Free Blood Junction by Caroline Carver

you naked.”
    India turned off the shower and dried herself. She rubbed her hair with the towel and wrapped it around her while she smothered
     her body with moisturizer. She combed out her hair before she got dressed. Tan jeans, yellow shirt, big brown belt. Refusing
     to rush, she carefully repacked her backpack.
    Eventually, she wiped the small mirror above the washbasin clear. Her face was sallow and gaunt, and her normally olive skin
     had a gray tinge. There was a bluish bruise on her jaw, not particularly noticeable, but it was sore when she touched it.
     She stood there for a moment, fingers against the bruise, staring numbly at her reflection.
Jesus. How did I get here? How do I get out?
She closed her eyes.
I must remain strong,
she told herself, strong as iron as steel as rock.
    Straightening her shoulders, she turned from the mirror, picked up her backpack and returned to the corridor. Donna took her
     backpack and made to walk her to the interview room.
    “Could I make one more phone call?” India said.
    Donna glanced up and down the empty corridor. “If you make it short. Stan’s going ballistic.” She hustled India into reception.
    It took her two attempts before she got the number right. Asked for Mr. Tremain.
    “RonTremain speaking,” a curt male voice said.
    “Um,” said India, “sorry, this might come as a bit of a surprise. I’m trying to track down a relative of mine, on my mother’s
     side. Her family came from Cooinda, you see. Their name was Tremain.”
    “Well,” said Ron Tremain. “I can tell you straight up that you’ve got the wrong mob. We’re not from Cooinda, we’re from New
     Zealand. Moved here five years ago. My parents emigrated to New Zealand from Germany in the thirties. My grandparents are
     still in Germany. None of them have ever been to Cooinda.”
    “What about any other Tremains? Do you know any in or around Cooinda?”
    “Nope.” He paused, as though thinking. “You tried the phone book?”
    “Yes. You’re the only Tremain listed.”
    “The electoral role?”
    “I’ll do that.”
    “Good luck.”
    India rubbed at the frown between her eyes. Had Lauren really found her grandfather? Or had she also seen Ron Tremain in the
     phone book and simply used it as an excuse to get her friend to Cooinda? Right then it didn’t seem to matter because Donna
     started leading her to the interview room.

S EVEN
    J EROME WAS SITTING ON ONE SIDE OF THE TABLE , Whitelaw and Stan the other. All three men appeared to be contemplating a single buff-colored folder, four cups of coffee
     and a plate of granular sugared doughnuts.
    India greeted her lawyer and sat down. Whitelaw immediately pressed the Play button of the tape recorder and leaned forward.
    “We need to know where the weapon is. The weapon that killed the two victims. Can you help us?”
    She took a gulp of her coffee, then picked up a doughnut, unsure if she could eat it or not. She’d never felt less like eating
     in her life but knew she had to keep up her strength. She bit into the doughnut and started chewing. The sound of crunching
     sugar seemed to fill the small interview room.
    “For fuck’s sake—” Stan started to say but Whitelaw held up a hand and the senior sergeant fell silent, looked away. The muscles
     in his jaw bulged with the effort to restrain himself.
    India didn’t allow her surprise to show. She’d thought Stan would be leading the interview, but something had obviously occurred
     and it was Whitelaw who was in charge today.
    “Anything you might remember about the evening of the eleventh, when you heard the shot, would be helpful.”
    India chewed slowly, concentrating on the yeasty warmth and teeth-edging sweetness of cheaply manufactured jam. She glanced
     at Jerome’s watch—eight-thirty-five—and continued to eat.
    “If you’re not careful, Miss Kane,” said Whitelaw, “we might start to believe you have something to hide.”
    The shower and doughnut had revived her,