Chapter Twenty Dealing with the Facts
Chapter twenty
Dealing with the Facts
Everything blurred.
Jude was dazed. Confused. Numb. The world moved around him at double speed while he stood frozen in the middle of it.
He could hear Callum. His screaming and the spit-flecked insults, fighting Warren holding him.
Then, as if on a switch, Callum’s tone shifted, oily threats sliding through his teeth: promises of lawyers, revenge, the smug promise that none of this would stick.
That he had contacts. He was untouchable and this was now a bigger problem.
Delirious.
The man was delirious.
He heard Warren too. Not Warren. DS Beckford. That clipped, controlled tone, low-level aggression sheathed in professionalism, his stance squared and immovable as he kept Callum locked tight until the cavalry arrived.
Blue lights flashed across wet brick. Radios crackled. Uniforms swarmed.
Jude was almost certain Freddie was among them.
He didn’t need to see him. He could sense him.
That familiar aftershave, the one Jude had liked when Freddie wore it on one of their dates to mask his heavy shift.
The scent lodged sharp in his throat, taking him back to the time he’d taken the first step to rediscovering himself. And now it all crashed down to this.
Orders cut across the chaos. Warren barking them with authority. Freddie’s voice responding, flat and efficient: “Yes, Sarge.”
Sarge.
That word made Jude’s stomach pitch. Freddie calling Warren Sarge, as if the whole world had known who he was except him.
Freddie might have looked at him. Wanted to talk to him.
But responsibility and protocol took precedent, and he had to force Callum into the back of a police vehicle, knees buckling, head clipped by a palm as they shoved him inside the caged rear seat.
The door slammed. Sirens wailed again, carrying him away into the night, leaving Jude stranded.
Alone.
Except not alone.
“Jude?”
The sound of his name pulled him back. He blinked. Wrapped his arms tight around himself. If he didn’t, he’d fall apart. Warren stepped in front of him, close enough to touch, then clamped one hand around his arm, stroking his thumb across his sleeve.
“Hey,” he said, low and quiet. Gentle and cautious. “You okay?”
Was he okay?
No. No, he wasn’t.
But Jude couldn’t make the words leave his mouth.
He stared straight through him, into nothing, because looking at Warren — this Warren — made the bottom fall out of everything.
Soon enough, the thumb stroking his arm vanished, snapped back as tyres crackled on tarmac and another car pulled up.
No blue lights, but official. Jude could feel it in the way the uniforms straightened, the hush following.
And when a woman stepped out, long coat, hair pinned neatly, presence heavy, Warren changed.
“Ma’am.” Warren dipped his head in respect.
And that single word hammered the nail in.
Jude’s knees nearly buckled. Because there was no pretending. Warren wasn’t Warren. He was Detective Sergeant Beckford. And Jude wasn’t just a man who’d woken in someone’s bed this morning. He was a witness. A victim. A liability. Standing dazed in the wreckage of a lie.
“Mr Ellison?” The woman approached with calm authority, hand extended. “Detective Inspector Patel. I’m overseeing the arrest.”
Jude inhaled sharply, dragging himself back into his body enough to clasp her hand. Slow. Timid. Unsure who was real anymore, and who wore yet another mask.
“I imagine you have a lot of questions,” Patel said.
“For now, what’s important is you. You’ve just witnessed a serious incident, and you’ve been directly threatened by the suspect.
We’ll need to take a formal statement from you at the station.
” She glanced briefly towards Warren, then back to Jude.
“We’ll arrange for you to be transported there, and you’ll be treated as a priority witness. ”
The words filtered through fog, and Jude turned, eyes dragging to Warren.
Warren’s—Beckford’s—expression was tight, unreadable. “S’okay,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “We’re on your side.”
Jude tilted his head, confusion cutting through the numbness. “We?”
No answer. Warren looked away.
“DS Beckford,” Patel’s voice cut clean through the space. “You’re required at debrief immediately.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” The response was crisp, automatic.
Patel turned back to Jude, her voice gentling.
“Mr Ellison, if you’ll come with me? You’ll be looked after at the station.
We’ll explain everything once you’re settled, and an officer will take your statement.
You’re not in any trouble. You’re a victim in this matter.
You’ll also be offered a liaison officer for support.
