Chapter 43
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
DRAKE
The recording flickers, horizontal lines scoring the image in a hundred places before they chase each other up and off the screen. A car creeps along the road, bonnet nudging into the park ahead of it as the driver idles.
“Do you recognise this vehicle?” Detective Chalmers asks, leaning forward, flashing a reserved smile. The dude’s been ‘building rapport’ since I got here, sympathising over the tough year I’ve had, clicking his tongue over reports.
He organised a meal outside what the station provides, sending some poor underling in search of cheap fast food just to show, he gets it, he’s down with the kids.
It makes me want to fuck with him so bad.
I would if my life weren’t on the line.
There’s no way I’m spending thirty years locked up because some fat chemist got himself slaughtered. Not when everything just started to fit together, giving me hope for the future.
Not when the girl I’ve adored since primary school just told me she loved me. In front of the police, no less. Which means she can’t ever take it back. It’s evidence.
Inside, I glow at the idea while my face stays resolutely still.
Number one rule of Boot Camp.
Don’t give the fuckers anything for free.
“No comment.”
I slouch in my chair, thumbs hooked around the back support poles, one leg stretched in front.
It’s my car.
Any moron could tell from the license plate.
The questions aren’t to elicit the requested information but to get me to talk in the hope I won’t stop.
Good luck with that.
“These images were taken by CCTV in the street behind the pharmacy. The alleyway here”—the detective uses the base of his pen to circle the screen—“cuts through to the rear driveway of the corner shops.”
That wasn’t even a question and raising his eyebrows in a social prompt doesn’t turn it into one, but I’m too polite to point this out to him.
“No comment.”
“The images were taken at twelve forty-five last night. Where were you at that time, Mr Arlington?”
He had asked to call me Blaine. I refused.
A weight settles on my shoulders as my eyes return to the screen.
It’s my vehicle but at the time in question, I was tucked in bed. Sound asleep.
And I didn’t go sleepwalking because Cadence was tucked in there with me. She would have noticed if I went walkabout.
In another situation, I’d point out the multitude of cameras in the house could prove my innocence. They only need to ask Arnold or request the footage from the security company, and it will be plain as day.
Ten minutes of perusing a screen and they’d have to release me.
Except I’m not stupid enough to believe that’s what the internal cameras would show. Not when my vehicle should be at the panel beaters to repair the damage to the front fender.
My head gives a warning thump and my left eye waters. Twelve forty-five and even if the mechanics wanted to take the vehicle for a joyride, there’s no reason they’d be in the pharmacy's vicinity.
The whole idea is a non-starter.
Especially when the footage shows my car still has the damage from game night. It hasn’t been sitting in a garage this week, undergoing repairs.
“Please answer the question.”
The detective’s voice grows an edge, and I keep my eyes focused on the middle distance, a faint smirk the only expression on my face. “No comment.”
“Your lawyer may have advised you not to speak to us, but the sooner we know if you’re involved, the sooner you’ll be able to leave the station.”
Except judging from the screen, someone’s worked very hard to make sure I won’t ever be able to leave the station.
Why else would the driver park my car in full view of a camera yet be careful to keep himself away from the lens?
The shadowy figure of the driver never walks past the camera lens. There isn’t enough footage to show it’s not me.
At this rate, I won’t be leaving custody for a few decades.
It’s hard to swallow. I unhook my thumbs and pick up the glass of water that’s sat untouched in front of me this entire interview, taking a mouthful, then struggling to get it down.
Unless Cadence woke one day with a sudden craving for vengeance, the only people who could have targeted the pharmacist are Arnold or Raelene.
Raelene has a motive. Her improved circumstances could disappear in an instant if the truth about her old prescription habits were revealed. The same threat I’d used on Cadence a few weeks ago.
But I doubt she has the motivation to plan such an attack, let alone the willpower to carry it through. She goes to bed early and is barely awake at the breakfast table.
The entire idea is laughable.
Which means the only credible suspect is Arnold. and why the fuck would he care enough to risk everything he owns to this pursuit?
I’m still thinking as the police pack me back to the cells where I lie on the moulded plastic bed, staring at the pockmarks of soundproofing on the ceiling.
Arnold might be butt hurt his new obsession used to suck off a fat man for drugs. Even being ninety-nine percent certain Cadence lied to me, I’d experienced the trauma of believing—just a little—that what she said might be true.
To know it for a fact would be unbearable.
If the man had forced Cadence to do that, I would have torched his shop, no question. At that time of night, I doubt it would occur to me someone might be working inside. Not unless the lights made that plain.
But if it was Arnold, the next question is why he used my car and the answer to that question isn’t good any way I slice it.
I turn onto my side, staring at the wall, wondering how long until they let me have a phone call.
The peephole slides across a few hours later and a disembodied eye peeks through the gap before opening the door. “Your transport’s here.”
I get onto a van set out with individual segments for remand prisoners. There’s not even a line of sight to the other men, though they make enough noise to let me know they’re there.
It’s a forty-minute drive to the men’s prison. Forty minutes until I’ll be booked in and able to phone.
Much as I’d love to hear Cadence’s voice, I’d prefer to see her.
We’re ten minutes into the journey when I poke my tongue into the pocket between gums and cheek, teasing out the paper clip I palmed earlier.
My stomach twists with dread, thinking of how Cadence must have immediately called Arnold. And my dad, the man I now believe is a killer framing me for his crime, drove her home to her mentally ill addict of a mother.
A woman who can barely fend for herself, let alone protect her daughter.
I have to make it home to her.
I should be there already.
Panic makes my palms sweaty, and I rub my fingertips dry against my pants, gripping the small tool firmly. If I drop it, the game’s lost. There’s no way I can bend with the restraints.
My mind clears.
My eyes focus.
And I put the trick I learned at boot camp to the test. How to unlock an individual prisoner transport cage using a paperclip.
One shot.
Don’t fuck it up.