Warnings: non-graphic discussions of violence, abuse and the act of murder. Drug and alcohol references.
A/N: Well, we're getting close to the end of this story. After this chapter, if my plotting holds firm, there are three more parts and an epilogue to go. How many chapters that will translate to is up in the air ('cause there's a LOT to get through)(erm…don't think that needed a spoiler alert…LOL)
*/*/*/*/*
Monday morning is only a little awkward. They're both a little bashful in the harsh light of the police station when Miller pauses on the threshold of their office when she sees Hardy already in his chair behind his desk. She stands hesitantly at the door as they stare at each other...until they roll their eyes at their own discomfort and share a grin.
"Ready to work?" Hardy asks.
She scrunches up her face. "Not quite," she admits as she walks in and drops her purse on her desk. She walks round to him and drops a quick kiss on his worried mouth. "Good morning," she says.
"Morning," he croaks, eyes wide.
She straightens, smiles and gives him a short nod. "Now I'm ready to work."
She returns to her desk where she drops her purse in a drawer then hangs up her coat. "So," she says, settling into her chair, "tell me what you did that upset somebody enough to send you the journal."
"Right," he says and leans over his desk. "While you were away, I scoured the files again, looking for anything that might shed light on how such a large group-drunk and by all accounts loud-managed to get from one part of town to the other without anyone seeing them. There's nothing-no witnesses, no taxi drivers, nothing."
"That can't be unusual, though, can it? Maybe they had a couple of cars."
"Which would suggest that one or two of the AlphaBetties might have stayed sober enough to drive. That's not the case, by their own admissions."
"Wouldn't be the first time stupidly young people drove when they shouldn't have."
"True enough," he says. "I called the DI in charge of the case, asked if they canvassed the taxi companies, and he said they had, but not one had any record of picking up seven people. I talked to the DSs and DCs who are still on the force in Sandbrook and confirmed they'd canvassed the taxi drivers themselves as well as their companies. Nothing."
"They were young; maybe they walked?"
He shakes his head. "It takes a good hour to walk from where they were to the old pubs area, even if they were sober. Not to mention the streets are winding and you have to pass through a commercial district to get there. People saw them leave Chumley's. People saw them within two blocks of Chumley's, on the same street. Nobody saw them after that. Nobody."
Ellie's face scrunches into a frown as she thinks furiously. "So...you think...what?" Her face clears. "They never went to the pubs at all."
He gives her a proud nod. "I think they went some place that was only theirs, some place private, and that's where Francesca was killed. Maybe a flat, maybe some secluded place outside of town-hell, maybe beneath a bridge somewhere! But wherever it was, it must have been close to Chumley's, a place they could get to without anyone's help."
Ellie considers it and nods. "That doesn't explain how you got the journal."
"I called each of the AlphaBetties. Asked each of them if they had a car at the time. They each said no. I then asked if they had called any friends to come and pick them up from Chumley's. No again. I then told them there were only two options: either there were more people with them that night, people with cars, or they never continued on from Chumley's and instead went somewhere private within walking distance from that bar."
"What did they say?"
He spreads his hands and shrugs.
"What-nothing?" she sputters.
"Well, they all more or less denied everything, and were, for the most part quite angry. Except Cora. She just hung up."
"So, what? They're all in it together?"
He leans back in his chair and smiles. "Interesting how the journal shows up only a few days later, aye?"
"Oh, aye," she drawls and he rolls his eyes. "It doesn't tell us much more than Francesca wanted to kill her mother and wanted to use her friends to help her do it. Why would she-or they-whoever-send it on to you? What was the point?"
He stares thoughtfully into the distance and hitches his shoulders up in a small shrug. "Maybe to prove she deserved to die?"
*/*/*/*/*
They make arrangements that afternoon to get in to see Archie Reynolds on Wednesday morning, and it seems the most natural thing in the world for Ellie to pick up the boys and have dinner at Hardy's so they can make arrangements to leave the next afternoon for Sandbrook. Daisy agrees to spend the next two nights at Ellie's, with Lucy and possibly Ollie helping out.
Ellie's heart aches for Fred, though, since she'd only just got back from a week away. She cuddles him more than usual that night and in the morning, and promises that once she's home again, she won't be going away again for a long time.
She greets Hardy with a quick good morning kiss as they pass each other in their office, and they're on the road to Sandbrook by early afternoon.