But first, we need to get you safe.” She gestured towards the waiting car.
Jude glanced one last time towards Warren, standing stiff in the road with his warrant card around his neck. The man Jude thought he knew was gone.
He’d never existed.
Too good to be true.
So Jude stepped forward, because what choice did he have?
“I need to call work…” He shook his head, reality crashing around him. “I need to get to school.”
“That’s been handled, Mr Ellison.” Patel gave his shoulder a light pat, steering him towards the waiting car. “This is DI Havers. He’ll take over from here.”
The officer at the door gave a short nod and Patel pulled the rear door open for Jude to slide inside.
The seat was cold beneath him, the smell of vinyl and stale coffee pressing close.
The door shut with a solid thud, sealing him in.
And through the window, Warren stood rigid, arms folded, Patel in front of him, her face stern, words sharp enough to cut.
But Warren wasn’t looking at her.
He fixed his gaze on Jude. Locked and unwavering until the car pulled away. And Jude sat there, throat tight, staring back until the turn in the road swallowed Warren out of sight.
And out of his life.
* * * *
When Jude got to the station, it was a blur of activity.
He barely remembered walking through the automatic doors, only the sudden glare of strip lighting and the heavy security door clanging shut behind him.
He was processed. Not booked like a suspect, but still signed in, name logged, time stamped.
A constable offered tea, coffee, water, his voice calm as if reading from a script designed to soothe.
A Victim Liaison Officer introduced herself to him.
She took his details, explained what would happen: that he was a witness, that his safety was the priority, that support services could be arranged if needed.
Jude’s ears buzzed. But he nodded, signed, scrawled where she pointed.
Then before he could even blink, he was ushered into a square interview room where it was all blank walls, a table bolted to the floor and two chairs on one side, one on the other.
A recording device sat at the centre, already primed, little red light glowing.
They were going to take his statement.
But no one had told him about Warren.
Not in the car. Not in the station. Not here.
And yet, despite everything—Callum’s knife at Warren’s throat, the arrest, the chaos—all he could think about was Warren.
Who was he? Had every word been a lie? Even that morning in the shower?
Had it been real, or another tactic in some undercover playbook?
And why? Why him? Why had the police been watching him all along?
What did that make Jude to Warren? Target? Asset? Mistake?
The questions tore at him, one after another, relentless. But the worst one, the one he didn’t want to touch and still couldn’t shake, circled back like a blade against bone:
Would he ever see him again?
The door clicked open.
“Mr Ellison, thank you for coming in.” DI Havers sat across from him, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled, tie loosened. “For the record, I’m DI Havers, and also in the room is your Victim Liaison Officer, Ms Clarence, who you’ve already met.”
Havers slid a notepad onto the desk but didn’t open it, he folded his hands instead.
“Before we start, I need to remind you, you’re here as a witness and as a victim. You’re not under investigation. The purpose of this interview is to record your account. The interview is being audio recorded. Do you understand?”
Jude nodded. The words landed, but hollow. He understood procedure. What he didn’t understand was Warren.
Havers gave a short nod to the recording device. “For the record, can you confirm your full name?”
“Jude Ellison.”
“Thank you.” Havers leaned forward. “Alright. I’d like you to talk me through what happened this morning. Start from the beginning, in your own words.”
Jude stared past him, at the grey wall behind.
Where did he want him to start? With the shower?
With a man he’d thought was a colleague, someone he was stupidly falling for, stepped in behind him, whispering how good he felt in his hand and asking him to fall apart for him?
Did he want him to say how he’d sank to his knees, taken DS Beckford into his mouth, swallowed him down, believing—wanting—Warren Bailey?
Only Warren Bailey didn’t exist.
So he omitted that part. For sanity.
“I left…” His tongue stuck on the name. He couldn’t force it out. “…the house. I went to my car to head to work, and that’s when Callum came out of nowhere. He held a knife to—” His stomach clenched. He had to say it. “—to Warren’s throat.”
Havers nodded, pen scratching. “Do you have any idea how Callum Reid knew where you were?”
“No.” Jude shook his head. “I’d never been there before myself. I’d been… sleeping in my car.” He let out a bitter laugh that died in his throat. “And I was offered… an alternative.”