From what he read she seemed an unlikely terrorist. But she knew the Arab. They had spoken to each other. Cole had seen them. Could it all be a clever cover? Like a sleeper cell? Most people on Twitter condemned her, so she must have done something. The police wanted her too. They said it on the TV, so it must be true. Called her a potential accomplice. And the stuck-up bint dissed both him and Daz. In Cole’s mind, it all added up. Everyone else thought she was guilty, and Cole promised himself Alice Madsen would pay for Daz and all the others.
15
Alice tugged at the skin on her knuckle while Ian went to the front door. She heard voices that carried authority and menace despite indistinct words. The footsteps were heavy in the hall and she got to her feet. As the figures loomed in the lounge doorway, she smoothed her hair and watched them walk towards her.
The older one in a dark suit offered his hand. “DI Colin Marks and my colleague, DS Barry Gilmore. We’re from Counter Terrorism Command. SO15.”
She shook hands with both, and each used a grip stronger than needed. Gilmore was attractive in a rough way, but Marks was plain rough, as if he’d encountered too much bad on the job, and either couldn’t, or wouldn’t do anything to prevent the taint.
Marks gestured at the armchair for her to sit, while he plonked himself onto the sofa. Gilmore followed his lead, lowering himself with one arm. When seated, Gilmore picked up a notebook and scribbled in it.
“We need to ask you some questions,” Marks said. “Mr. Morgan will leave us. Okay?”
Alice took a breath. “I guess.” Ian nodded at everyone and slipped away.
Marks pointed at the wine glass on the table. “How much have you had to drink tonight, Alice?”
She shrugged. “Dunno. It’s hard to tell.”
“I see.”
She giggled. “Sorry. It’s just, you know...”
Both officers stared at her. No smiles. Just cold and serious. Plain rough. Marks broke the silence. “May I suggest a coffee?”
“All right. All right.” She got to her feet and held onto the back of the chair with one hand. “Ian? Ian?”
Marks grimaced and exchanged a look with Gilmore. They muttered to each other, low enough for her not to hear. Ian appeared in the doorway. “Yes?”
“Would you get a coffee for me please? Perhaps our guests would like one?”
“We’re fine thank you,” Marks said. “Please, Alice. Sit down.”
She slumped into the chair. “Sorry, officer. Is that right? Officer?”
“Detective will do.”
“Okay then. Detective it is. How can I help?”
“Tell us about Samir Hassan first.”
“He worked with us on a GMP gig...” She stopped at Marks’ raised brow. “Oh. I thought you knew. It’s an acronym for Grange Michael Productions, the company I worked with. Anyway, I remember him because he spoke Danish.”
Marks waited a beat, “What kind of work did he do?”
“He drove a van. Moved equipment around. There were several sets. He was more of an emergency gofer. You know? We’d call up this company when we need extra transport and they’d send someone out. Sometimes it was him, other times it would be, like, someone else.”
Marks joined his hands together and cracked his knuckles. “The name of the transport company?”
She pursed her lips and looked at the floor. Her gaze wandered to the detectives’ feet. Marks’s shoes needed a polish.
“Alice? Do you remember?” Marks asked.
Ian entered and handed Alice a mug of coffee. “It’s black,” Alice said. “You know I prefer latte.”
“Sorry,” Ian said. “You had a few drinks...”
She waved her hand at him. “It’s okay. I’ll drink it.”
Marks continuing stare made her uneasy. He didn't take his eyes off her and said nothing until the door clicked shut after Ian. “Alice. This is serious. I can bring you down to the station where you will spend the night. And I assure you, the facilities will not be as comfortable as those available here. Best drink your coffee and answer my questions.”
Alice blinked several times. She scratched at an itch on her neck. Then she ran her hand along her forehead. The air was warm and humid, and she was sure she could see a damp sheen on her fingertips. In her head, she sought year-old memories. “It was a small company. It might have been Peter’s Transport. Or Peter’s something. I don't know. I could ask someone from the job on Monday. Would that help?”
Marks ignored her. “You said the terrorist spoke Danish?”
“Yes. I am Danish.”
“We know.”
“Oh. Right. You probably know more about me than Ian.” She smiled at Marks, but he betrayed no emotion or any sign of empathy. Her thoughts jumbled, and she cursed the alcohol. Then she cursed Samir for being a terrorist, Ian for being Ian, and she damned the hatred and threats on Twitter. She sipped at the coffee. “Ow. It’s hot.”
Marks held his direct gaze. “Did he ever talk to you about his background?”
She shook her head. “I remember he told me he wasn't in the UK long and his English wasn't great. He was born outside Copenhagen. A place called Hellerup. That's about it. I would confirm instructions to him in Danish. You know, like a translator. I think someone complained about his language skills.”
“Did you have a personal relationship with him?”
Alice rubbed her nose. “Me? With a guy like him? Yeah, right.”
“You sure about that?”
Alice smiled at Marks. “He wasn’t in my league. Too young. Too...” She waved a dismissive hand in the air. “...foreign.”
“I see.” Marks took a deep breath and coughed. He wiped his mouth with a tissue he pulled from his pocket. “Witnesses say you spoke to him this afternoon. Before he
