Free Blood Junction by Caroline Carver Page B

sensation of grief and defeat. Jerome passed
     her a cream cotton handkerchief. He stood up, patted her distractedly on the shoulder and walked out of the courtroom. At
     the far end of the room she saw a young man watching her. He was the only spectator. She looked away. She felt like a small
     child as she clutched Jerome’s hanky in her sweaty fist. The constable tugged on her arm and led her outside.

    The following morning India was sitting on her bunk, staring helplessly at the newspapers on her lap. Whitelaw had brought
     them, and seemed to be waiting for her reaction. She was the main story. She was HEADLINE NEWS. Her face, blown up grainy
     and gray from her passport photograph, took up most of the front pages. Like most passport photographs it was unflattering,
     and her pointed chin seemed sharper, her dark curly hair wilder, her nose longer and eyes black as pits and as emotionless.
    Beautiful India Kane in Cooinda custody … Melbourne journalist held on suspicion of murder … Jealous woman accused of killing
     best friend and her lover …
    The Goodmans were reported as being “shocked” and “appalled” at the fate of their house guests. What Lauren’s parents were
     thinking, God alone knew. India thought of Sylvia’s cheery voice on the phone.
    “They’ve already found me guilty,” India said, her tone subdued.
    “Not everyone believes what they read in the papers.”
    “Don’t you?”
    When he didn’t reply, she looked up at him. “Oh my God,” she whispered.
    Whitelaw looked away and took a step back. He folded his arms across his chest.
    “You know I’m innocent, don’t you?” She felt a rush of energy and jumped to her feet. She barely noticed the newspapers sliding
     to the floor. “Let me go! You can do that, can’t you?”
    “No, I can’t. It’s not only Stan who refuses to accept that Frank Goodman’s your alibi but Judge—”
    “But you’re a
detective!
If you think I’m innocent, I shouldn’t be here!”
    “Keep your voice down,” he hissed. With a shock she saw sweat beaded on his brow.
    “Jesus Christ, Whitelaw, what the hell’s going on? What’s put the wind up you? Is there a police conspiracy going down or
     what?”
    He walked to the cell gate and shouted for Donna.
    “Whitelaw,” she said warningly. “This is my third day in this jail.”
    He didn’t respond but waited until Donna had unlocked the gate, let him through and locked it behind him. He turned his head
     slightly towards India. “Anything I can get you?”
    “A cake with a file in it.”
    Whitelaw walked away without looking back.
    Face pressed against the bars, India watched him follow Donna down the corridor. Think positive, she told herself. Whitelaw
     thinks you’re innocent. Don’t think about why he won’t or can’t help you right now. You’ve a friend on the inside. That’s
     got to be good.
    She turned her mind to her friend on the outside, Tom Worthington, and wondered whether he’d found Scotto. Without his help
     she stood little chance of regaining her freedom. She had discovered that banks didn’t care to loan money to someone charged
     with murder and whose address was Cooinda jail.
    Dispirited, she went and slumped back on her bunk. She couldn’t face the newspapers, so she lay down and tried to sleep.

    Whitelaw returned two hours later. He gave her a handful of books and put a poinsettia beside her bunk. India was astonished.
    “Is this an apology?”
    He turned the poinsettia a fraction so the petals faced into the cell.
    “Whitelaw?”
    “We can’t talk here.” His voice was low.
    “Shall I get Donna to take me to the Ladies’? Then you can—”
    “We can’t. Not in the station.”
    She digested this along with his anxiety. “Okay, I get the message.” She inhaled deeply and exhaled several times. She rotated
     her shoulders to ease the tension in her neck. A bone popped audibly. “I need a massage,” she said. “Or maybe shiatsu. Any
     massage