Hostage by Clare Mackintosh

TWO

9 A.M. | ADAM

“The boss wants to see you.”

Acid gnaws at my insides as I fight to arrange myself into something resembling normal. Has anything good ever come of those six words?

“Oh. Right.” I sit at my desk, my hands suddenly too big, too awkward, as if I’m in front of a huge audience instead of just Wei’s curious gaze.

“She’s in with the chief at the moment.”

“Thanks.” I frown at my screen. Flick through the papers on my desk as though I’m looking for something. I’ve got a charge file to put together for a robbery; statements to take for an assault that could end up as murder if the guy doesn’t pull through—work I need to focus on, that demands my attention—only instead I’m sweating into my collar and wondering if this is it. If this is the end. I sense Wei looking at me and wonder if he already knows what Butler wants to see me about.

Soft flakes of snow settle on the other side of the windowsill. Inside, an ignored phone call transfers from one empty desk to another until someone takes pity on the caller and picks up. I find the GBH file and scan the list of witnesses. I can be out of the office all day, dealing with this lot, and if I miss a message from the boss, well, I was taking a statement or on the phone to Victim Support. I stuff the file into my rucksack and stand up.

“On your way to my office, I hope?”

The voice is light, almost pleasant, but I’m not reassured. I’ve seen enough police officers welcomed with a smile into Detective Inspector Naomi Butler’s office before leaving half an hour later with the countersigned copy of a formal complaint screwed up in their bitter fist.

“Actually, I’ve got to—”

“This won’t take long.”

Butler doesn’t give me a chance to argue, walking out of the office and along the corridor toward her own so I have no choice but to follow. She’s wearing white Converse with pinstripe trousers, a gray silk blouse tucked into a leopard-print belt. A tiny, silver ring circles the top of one ear. I follow her, a kid on his way to the head teacher’s office, mentally listing all the reasons she might need to see me and ending up with the only one that matters. The one that could lose me everything.

When Naomi Butler took over as DI, she dragged the heavy desk away from the window and moved it to face the glass door she now closes, meaning I have no choice but to sit with my back to the corridor. I know with complete certainty that in the next few minutes, Wei will find a reason to walk past, with the sole purpose of determining what level of dressing-down I am about to receive. I straighten. You can tell a lot from a person’s back, and I could do without Wei running back to tell the rest of the team I was slumped in the boss’s office.

“How are things?” Butler smiles, but her eyes are flinty. They fix mine so firmly, it hurts, and I have to blink to break the lock. One point to Butler. The biker jacket she wears whatever the weather hangs on the back of her chair, and as she leans back, the leather creaks a complaint. There’s a police radio on her desk, tuned to the local channel. Rumor has it Butler never turns it off, even at home, rocking up at any job that piques her interest.

“Great.”

“I understand you’ve had some domestic issues.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” Surely she’s not about to give me marriage guidance? I glance at the pale band of skin around her fourth finger and wonder who walked out on whom. She sees me looking—of course she does—and her smile disappears.

“You’ve got a job phone?”

I’m thrown off guard. It’s a question, of sorts, but one to which she knows the answer, meaning this is merely her way in.

“Yes.”

She reads my phone number from her notebook, and I nod. The urge to run away is so strong, I have to grip the sides of my chair to stop myself from standing up.

“Finance flagged your phone bill.”

Silence hangs heavy between us, both of us waiting for the other to fill it. I crack first. Even when you know the rules, it’s hard to stop yourself from playing the game. Two-nil to Butler.

“Have they?”

“It’s significantly higher than anyone else’s in the department.”

I can feel a bead of sweat trickling down the side of my face. If I wipe it away, she’ll see. I turn my head slightly, only to feel a matching trickle on the other side.

“I had that mugging victim. The one who moved to France.”

The DI nods slowly. “I see.”

More silence. I’ve never seen Butler in a suspect interview, but she’s reputed to be shit hot, and right now, that doesn’t surprise me. Her gaze is rock steady, and I can’t find a way to return it that doesn’t feel defensive, doesn’t look guilty. My pulse races; a muscle in the corner of my left eye flickers. Butler can’t help but notice. She’ll see it all. And she’ll know I’m lying.

She closes her notebook, leans back in her chair, as if to say, The hard bit’s over—we’re off the record now, but I’m not fooled. Every one of my muscles is tight, as though I’m on the starting blocks, about to take off. I think of Mina, on her way to work, and for all that I didn’t want her to go, I’m glad it’s another five days till I have to face her again.

“They’re sending me an itemized bill,” Butler says. “But if there’s anything you want to share in the meantime…”

I find a frown, as if I’ve got no idea what she’s talking about.

“Because I’m assuming you’re aware that job phones aren’t to be used to make personal calls.”

“Of course.”

“Right, then.”

I take my cue and stand up. Say, “Thank you,” without thought as to why. For the heads-up, I suppose, the chance to prepare a defense, although the world’s finest barristers couldn’t spin together enough of a story to get me out of this one.

What happened with Katya is the least of my problems.

Once Butler sees that phone bill, it’s over.