Page 32

Johnny and Taylor talked boisterously at each other as they led him through the police station, their competing alpha scents making Pember’s nose prickle.

He was fucking mortified by all the concerned stares he received, and the winding corridors seemed to go on forever.

It didn’t take long for him to completely lose track of what part of the station he was in.

Johnny stopped abruptly outside a plain brown door. There was no sign, no indication of what department he was about to step into.

“Here,” Johnny said, knocking on the door once before shoving Pember through.

He yelped, stumbling forward into a plain white office with little more than a blue plastic chair, a beech coloured desk and two immaculately dressed betas with stern expressions.

“Mr McArthur, I assume?” the female said, her long red nails slicing through the air as she gestured to a chair in front of them.

“Y-yes,” he said, glancing at the chair but remaining standing.

“Please take a seat and we’ll explain why you’re here.”

“I-I’d prefer to stand, if that’s alright?”

He hadn’t even realised he’d backed towards the door until it pressed against his spine. The woman gave him a hard look but didn’t push it. “Very well. I’m Inspector Jones and this is DS Michaels. We work for Professional Standards. Or, Anti-Corruption, to be more precise.”

When Pember didn’t react, DS Michaels reached into a drawer under the desk and withdrew a white box. It had a large purple sticker on the front, and Pember knew exactly what it contained.

“A drug test?” he said, eyeing the box.

The inspector nodded. “Yes. Mr McArthur, you understand that we operate a zero-tolerance policy on drugs, yes?”

Pember let out a breath and finally decided to sit down. “If you mean zero tolerance for controlled drugs, then yes, I know.”

“Good. Do you take drugs, Mr McArthur?”

Pember coughed, nearly choking on his own saliva. “W-what? Outside of my prescribed suppressants? Absolutely not.”

The inspector nodded and tapped the top of the box. “So you’ll consent to a drug test, then?”

“What? Yes, of course!”

They both nodded before DS Michaels popped open the box and withdrew the familiar plastic strip. “Lovely. Is there anything you’d like to tell us, Mr McArthur? Anything at all?”

Pember frowned. “No, I don’t think so? I-is that a trick question?”

“Absolutely not,” the inspector replied. “Just a cheek swab and—well, you don’t need me to tell you.”

“Okay.”

DS Michaels smiled and held the swab towards him. “Nice and wide, Mr McArthur. That’s it.”

Opening his mouth, he let the sergeant swipe the inside of his cheeks. He was about to say that it should be five swipes each side, not four, but thought it would probably be a stupid fucking idea to lecture a sergeant and the inspector of Professional Standards.

“And just a mouth rinse, please.”

Pember nodded and squirted a tube of saline solution into his mouth, swished it around and spat it back into a little plastic pot. Except his nerves got the better of him, and he missed the pot and spat half of it onto the table.

DS Michaels grimaced, pulling on a pair of blue gloves. “Thank you,” he said, holding the pot at arm’s length.

Pember watched as he rubbed the swab across a test kit, then tipped a drop of mouth rinse onto another. Cocaine, heroin, cannabis, crack. Those were the four big hitters, but Pember knew the kits could detect much more than that.

The sergeant inhaled and gave him the fakest smile he had ever seen. “Lovely weather,” he said.

Pember swallowed, glancing out of the window. The weather was still absolutely abysmal, and the clouds held an unusual purpley-grey sheen, as if it was about to thunder.

The inspector eventually cleared her throat and straightened. “We’ve received an anonymous report that you’ve been consuming illicit substances at work.”

His gaze flicked to her, face drawing into a deep frown. “You… what? Who?—”

“Anonymous.”

Pember searched the depths of his brain, trying to pull out any memories of when he might have taken his medication at work. Or when he might have done something that could be misconstrued.

Nothing. Not that he could think of.

“R-right?”

The inspector only smiled, showing entirely too many teeth.

Then, Pember’s mind settled on the only logical answer. “Is this… is this something to do with my mum? Tracey? Did she report me?”

“Anonymous,” the inspector repeated, glancing down at the test.

“B-because she’s not well. She doesn’t… she doesn’t realise what she’s doing. It’s not her fault.”

DS Michaels frowned. “Doing what, exactly?”

Pember’s hands balled into even tighter fists. “Just inconvenient stuff. It’s not… Nothing crazy, just—you should check it now,” he said, tapping the table. “The instructions say a minute and a half, but it doesn’t take that long.”

