“How does that struggle look like?”
“Part of me wants to curl up in the corner and disappear, part of me wants to run away, part of me wants to punch everyone who looks sideways at me, that kind of struggle.”
Constable Richards surprises me, laughing out loud a deep belly laugh. His eyes show no falsehood, but mirth about my response.
“I hope I’m not in danger of being punched anytime soon.”
“No, you’re safe.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I can assure you, I’ve seen nothing so far that would show you to be deranged or dangerous, as your sister-in-law claims.”
“Please, don’t call her that. She’s not my sister-in-law. I told you Patrick Armstrong found evidence that she’s Horace Reid’s wife since 1973, long before I was even born. They faked the wedding and marriage to lay their hands on my parent’s wealth.”
“My apologies, I wasn’t thinking.”
“She’s very keen to have me out of the way, why else would she go to the trouble and have me brought on the Southern Belle.”
“I agree. I hope you understand that we have to check the facts you alluded to. When we arrive in Wellington, my colleagues from the Wellington Crime Squad will take over. I’ll pass on the tape from our interview. Because there is an active arrest warrant, they will take you into custody. I have no doubt that you will be released on bail. I can assure you, we are not corrupt. We will not rest until we resolve your case. The fact that Helen Reid had you and the children kidnapped will make it easier.
I look at him and let out a long sigh. Part of me can’t believe our ordeal is over. Tears well up in my eyes. They are not my tears. I wouldn’t cry at a time like this. The Tribe, however, has been highly strung like Robin Hood’s bow, fearing the worst from the moment they captured us at Scott’s cabin.
I hear Ama inside calming the children and Sky says, “We won this battle, but the war isn’t over yet.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Elise: 6 December 2015, Wellington, Police Station
They had to arrest me. After all, they couldn’t ignore the warrant that was out for me. Officer Blake takes my statement in stops and starts, letting his troubled gaze wander from me, sitting in front of him, to my face staring down at him from a four-color wanted poster pinned on the notice board next to him. His confusion is understandable. It probably doesn’t happen every day that he interviews a victim of a violent crime who has a murder charge hanging over her head.
Despite the dilemma he found himself in, Officer Blake was friendly and understanding of my unique situation. He must have realized that I’m not a Ma Baker kind of person, planning to shoot my way to freedom. Not yet in any case.
“It’s not right. I’m not happy to lock you up after the ordeal you had.”
On charm offensive, I pull out all stops to ease his troubled mind. All I all need tonight is a safe space to sort through the events of the last few days and figure out how we think and feel about things.
“I don’t mind. Please, don’t worry about me. I have no other place to go to. At least in here I’m safe and have a roof over my head.”
I couldn’t tell whether I made it better or worse for him. His face contorted into a pained expression, but knowing him only for ten minutes, it could also be the special smile he used for situations like this.
They have to put me in a temporary police cell. I get it. The size takes me by surprise. The way they manage to squeeze a bed, a toilet, and a washbasin in this shoebox-size cubicle deserves a special prize at the annual prison-cell designer’s convention. Besides that, the police bosses should be commended, too. They didn’t waste any precious taxpayer dollars on frivolities like a poster of nature or a calendar featuring iconic New Zealand sights. I shouldn’t be too cynical. We don’t want to mollycoddle the local scum now, do we?
I didn’t mind the sparse cell. There is something comforting about being swaddled in a tight blanket like a newborn. It’s calming and solves the problem of what to do and where to go in one decisive sweep. It might be barren, and it might take getting used to sleeping with your head close to the toilet bowl; but at least I was on my own, a luxury I craved more than anything after the last thirty-six hours.
I slept like a baby. There is a sense of safety in knowing nothing untoward can get to you.
The next morning, I manage not to fall into the toilet when I get up, which I chalk up as a success. I’m impressed as the officer opens the door and hands me a tray with breakfast, hot tea and three slices of toast with jam.
I’m a bit disappointed. I’d hoped for the typical shove-it-under-the-door treatment I’ve seen many times on TV. When the warden comes back and picks up the dishes, he leaves a towel, a piece of soap, and a comb for me. Not being a regular client of the police, I don’t know whether the treatment is standard or not. Either way, I’m glad for the luxury.
“You might want to freshen up. You’re seeing the judge at eleven this morning.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind.” My mouth says these words without hesitation, but inside my head, there is no gratitude. I assume Helen’s and my statements are in direct opposition and which version the judge will believe is anybody’s guess. As so often in the last weeks, I feel like running away, which, in this small cell is ludicrous. I can’t even walk in a circle unless I
