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Twenty-One

Tuesday 7.30pm

The police car took much less time to get back to the bunker of a police station than it had taken for Charlie to walk in the rain. Both Marion Levine and her un-named friend had been polite in escorting him to the car, though the un-named friend made sure he was aware of her weapon. He asked repeatedly why they wanted to talk to him and got no answers at all. Eventually, Levine shrugged and said, “The FBI are waiting for a warrant for your arrest. We’re taking you in, but they have the questions.” After that, nothing.

Inside, the building was brightly lit. It had to be; there was no natural light. Not on the ground floor anyway. Charlie probably shouldn’t have been surprised that it felt familiar, even though the uniforms and accents were different, and more than half the officers were people of colour. And there were the guns. But it felt like a police station: scuffed floors, officers looking miserably at computer screens; the scent of burned coffee and the detritus from boxes of baked goods. He wondered if they were going to put him in a cell. They did, but they also offered coffee which he accepted, despite expecting it to be disgusting. Being dressed in dry clothes, and the padded jacket he’d hoped not to need, was better than being wet, but he was still cold. If the only hot drink on offer was horrible coffee, that’s what he’d have. He wrapped himself in his jacket and thought about trying to find a lawyer. He still had his phone and wallet. They hadn’t searched him, bar a walk through a metal detector, which made sense, given that they’d seen him get dressed.

Once Marion Levine had brought the coffee, he was alone. The cell could have been underground. It had no window and no sound filtered in from the outside. A bench ran along one side of the wall, with a thin mattress. There was a hole in the door with one way glass. If anyone was watching, all they would have seen was a fair-haired man with a bruised face huddled in a red padded coat. Charlie closed his eyes and tried to think.

Andrew Dwyer had warned Charlie off almost before Charlie had begun to investigate Kaylan’s death. He knew who Dwyer was, but until a few hours ago, all he knew was that Dwyer was Kaylan’s uncle, and that Sabrina credited him with helping her out financially. Now, he knew that Dwyer employed some extremely efficient thugs and he thought threatening Charlie with violence was a winning move. He also knew that Dwyer was involved in a construction project, though he didn’t know exactly where. He could find that out. But the really interesting thing, Charlie thought, was how easily Dwyer’s henchmen had found him in an obscure coffee shop close to the convention centre. Who had told them where he was? Evan from Sully Cybersecurity was one obvious candidate, though he’d seemed genuine. Presumably any of the other cybersecurity people could have followed them and alerted Dwyer. Sabrina could have raised the alarm with her brother if she felt one of them was threatened. But Dwyer had warned Charlie about tarnishing Kaylan’s reputation which was weird. Kaylan’s reputation was already trashed and anyway he was dead. If the warning to Dwyer had come from Sabrina, the implication was that Dwyer or his cohorts had been following Charlie.

And of course, the other candidate for the role of betrayer-in-chief was Brody Murphy.

Murphy had disappeared into thin air. Admittedly Charlie had been distracted, but there had been no sign of Murphy from the moment the two heavies grabbed Charlie. Murphy was a cop. In this country he was armed, and in contact with other police officers. Wouldn’t he have done something?

The coffee was as vile as Charlie had expected and by the time he drank it, it was lukewarm, coating his tongue with a taste of burnt metal, unpleasantly smooth. His hair had begun to dry damply against the collar of his coat. He felt his face gently; tapping his cheeks and the soft spots under his eyes. They hurt. If he could have brought himself to move, he could have looked at his reflection in the mirrored glass in the door to see how bad the damage was going to be. But he was still cold and his limbs were stiff, so he stayed where he was, huddling as deeply into his coat as he could and wishing for one of the big scarves he wore at home in winter. For all he knew, the cell might have been warm. He was cold to his bones.

The door rattled open, and a uniformed officer came in with what looked like an airline food tray, and more coffee. “Dinner,” he said. Charlie said thanks and asked for a blanket. The officer disappeared and returned with a well boiled grey blanket and an even greyer pillow. Then Charlie was alone again with his thoughts. The coffee warmed his hands, and eventually his insides. The food he ignored. He wrapped himself in the blanket, and unexpectedly drifted into a fitful sleep. Much as on the previous day, Charlie lost all track of time.

The door opened so quietly that it took Charlie a moment to wake up. He scrabbled for his phone and saw it was almost six am.

“Come with me,” Murphy said. “You need to get out of here before SA Mead turns up with his warrant.”

Charlie turned his head. Murphy looked tired, though not as tired as Charlie felt.

“I’m serious. Let’s go.”

“You’re a bit fucking late, Murphy. Who’s going to be waiting outside this time?”

“I fucked up, okay? But if you’re still here when Mead arrives, things will get much worse. I’m what you’ve got.”

The only one of the whole boiling that Charlie trusted was Marion Levine. When she said the FBI was coming with a warrant for his arrest, he believed her. He slowly pushed himself to his feet. His stomach muscles screamed and his feet throbbed.

“I don’t know what your game is. It’s time for an explanation.”

“Outside, and I’ll tell you. Quick.”

Charlie heard voices through the open door. He didn’t know who they were but the possibility they might be coming for him made him move. One night in a police cell was one night too many. Murphy grabbed his arm and pulled him through the door, letting it swing closed behind them. He hustled Charlie along the corridor and through an airlock to a fenced-in car park. Murphy’s small saloon was parked right by the door.

“Get in the back and get down on the floor,” Murphy ordered.

There were shouts from inside the bunker.

Did he have a choice?