Free Flawed by Jo Bannister

everything they're told, even when they very much want it to be true. ‘Couldn't say, Charlie, not yet. I haven't spoken to her myself. I got the heads-up from Customs. It seems Miss Weekes was found in possession of slightly more cocaine than most people would have for personal use. In fact, a suitcase full. She was looking for something to trade it down and this is what she came up with. She was there when Terry Walsh met with other nonlaw-abiding citizens to plan their non-legitimate business activities.’
    Voss pondered. ‘Even if she's telling the truth, won't it be her word against his? If she's willing to grass him up, I'm guessing the affair is over. Courts tend to be pretty sceptical of the motives of former mistresses.’
    ‘Understandably,’ nodded Hyde. ‘To be honest, I'm not sure how good a witness she'll make. Maybe terrible; maybe so bad we'd be crazy to use her. That doesn't mean we can't use what she tells us.
    ‘Walsh is a clever man, Charlie, he must be to have got away with this for so long; and what he's been cleverest of all about is keeping his head down. Never giving us a handle on him. We
know
he's a crook, we know that's where his money comes from, but we've never had facts and figures – who, what, where, when, how much. What I need – maybe all I need – is a way in. Like one of those little silver gismos that let you open an oyster. If I can crack open the shell I can get at the good stuff inside. That's what I'm hoping to get from Susan Weekes. Some facts I can check, some names I can lean on.’
    ‘Is she in custody?’
    ‘With a Louis Vuitton full of crack? What do you think?’
    According to the custody record, Susan Weekes was thirtysix. Maybe, on a good day, she could pass for thirty. This was not a good day. Tears had wrought havoc with the expert make-up. She wasn't crying now but her eyes were hollow with despair.
    Yesterday she'd had breakfast in Paris with a man called Michel, who helped her pack the results of a shopping spree into her car and bade her a safe journey as he waved her off. It was a sunny February day, she was looking forward to the drive. She had all her life ahead of her, and a nice little earner to help her enjoy it. She had lunch in Calais, and afternoon tea on the EuroStar, and everything went smoothly right up to the point that she left the train.
    She had supper in a back room of the Customs shed in Dover.
    Today she'd spoken to a solicitor, and to a number of different police officers, and for the last couple of hours she'd been waiting for a detective inspector from the Serious Organised Crime Agency. She didn't know exactly how much trouble she was in. She knew they'd been ready to throw the book at her when they opened her suitcase, but she'd been given to understand that the weight of the book might be negotiable. It might be a family bible, it might be a Booker Prize contender, it might be an airport lounge paperback, all depending on what she could offer in return.
    What they expected, what they wanted, was that she'd give them Michel. But that was more than her life was worth. He was a charming and attentive companion, handsome, urbane and knowledgeable on the fine arts; but Susan Weekes knewthat if she so much as nodded a traffic warden in his direction he'd have her killed. In France, in England, under an assumed name, following plastic surgery. He'd do it from a prison cell if he had to. To make a point; like his fellow-countryman Napoleon, who liked to shoot a general from time to time
pour encourager les autres.
So Michel was safe. She'd spent a desperate hour looking for something else she could trade with.
    And now here were two new police officers, one of them a woman. ‘Tell us about Terry Walsh.’
    The big hair had gone a bit flat over the last twelve hours. The mascara had run and the eyes were scared. ‘What do you want to know?’
    ‘What he's up to,’ said Hyde. ‘How he does it. How I prove it.’
    ‘What do I