Both of them looked down at the tests, then back up at him. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr McArthur. I’m sure you understand.”

Pember nodded, gripping the edge of the table. “Can I go now?”

The inspector smiled, but neither of them rose from their seats. “Yes, of course. But before you do, has anyone else witnessed the behaviour? From your mother, I mean?”

Pember’s mouth opened and closed several times, but he was already backing towards the door. “I-I… Well, yes. DS Oliver White and DS Blake Smith. But like I said, it’s not her fault. I don’t want?—”

DS Michaels cut him off, handing him a leaflet. He was mumbling something about injunctions and harassment orders, but the pounding in Pember’s ears was growing louder and louder.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks,” he said, barely comprehending the last five minutes of the conversation.

He all but bolted down the corridor, not caring about the odd looks as he headed back to the underground locker room. Stumbling into the omega changing rooms, he ripped off his uniform and threw it into an evidence bag.

He wasn’t going to cry. He was not going to cry.

Of course his mum would do this. Of course she’d stoop so fucking low as to come for his job. She’d done it to his sister when she first moved out—called the police and said she was dealing cannabis out of her tiny one-bedroom flat in London. Imogen had never touched drugs, let alone handled them.

The towels in the laundry cupboard were more like cardboard than actual fabric, the white linens washed and starched to within an inch of their lives.

They were rough against his skin as he wrapped one around his waist, the other draped over his shoulders.

The grey custody tracksuit was still folded on the bench where he’d left it, and he grimaced at the thought of wearing something that wasn’t his.

Anger—both his and his wolf’s—carried him through the changing rooms and into the shower block.

Seven or eight light blue cubicles stood in a row, the partitions low enough that you could see someone’s head and shoulders as they showered.

The white tiles were not enough to offset the beige floor, and the smell of cheap, bulk-buy shower gel clung to the walls as foam drifted into the plughole in the centre of the room.

It made an obnoxiously loud sucking sound as it drained away.

Shoving open the nearest cubicle, he almost knocked it off its hinges in his and his wolf’s combined fury. For the first time in months, his wolf was at the forefront of his emotions, pacing and growling in the back of his mind. It was confusing, and liberating, and a little oppressive.

Aggressively flicking the rough towels over the top of the partition, he twisted the taps and turned on the water.

The exposed copper pipes groaned as an icy jet shot out of the shower, making him yelp as it rained down over his head.

He cried out again when the ice turned boiling hot, scalding his shoulders and making him swear.

That’d been enough to knock him out of his rage, and after a few seconds the water calmed to an unpleasant lukewarm, which was definitely a ploy to make sure the staff didn’t linger overlong.

“Don’t use the soap,” a voice called, making him jump.

Pember’s gaze snapped to the right, and he was met with a good portion of Blake’s wet chest four rows down. He was still washing his hair, the pink foam clinging to his shoulders.

“The shampoo’s fine, but the soap will give you a rash.” Blake kept his eyes forwards, not looking at Pember as he continued to wash. In his anger, Pember hadn’t even noticed that the shower block was still in use, and he’d just assumed that Blake would wash quickly and be done.

“Sorry,” he called over the noise of the running water. “I didn’t know you were still in here. I can go?—”

“It’s fine,” Blake called back. “I’ll be done in a second.”

They settled into awkward silence, neither looking at the other as they showered. The blood draining out of Blake’s hair just kept going and going, and it wasn’t until the third rinse that the water started to run clear.

Pember washed quickly, his breaths coming out in ragged bursts, and eventually Blake looked over.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Pember snapped, furiously scrubbing his knuckles through his hair. “I didn’t… I just… I just got called in by Professional Standards.”

Blake hummed, running his tongue over his teeth with a playful expression. “Did Wallace finally snap?”

“What? No! They wanted to see me. My mum. My fucking mum, she?—”

Blake’s head jerked up, and he pushed his wet hair back from his forehead. “What did she do?”

“She… she reported me, Blake. She bloody reported me to Anti-Corruption. Told them I was taking drugs at work. They did a test! Took cheek swabs and then I spat on the table! It was so humiliating.”

Blake let out a sharp breath. “Did you tell them about the other day?”

Pember shook his head, pressing his fingers to his temples. “Not really. They just gave me a leaflet about getting an injunction. An injunction ! I tried to tell them she’s unwell, but then they started asking about witnesses and all sorts.”