Chapter Twenty-Four

Jenna walked the last half mile and stood on the steps of the building, a wave of relief crashing over her. She’d spent the whole journey peering over her shoulder. Within seconds, she’d be safe.

At the last moment, she took out her phone and switched it on. There were five missed calls, all from Luke, and one text message.

You can’t trust the police. You can’t trust anyone.

Why shouldn’t she trust the police? Then she remembered the conversation she had overheard that morning—she was nothing more than bait to Luke. Gnawing on her lower lip, she stared at the message then turned off the phone and headed into the building.

At the desk, she spoke to a uniformed officer. “I’m Jenna Young. I’m here to see Detective Inspector Mitchell.”

As she spoke, Mitchell pushed through a set of doors behind her. A smile of relief formed on her lips, which faded when she saw his expression.

“Come through,” he said, holding the door open. She followed him, and he indicated a counter to the right. “Would you like to leave your things at the desk?”

“Why?” She hadn’t had to last time she was here.

“Actually, it wasn’t a request.”

“Am I some sort of suspect?”

“Ms. Young, you phoned in a murder and then disappeared for forty-eight hours. We’d like to keep you around for a while this time. If that means treating you as a potential suspect, then yes.”

She put her bag on the desk and signed the paper they handed her.

Don’t trust the police, Luke had said. Suddenly she wished she’d spoken to him. It was too late now, but she would get one phone call. They had to give her that.

“Have you found the person responsible?”

Mitchell ignored the question. “Follow me.” He led her down the hallway and into a small room that held a table and two chairs. The walls were painted beige, and one was taken up by a mirror. Jenna looked at it curiously. “Is that so you can watch me?”

He nodded.

“Am I really a suspect?”

“We’re not sure what you are at the moment, but we’ll hold you under the Prevention of Terrorism Act if we have to.”

“What? Are you saying you’ve found David was connected to some sort of terrorist activities?”

“I can’t reveal that to you. Now take a seat.” His face softened. “If it means anything to you, I don’t think you’re guilty of anything, but we have to be sure. Can I get you a coffee?”

“Please.”

As he called out the door, Jenna sank into one of the hard metal chairs and rested her hands on the table. A minute later, the detective who had been with Mitchell the night of David’s murder entered, carrying three coffees. She put two down on the table, took the third, and leaned against the wall, sipping it and watching Jenna.

Mitchell sat opposite her, placed a file on the table, and then picked up his mug. He pressed the recording device on the table. “Interview with Jenna Young, DI Mitchell, and DC Jameson, 11:15 a.m.…”

Taking a sip of coffee, he studied Jenna. “So do you want to tell me what’s happened between now and when you left here two days ago?”

Jenna took him through the initial meeting with Luke and answered his questions as best she could. She was finding it hard to believe Luke was not David’s cousin. He’d been so convincing; even the photograph had appeared genuine.

When she got to the part about the attack on her father’s house and the man she’d stabbed, Mitchell interrupted.

“You stabbed a man, and you didn’t think you should report this to the police?”

Jenna shifted in her chair. “Luke said he’d taken care of it. He said he handed them over to some contacts he had in intelligence. It sounded so believable. I was in shock—I just wanted to get away from there.”

Mitchell sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “We’ll need a description of the men who attacked you later. Let’s finish this up. These men who broke in, did they hurt you at all?”

“They said they’d do to me what they’d done to David. They broke my finger.”

Glancing at her hand where it lay on the table, he raised one eyebrow. “They broke your finger?”

She realized how it must sound, but she didn’t have an explanation, and frustration gnawed at her insides. “I’m telling the truth. My finger was broken. I removed the splint this morning, and it was fine. I don’t know how, I—”

“Calm down, Jenna.”

She knew he didn’t believe her, and she didn’t want to calm down.

When she mentioned finding Professor Merrick dead, he stopped her and turned to Jameson. “Sarah, go check it out.” He turned back to Jenna. “Why don’t you have a break for a minute, drink your coffee?”

His arms folded across his chest, he leaned back in his chair and watched her. “You think the guys who attacked you at your father’s house were the same ones who killed your doctor friend?”

“Not the same people but from the same place.”

“Hmm, you remember the artist’s impression you did for us last time you were here?”

“You found him?”

