Deep Wate - Sarah Epstein Page 0,63

his hand.

Busy? Yeah, right.

‘Sergeant Doherty!’ I say, hurrying back over to the counter. He glances in my direction but doesn’t change his course towards a room with the door ajar, jerking his head for the female officer to deal with me.

He’s about to step inside the room when I call out, ‘Ben!’

This stops him in his tracks. I loathe myself for using his first name like he’s always wanted, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

‘It’s about Henry Weaver,’ I say quickly, my voice loud enough for him to hear me through the glass. I sense the hairdresser shifting in her chair behind me. Another officer in a back room looks up from his computer.

‘There’s something you should see.’ I pull the polaroids from my pocket and hold them up as proof.

Doherty frowns, placing the mug down on the corner of a desk before disappearing off to the right. In seconds he’s yanking open the security door.

‘What have you got?’ he says, motioning at my hand. I offer up the polaroids. His frown deepens as he sifts through them one by one. ‘Where did you get these?’

‘I found them hidden in the basement of Bernie Lawson’s shop. Don’t you think that’s suss?’

Doherty’s gaze slides past me to where the hairdresser is sitting. She’s on the edge of her chair in an attempt to see what’s in my hand. He quickly punches a code into the security door and ushers me through to the main area of the police station.

‘You need to keep your voice down,’ he tells me as the door clunks shut. He leads me to the computer area where the redhead is resettling in front of her computer. ‘We don’t need people spreading gossip. Bernie is a respected member of this community.’

‘What’s respectable about this?’ I ask, tapping my finger against the pictures in his hand. ‘Why does he have photos of Henry?’

Doherty shoots a quick glance at the room he was heading towards earlier. Is he even listening to me? Or is he thinking about putting his feet up on the desk and slurping his coffee?

‘It isn’t right,’ I say, drawing his attention back to me. ‘Look at these. Henry doesn’t have a shirt on.’

A muscle in Doherty’s jaw twitches. ‘Why were you in Bernie Lawson’s basement?’

‘What?’

‘Did you break in?’

‘No! I was with my friend Sabeen.’ I fold my arms. ‘She’s working there.’

‘But you don’t work there,’ he says, ‘and now you’ve taken something from private premises without the owner’s permission.’

‘Are you serious? Bernie Lawson has half-naked pictures of Henry and you’re coming after me?’

‘Keep your voice down!’ Doherty says again, his own volume increasing. I glance through the glass at the hairdresser in the waiting room. She shows no sign of having heard.

‘We found Henry’s bike down there too,’ I continue. ‘Hidden under a tarp. Do you know about that?’

He’s not even looking at me. His attention is on the room behind me again. Exasperated, I spin around to find the door is now all the way open. Mason Weaver is standing in the doorway.

‘Go in and sit down,’ Doherty says to him. ‘I’ll be there in a minute. Here’s your cup of tea, if you still want it.’ He gestures at the ceramic mug on the nearby desk. Mason makes no move to retrieve it.

‘You can leave these with me,’ Doherty tells me in a low voice. He holds his hand out to show me the door.

‘What are you going to do with them?’ I ask quickly. ‘Will you question Bernie?’

His jaw flexes again. ‘That isn’t your concern.’

‘Of course it’s my concern. I found something incriminating.’

Doherty glares at me, then throws an irritated glance at Mason. ‘Go in. Sit down. I haven’t finished questioning you yet.’

He turns and grips me lightly by the elbow, escorting me to the security door, through the waiting room and out of the police station altogether. Once we’re outside on the footpath, Doherty straightens the polaroids into a neat stack and shoves them into his breast pocket.

‘I already know about these photos,’ he says. ‘We’ve scanned and entered them into our file on Henry Weaver.’

‘What?’ This scatters my thoughts. ‘So … you are investigating Bernie?’

‘Bernie Lawson brought these photos to us himself.’

‘But—’

Doherty straightens, casting his shadow over me. ‘I’m not going into further detail with you about this.’

‘Henry is my friend.’

‘I appreciate that. But you can’t run around town vigilante-style, making allegations and smearing people’s good names. Let the police do their job.’

‘Do it then,’ I snap, frustration bubbling over.