Chapter 55
Chapter fifty-five
“How many more times do I have to say it?” Matty asked. Her mouth was dry, the words sticking as they came out. “I’ve told you, I don’t know anything about it. I just rent a room.”
The detective sat back in his chair and looked at her like he didn’t believe a word she was saying, and it made her want to shout, because he wasn’t seeing what was in front of him.
“I moved there earlier in the year. I got divorced. Sofa-surfed for a bit and then found this house share. That’s all I know.” The strip light above them hummed. It was too bright, making everything feel harsh.
He reached down and brought up a bag—the one she used on her days off.
“That’s my bag!”
His mouth twitched. “Are you confirming this is your bag?”
“Yes, it was in my room. Everything I own is in that room.”
“Right. So these—” He pulled the bag open and took out the two joints she’d bought from Brandon and not thought about since. “Are yours, yes?”
Matty slumped in her seat. “Yes, but it’s not— it’s just personal use. Not what you’re saying it is.”
The detective’s voice stayed calm, “Here’s the thing, Matty… Brandon…the bloke you live with—”
“I do not,” Matty scoffed. “I’m gay. I wouldn’t—”
“Brandon,” he said firmly, “is dealing. You know that, right?”
Matty put her elbows on the table and covered her face. “Yes, I’m aware he dabbles in that.”
“Right. And the other thing I know is that the supplier lives there too.”
Matty looked up and her hair fell into her face. Confusion pinched her features. “Then talk to Sarah.”
He looked at her blankly. “Who’s Sarah?”
“The other woman who lives there.” Matty stared at him. They had to know who lived there.
He glanced at the other officer, who’d stayed silent. She leaned forward. “On paper, it’s just you and Brandon.”
Matty shook her head. “No.” Her hair fell further into her eyes. “No, ask Brandon. Sarah’s got the top-floor room.”
The woman asked, “Why was Dean Fargo in the flat?”
Matty stared at her now. “I don’t know who he is.” The man from the kitchen flashed into her mind. “Do you mean the bloke with Brandon earlier?”
“You tell me,” she said.
Matty shrugged. “First time I’ve seen him. And he gave me the creeps. I was packing a bag. I was going to stay at my girlfriend’s.”
“Your girlfriend? Is she involved?”
Matty’s throat tightened. She swallowed. “No. Sloan wouldn’t—”
“Be honest, Matty. You were packing because you planned to run, right?” the first detective asked. “You got wind about the raid, and you were about to skip town.”
Matty glanced at the clock—just gone seven. She thought of Sloan at home, waiting, worrying.
“My name’s Matilda Bradford. I work at Art-Too part-time, because one job doesn’t cover rent. I also do care work for Gloria Slater.” She swallowed. “Ask them.”
“We might,” the woman said, “when we’re finished questioning you.”
Matty huffed. “Don’t I get a phone call?”
“If you want one, yes,” she answered. “Who do you want to call?”
Sloan. She almost said it. But Sloan didn’t need this, on top of Gloria.
“Do I need a solicitor?”
“It would be advisable,” the male detective said. “We’ll take a break. You decide what you want to do.”
***
“She’s been arrested,” Sloan said the moment Gloria picked up.
“Arrested? The hippie? What for?”
“I don’t know.” Sloan held her palm to her forehead and looked up at the station. Somewhere inside, Matty was being held.
“Must be a mistake, Sloan. I know she’s a bit strange, but she’s a good kid.”
“That’s what I thought,” Sloan said quietly, now not so sure. “I let myself believe that, but really, what do we know about her?”
Gloria didn’t answer fast enough. Sloan kept going.
“Maybe I made a huge mistake? What if I was so desperate to find someone to take care of you that I let a criminal into our home...and my bed?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Sloan, don’t make me get on my scooter, drive into town to find you, just to knock some sense into you.
” Gloria let that settle before adding, “You know who she is, otherwise you’d never have let her in the house, or your bed.
You’re not na?ve. Never have been. Nobody pulls the wool over your eyes. ”
Sloan let out a rough breath and dragged in another.
“Whatever has happened, there’s going to be a reasonable explanation. You just have to find out what it is.”
“Okay, thanks, Mum. I’m at the police station. I’ll go in and see what else I can find out.”
“Alright, let me know.”
“Will do.” Sloan closed the call and stared at the building again. She walked up to the door and gathered up all the strength and courage she could muster and pressed the buzzer. A loud sound went off and the door opened automatically.
She’d only ever been in a police station once, years ago, when she’d been mugged and needed to report her handbag stolen for insurance purposes. Stepping inside, she glanced around. It was clean, at least. The air had that stale, over-warm smell of too many bodies and not enough fresh air.
A large, glassed-in counter sat at the back of the room, and she strode towards it, shoulders tight, waiting as a woman with a crying baby in arms tried to explain she needed to, ‘…speak with a specific officer about the specific things she needed to specifically say to them’.
Sloan tried not to judge. The woman made it difficult.
“Well, what am I supposed to do now?” the woman barked at the man behind the screen, before backing up, almost knocking Sloan over. She twisted the huge pushchair around with one arm and gave Sloan a sideways glare as she bolted towards the door, muttering, “Stuck up bitch.”
Sloan lifted a brow, but she said nothing, just stared at the officer on duty who shook his head slowly.
“Sorry about that. How can I help?”
Sloan stepped closer and bent towards the gap in the glass. Her pulse felt too loud in her throat. “I’m not sure. I think…apparently, there has been some kind of mix up and my…my…” She wanted to say ‘girlfriend’, but it was stuck in her throat. “Sorry. This isn’t… I don’t usually—”
“No problem, take your time,” he reassured.
“Thank you, it’s just, my girlfriend and I were meant to be going to dinner, and she didn’t turn up, and—”
“You can file a missing person report online.”
“No, she’s not missing.”
“Well, I’m not sure relationship issues are our business.”
Sloan shook her head. “No. Please.” She lifted her hands, palms out. “She’s been arrested. And I need to speak with Detective Saint.”
“Right. What’s the name?”
“Sloan Slater.”
He tapped at his computer and pulled his glasses down from his head onto his face but still squinted. “Nope. No Sloan Slater in the—”
“No, I’m Sloan Slater. Sorry, I thought you were asking my name.”
He pursed his lips. “Shall we start again?”
“Matilda Bradford. Matty.”
“Right.” He resumed his search and then sucked his teeth before making an, “ooo,” noise. “Okay, yes, she is here.”
Sloan widened her eyes at him, waiting. “Because?”
“Can’t tell you that.”
“For goodness’ sake. Can I speak to Detective Saint, at least?”
“I can try him, but I’d imagine with this, he might be tied up for a while.”
Sloan’s legs threatened to give. Her heart skipped a beat, and not in a happy, fun way. What the hell was Matty caught up in?