Free The Bluebonnet Betrayal by Marty Wingate Page A

Pru had to look away.
Why won’t they cover her up?
she thought.
    “Excuse me, ma’am,” a PC said to her. “Would you come this way?” He pointed to the rest of the ARGS group.
    Pru joined them and Forde staggered out from behind the shed, a handkerchief to his mouth. One of the suited men held out his identification—badge and warrant card. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector French and this is Detective Sergeant Chalk, Metropolitan Police. I understand you all knew the deceased. I realize this is an upsetting event for you, but we are going to need to speak to each of you about Ms. Woodford.” He looked from face to face, lingering for a fraction of a second on Pru.
    Pru looked away, but not before she had taken quick stock of DCI French. He was at least fifteen years younger than she. He looked to be of Asian descent, but light-skinned, his straight hair, neatly parted, more blond than brown. His mild-looking face revealed nothing.
    “I’m sure you all understand the gravity of this situation,” he continued, “and that’s why we’ll need to collect your passports and hold them while we look into what’s happened.”
    The Austin women looked at each other. “We don’t have them with us,” Rosette said.
    “Understood,” French replied calmly. “DS Chalk will accompany you back to your accommodations when we’re finished here. Right now, we’ve a room set aside where you can all sit and have a cup of tea as we chat with each of you.”
    Well, wasn’t that a lovely way to say that the police will question you as to your whereabouts and your relationship with Twyla Woodford. Pru took a step to follow, but was met with DCI French’s arm barring her way.
    “May I have a word?” he asked, and with one gesture moved her a few steps away from the rest of the group. Pru glanced back at them as they gathered up bags and clung to one another, following the PCs to a nearby building.
    “I know who you are, Ms. Parke.”
    He got her attention, but she was stunned into silence.
    “What I mean to say is that I have the greatest respect for Inspector”—French caught himself and started again—“Mr. Pearse, but he is no longer with the Metropolitan Police. Of course, you know that, but I want to make it clear that as he is no longer associated with the Met, he has no jurisdiction, no power, no ability to involve himself in any of its investigations. And neither do you. I thought it better to state this clearly at the start.”
    Pru opened her mouth, trying to force a few words out, but couldn’t settle on what those words should be. She heard the edge of an accusation in his statement—aimed at her more than Christopher—as if French warned her off because he believed she made it her habit to interfere with police proceedings, which was completely untrue. Almost untrue. As she searched for a reply, her phone rang.
    “I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, Ms. Parke, but it’s the way things are,” French said, nodding toward her phone. “And Mr. Pearse will tell you the same thing.”
    French left, and Pru moved to the back of the garden as she answered.
    “Christopher?” she whispered, although she didn’t need to—no one was near her. But better that than to have her voice break.
    “Are you all right?”
    “Yes, yes, but how did you…”
    “Who was it?”
    So he hadn’t heard—at least, hadn’t heard details.
    “Twyla.” She just managed that much. Shock, anger, revulsion, sadness, fear—Pru felt as if she could barely keep her head above the sea of emotions that threatened to drown her. She turned her mouth away from the phone and gasped for air, before asking, “How did you hear?”
    “I arrived at the station just before the call came in. French left, and it’s taken me until now to find out where he’d gone. Are you giving statements there?”
    The tone of his voice, as much husband as detective, gave her the courage to continue. “Yes, they’re taking us into one of the buildings.