Death Line by Maureen Carter Read Free Book Online Page B

off the record, obviously.”
    “Nah.” She blew on a steaming mug of builder’s tea. “Knight wants a lid on it. See how it pans out.” Lancelot was adamant. The latest development was on a
need-to-know basis. Not a peep to anyone, especially the press.
    “Nice.”
    He’d lost her. “What?”
    “Pan. Lid. Nice one.”
    “Hey, mate!” Three second pause. “Hear that?”
    “What?”
    “The sound of eyes rolling.”
    A mock guffaw down the line. “God, I love a woman who makes me laugh.”
    “Sod off, Tyler.” Smiling wryly she ended the call, went back to her homework studying Roland Haines’s criminal record. For an inoffensive looking bloke, he’d pulled some
nasty stunts: flashing, lewd behaviour, child pornography, indecent assault, sex with a minor. He’d spent twelve of his forty-two sleazy years doing time. She checked her watch; Lancelot
should’ve got his act together by now. He’d been liaising long enough with Bristol cops, hopefully he’d have something to pull out of the interview hat.
    She drained her mug, blew pastry off the paperwork. No doubt about it: Roly had been a very naughty boy.
    But was he a murderer?

10
    “I. Did. Not. Do. It.” The stint in the holding cell had sobered Haines. He wasn’t going to make the judge’s bench any time soon, but ramrod straight,
arms crossed tight, he sat in a hardback chair in Interview Room One, skewering Lancelot with an unblinking stare. Bev clocked the ill-fitting, well-worn navy suit, the narrow tie that was in situ
despite the sauna heat, the neat side-parting. Yep. Mr Conventional just about covered it. She cut the DCI a glance; though Knight was a sight more aesthetic than the tired surroundings, she
doubted that was why Haines was giving him the dubious benefit of his undivided focus. The unwavering eye contact was more likely aimed at relaying what appeared to be the absolute conviction of
his innocence. I didn’t do it was pretty unequivocal, wasn’t it? But then he would say that, wouldn’t he? And apart from initially furnishing them with what sounded like a
frankly flimsy alibi, the flat denial was all he’d uttered, albeit half a dozen times. As for turning down a brief prior to the interview kicking off? Cocky? Confident? Could go either
way.
    Bev crossed her legs, flicked a loose thread of cotton from her trousers. Just about the only sound in the deliberate police silence was the swishing of tapes, audio and video. The chewed biro
in her hand was superfluous, other than giving itchy fingers something to do apart from close round Haines’s scrawny neck. She sat at the DCI’s right, observing, assessing, mainly
Haines, to a lesser extent the DCI. Not being au fait with his interview technique, she needed to pick up subtle signs, intuit when he wanted her to jump in, or not. So far he’d been
politeness on legs. Well, bum.
    Swishing tapes, ticking clock, gurgling pipe. Stares that could be called hard. Or defiant. The silence wasn’t working. Haines was playing the same game. Bev pictured a little boy’s
body on a slab in the morgue. This was no game. Why didn’t the gaffer go for it?
    “You were seen, Mr Haines.” Knight rose, made a slow circuit of the metal table, came to rest against a pea green wall, hands in pockets, ankles crossed. “As you’re
aware, we have a witness.”
    “Maybe so.” Casual shrug. “But they didn’t see me.”
    Hoo-flipping-ray. Bev tapped the pen on her thigh. Haines had changed the record, if not his tune. They waited. Waited some more. Haines fidgeted in his seat, all shifty-eyed. Fact that Knight
had positioned himself just out of Haines’s eye-line was deliberate far as Bev could see. Since the get-go the suspect had barely acknowledged her presence; now he wouldn’t even look at
her. Could be telling. Though Christ knew what. Issues with women? Scared? Revolted? Certainly uncomfortable.
    Knight upped the ante. Maybe anti. “Sergeant?” The anonymous call