“Maybe.” He picked up a file, took out a photograph, and handed it to her. Shock churned in her stomach as she stared down at the image. The man was obviously dead, laid out on the slab in the morgue. She licked her lips.

“What happened?”

“We don’t know. He was brought in as a possible hit-and-run on the same night the doctor died. When we posted your artist’s impression, he was flagged immediately. You did a good job. Now, would you like to tell me what the hell’s going on?”

Jenna’s head was about to explode. None of this made sense. David’s killer had died that same night. Had he been murdered, too? The men who’d broken into her father’s house had acted as though they had killed David or at least knew his killer. She stared up at Mitchell. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

He sighed then slammed the file on the table and sat, fingers drumming, a brooding expression on his face.

Jenna sipped her cold coffee. A few minutes later, Detective Jameson came back. “The story holds up. At twelve fifteen the fire services arrived at this guy’s house. The professor was found hanging from the banister. It’s being treated as a suicide, but the house was completely destroyed, so it was hard to find any evidence to prove otherwise. The fire looked like it was set deliberately, but it could have been the professor, some sort of funeral pyre.”

Mitchell studied Jenna. “I don’t like any of this, and I don’t understand it, except for some reason, you’re right in the middle. You’d better finish your ‘story’ and we can try to see if there’s some sort of pattern here.”

Jenna swallowed and told him the rest without mentioning the fact she had spent the previous night with Luke. When she’d finished, Mitchell gazed into space for a few minutes and Jenna fidgeted.

“Well, first thing is we send someone over to this place and see if we can’t pick up Luke Grafton, but I have a feeling we’re not going to find anyone there. You have a cell phone number for him?”

“I’d give it to you, but it’s in my bag.”

He smiled the first genuine smile she had seen from him that day. “We’ll need you to work with the artists again, get a mock-up of this guy and the ones who broke into your father’s house.”

“You know, I really have no idea what this is about.”

“Funny thing is I believe you, and that’s not something I say very often in this room. On the other hand, it’s obvious you’re involved in it all somehow. We just have to work out how.”

On that point, she could agree. “So what next?”

“I’m going to set some wheels in motion.” He stood and stared down at her. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise.”

Behind him, Detective Jameson snorted and rolled her eyes. “He always resorts to clichés when he hasn’t a clue what’s going on.”

Mitchell ignored the comment and crossed to the door. “I’ll be back. Try not to worry—you’re safe here.”

The door clicked shut behind them. Jenna laid her head on her folded hands and closed her eyes. Her head ached. She’d woken that morning with a sense of well-being. Despite the circumstances, being with Luke had made her feel safe. How ironic was that?

The door opened and she jumped; she must have dozed off. Mitchell stood in the doorway, and he did not look happy.

Jenna straightened, smoothing a hand over her hair. “What is it?”

“There’s been a change of plan. We’re moving you.”

“Moving me where?”

“To a safe house.”

“You mean I’m not safe here? I’m in the middle of Scotland Yard. Where the hell is going to be safer than this?”

The frown didn’t leave his face. “The orders came from high-up.”

A flicker of foreboding tingled along her nerve endings. Luke had said she couldn’t trust the police, couldn’t trust anyone. “I don’t want to go.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

She searched the room, seeking some way out. All she could think of was letting Luke know where she was. “Do I get a phone call?”

“I’m afraid not.”

She pressed the spot between her eyes. “More orders from high-up?”

He didn’t answer, and she rose reluctantly. What would they do if she refused to move? Maybe she didn’t want to find out.

“Mitchell.”

“Yes?”

“Luke left me a text message on my phone, when he knew I was coming here.”

“And?”

“He said don’t trust the police. Don’t trust anyone.”

His brows drew together in a frown. “And what do you think he meant by that?”

“I don’t know. But is this normal?”

“Nothing is ‘normal’ about this case.” He shook his head as if undecided about something.

“There’s something else isn’t there?” Jenna asked.

“I think this Luke guy might have phoned here just before you arrived.”

Hope leaped up inside her. “What did he want?”

“To tell me you were in danger.” He sighed. “Look, if you are in danger, maybe a safe house is the best place for you. Don’t worry. I’m going to send DC Jameson with you. She’s good, she’ll keep an eye on you. We won’t let you out of our sight.”