"You know you could be facing some pretty heavy charges. If we don't find Anna until after she's dead, it'll be murder. So. It's in your own interests to tell us where she is."
Detective Inspector Robert Lewis concealed his frustration well. He made it sound perfectly reasonable for their suspect to explain where he had confined Anna Gordon, the ten-year-old girl he had abducted two weeks earlier. But Karl Zelinsky was not a man to act reasonably. And he wasn't stupid.
"You can't charge me with murder if there's no body, Inspector."
Sitting next to Lewis and across the table from Zelinsky, Detective Sergeant James Hathaway felt his lip curl involuntarily. Zelinsky's face split with what Hathaway supposed was a smile. And the accused man began to make a sound that Hathaway supposed was a laugh. The sound that desert sand might make when being scraped by the wind across the hide of a dead animal. A kind of keening rattle. Hathaway felt his scalp prickle.
Out of sight of the man, Hathaway flicked his foot quickly sideways, tapping the toe of Lewis's shoe. It was a signal they had agreed to hours earlier, when they first undertook to interview Zelinsky.
Lewis firmed his mouth and exhaled through his nose, drumming his fingers on the table. He wasn't getting anywhere, anyway; an interruption wouldn't make a difference. They had been going at Zelinsky for hours, and all he would answer were basic questions about his name and address. Time was running out. Without further hesitation, Lewis got up from his chair, muttered at and switched off the tape recorder, and strode out of the room. Hathaway immediately followed.
As the door closed behind them, Lewis walked up to the wall and tipped his forehead against it, hands in his trouser pockets.
"Yeah?"
Hathaway rubbed his nose and glanced up and down the empty hallway. The PC guarding the door to the interview room had stepped inside when they went out. "Sir, I just want you to know that I fully support whatever methods you feel are required for getting him to talk."
Lewis turned to face the younger man, his eyes narrowed. "You mean, you'll keep your mouth shut if I clock him?"
Hathaway didn't answer, but his eyes were confirmation enough.
Lewis drew himself up. "Sergeant, the day I strike someone during an interview is the last day I'm a cop. You understand? Hitting is for men. We're police officers. We have to be better than that."
Hathaway swallowed. "Not everyone feels that strongly about it. All I'm saying is I'd keep mum if you did. Even if anyone learned of it, given the circumstances, it's unlikely there'd be an internal investigation."
"Yeah? Well, I feel strongly about it. And it's not about facing an internal investigation. It's about facing meself in the mirror every day."
"I'm sorry, Sir. Only, it's difficult to put much store in proper procedure when that girl is out there somewhere, still waiting to be found. Every moment we delay . . ." He knew Lewis was aware of the stakes involved. "And that animal knows where she is."
"Until he's charged, he has as much right to his civil liberties as anyone, Sergeant, whether we like it or not. And I won't risk having his confession thrown out of court if we manage to get it. You'll not mention it again, understood?"
"Sir."
Lewis checked his wristwatch. "Bloody hell, it's gone eleven. We'd better let Mister Zelinsky have the rest we're required to give him under proper procedures so he has the energy to resist us tomorrow." He tapped on the interview room door, letting the PC know they were done for the night. "Right. See you tomorrow, then."
As Lewis walked away, Hathaway felt a bit disappointed. He was not ready to go home and face the day's demons by himself. He had hoped they could go find a late pint, although on a Sunday that was rather unlikely. Still, he wanted to decompress a little, relax enough to have a chance at falling asleep at some time. Well, Lewis was probably too tired. They'd been at this for nearly twelve hours, and Lewis had done most of the questioning. Grimacing at the night that lay ahead of him, Hathaway went back to the office. Better here than home.
Lewis was tired but, like his sergeant, was not ready to go home. He knew he would not yet be able to sleep. But he wanted time alone, time when he didn't have to speak or listen to anyone. He headed to the stationhouse locker room, where he changed into the sweatpants and tee shirt he kept there. After wrapping his hands, he stood in front of the heavy punch-bag hanging from the ceiling and began to pound it. Slowly at first, then faster and faster until he was beating it in frenzied fury. He hadn't boxed since he was young, but despite his vehement words it had required great strength of will for him to resist Hathaway's invitation to violence, and he knew he needed this release.
When at last his rage had run its course, he fell against the bag, swaying slightly and breathing hard into its leather, embracing it, intimate as a spent lover. Now he could sleep.
