"No, I don't suppose it is," said Sanderson.
Reading the detective's expression, Abbie waited for the other shoe to drop.
"Except you're here until at least tomorrow unless I decide to let you go," he said. "So, I can make it your problem."
"Following my alibi, you have no grounds to hold me."
"I'm sure I can think of something."
"Fine," said Abbie. "Then I've changed my mind. I'd like to contact my attorney, and please remember, I understand my rights. You try to put off contacting my representation, I will report you the second I get out of this cell. Be that in ten minutes or ten hours."
There was a moment of silence, during which detainer and detainee locked eyes. Then Sanderson closed his and released a long, beleaguered breath.
"Francis and Leona Roberts are poison," he said. "They are tearing the soul out of my town. I want to stop them."
"Like I said, not my problem."
"And yet, we have two murders which are tearing innocent families apart, and we have a corrupt, vile couple implicated in both. Then there's you, tangled in the middle, and you say it's wrong place, wrong time, but how come I don't quite buy that? Same way I don't quite buy that what Travis stole from you was this book full of Coronation Street actors, or that you drove here on a whim following a nightmare?"
Abbie looked Sanderson dead in the eye and raised two fingers.
"Two things," she said before dropping the hand. "One, I'm done answering your questions. I want my attorney. And, two, it was Eastenders, not Coronation Street. I told you I was rubbish at Corrie; are you trying to upset me by opening these old wounds?"
"If only I found it so easy to joke about murder and the destruction of peoples lives," said Sanderson.
"Comes with practice," said Abbie.
Sanderson opened his mouth. If he tried to ask her another question, Abbie would ask again for her attorney. She didn't have time to play his games. Not any more.
But he had no more questions. He rose.
"You don't need your attorney," he said. "I'll sign your release papers immediately. Within five minutes, someone will be here to let you go. They'll bring your things. The Stand is unharmed like I promised."
"Thank you," said Abbie. If Sanderson was expecting anything further, he was set to be disappointed. This was a precarious situation. It seemed to be going in the right direction. Abbie feared pushing it back the other way. She did not want to ring Ben and request a lawyer and wouldn't unless Sanderson gave her no other choice.
"I'm going after Leona," said Sanderson. "But I know you're involved in this. I advise you to get out of town. Leave, and don't ever come back."
Tapping the table, he said, "I think if I ever see you again, I'll be able to arrest you a second time. And if I do, I doubt you'll be getting out so quickly."
Turning, he left without Abbie saying a word.
She checked her watch.
It was 11.42 am.
Twenty-Eight
Noon. And someone seemed to have sapped the sun of its power. It hung high above, limp. Despite its presence, the day was gloomy, and there was little warmth to be found at ground level.
Abbie shivered. Goosebumps prickled along her skin, but as well as the cold on the outside, internal shivers rippled across her heart. Shivers of impending failure.
The Nightingale was only a couple of minutes away. For the sixth time, Abbie put the phone to her ear and listened to it ring. Squeezing her eyes shut, she wished for Michael to answer. Unfortunately, she wasn’t wearing Dorothy’s magic slippers. Tapping her heels wouldn’t prevent the call from once more going to voicemail.
This time, she left a message.
“Michael, please answer, I’m worried about you.”
This was true. Ben was obsessive about security. It had been a moment of madness, asking Michael to meet the man who was due to deliver Abbie a weapon.
Following their conversation, Michael would have given the correct code word at the window of the black Vauxhall. In response, would the driver have handed over the package or drawn his gun, shot Michael in the chest, and sped away?
If the latter, rage and misery would consume Abbie. No dream nor nightmare could tempt her to save another life until she had found, tortured, and murdered Ben.
But Ben wouldn’t have. Surely not.
The phone was still to her ear. Abbie chose to carry on as though she knew Michael were alive. As though he was just being a teen, letting his important duties slip so he could get pissed or play video games or touch himself.
“You have to ring me now. Right now,” Abbie said. “You’ve grown up without a dad. You know how much that hurt. Eddie’s going to be a father; he wants to be there for his kid, as all fathers should be. Please, Michael, if you didn’t manage to warn him to stay away from Francis, I need to know. If you have the package, and Eddie hasn’t been warned, I need it now. You need to call me now. Help me save Eddie’s life. Don’t let another kid grow up without a dad.”
Hanging up, she stuffed the phone in her pocket and tried to ignore the guilt which crept through her body.
What if Eddie died? Saving his life was Abbie’s responsibility. It had been her job to collect the gun and to get everything ready at the Nightingale. It had been her job to find Eddie. Letting Ronson sneak up on her was a stupid blunder. Getting arrested was unforgivable.
She’d put too much on Michael. Maybe he had collapsed beneath the pressure. After this call, how would he feel if Eddie died? How could she have heaped such potential life-defining guilt upon the boy when the only one to blame would be her?
Stop it. Don’t think about Michael now. Focus.
Turning a corner, Abbie entered the street on which was situated The Nightingale. Thirty seconds up the road was the nightclub’s
