, walking back in.
    ‘Are you two playing good cop, bad cop with me?’ I asked.
    Peggy smiled again.
    ‘Do you want us to inform anyone that you are here?’ Her voice was quite posh, obviously well-educated – probably from a good girls’ school. What had made her join the police?
    Normally, this was the stage when I got a call from my clients.
    ‘No. No one.’
    I was too ashamed.
    ‘Well, everyone probably knows already – you know what the jungle drums are like when they get a piece of news as tasty as this one.’
    Duncan spoke this time, glad to stick the boot in. Peggy looked as if he had personally slapped her. Either she was really excellent in her role as the good cop or she was in the wrong profession.
    ‘If they’re talking about me they’re leaving some other poor sod alone.’ I feigned a bravado I wasn’t feeling; even I could hear the crack in my voice.
    Bancho sat down opposite me. After explaining who was present and the date and time, he threw a newspaper at me, an updated version of the story that Kailash had read out.
    ‘So? Cattanach is missing. What’s that got to do with me?’
    ‘Jesus, Brodie – I thought you were supposed to