They stop for a quick meal on the way, and it's late by the time they get to their hotel. They're both yawning as they walk to their rooms and she kisses Hardy good-night outside his door before continuing down the hall to hers. She glances back to find him watching after her and she smiles as she goes inside.
*/*/*/*/*
They're at the prison first thing the next morning, and Archie only looks bored as he shuffles in, chains clanking, and settles on to his chair.
"Back again?" he says in way of greeting.
"We think we're making progress," Hardy says as he leans forward, his clasped hands resting on the table as he watches the man in front of him. "We've received some new information and have some questions."
Archie shrugs. "Ask away."
"Did any of you own or have access to a car that night?"
Archie chuckles. "No. Frankie's mum was the only one who had any money, and she was too tight-fisted to spring for a car for her daughter."
"How about taxis? How often did you take them when you all went out?"
"Not often. We didn't have a lot of ready cash, and what we did have, we wanted to spend on drinks and drugs. Besides, there were seven of us-too many for one taxi, so using them was pretty expensive. We walked, mostly." He frowns. "Why are you asking me about that?"
Hardy glances at Miller and she opens the folder in front of her and pulls out a photocopied page from the journal.
"Do you recognize the writing?" she asks, sliding it across the table to him.
He picks it up with a scowl. They watch the dawning horror on his face as he realizes what he's reading.
"Where-?" he sputters, his wide-eyed gaze flying back to them.
"Do you recognize the writing?" Ellie asks again.
"Course I do! It's Frankie's! But it-this—says…" He stops and stares, breathing rapidly through his gaping mouth. "Where did you get this?" he finally manages.
"Where do you think we got it?" Hardy asks.
Archie's mouth opens and closes soundlessly before his eyes narrow and he throws the paper across the table.
"How the fuck would I know?" he growls, glaring at Hardy. "I didn't even know that-wherever that's from-even existed!"
"It's a page out of Francesca Livingstone's journal," Miller says briskly. "The journal starts about a year before she disappears and ends two days before that night. She's very explicit about her plans for her mother, and what your role was to be in carrying out those plans."
Archie's mulish expression doesn't change as he switches his glare from Hardy to Miller, but he says nothing.
"Is it true?" she asks.
"What does it matter now?" he snaps. "Frankie's dead and her old cow of a mother is still alive, without a hair on her head being harmed."
Miller's eyes never waver from his. "We don't know," she says softly, "but somebody thinks it matters. You may as well tell us. Like you said, what does it matter now? It's not like you're going to be charged with anything since you never actually tried to kill Dottie Livingstone."
"Or did you?" Hardy says. "Is that what happened that night, Archie? You were trying to kill Dottie but something went wrong and Frankie got hurt instead?"
"No!" Archie shouts. "I never tried anything!"
He groans as he furiously rubs his hands over his face. He drops his hands, sighs and grimaces ruefully at Miller.
"You're right," he says, "what does it matter now?"
He slouches back in his chair and looks from Miller to Hardy and back again. "Yes, it's true. Frankie was determined to get out from under her mother's thumb, and if you knew half the things that woman did to her, you'd understand why. And yes, she wanted me to do it. Kept after me and after me and fucking after me! I put her off as long as I could. I mean, I come from a rough family, had even rougher friends and was living a rough life, but...murder!" He shakes his head. "That's a long way from stealing cars and small-time dealing! I told her she was watching too many crime shows on the telly, didn't want to believe she was serious, but she just kept on about it."
"Until you finally agreed to do it?" Hardy says.
Archie shrugs. "It shut her up, at least for a while. Then she really got serious. Started talking ways and means, setting up alibis, whether I should hide the body or just leave it in the house to be found, how she should react to the news, what she should tell the cops." He shudders. "The more she talked, the less I wanted anything to do with it, but..." He trails off.
Hardy raises an eyebrow. "But?"
Archie sighs. "But I loved her. Anything Frankie wanted done, I'd do. Even murder." He glances at Hardy then at Miller. "Have either of you ever loved somebody enough to do literally anything for them?"
"Not murder," Hardy and Miller say flatly then share a look before turning back to the man in front of them.
Archie chuckles a little. "No, I suppose you two would have drawn a line." He sounds more wistful than sarcastic. He heaves a sigh, and continues. "It all might have stayed just talk if I hadn't gotten that job in London and her mum refused to help out until Frankie could find a job, too. We couldn't stand the thought of being apart, and then Frankie…" He hangs his head. "Frankie reminded me she was an only child, and her mum was loaded. If her mum was gone, we'd get all that lovely lolly and all our problems would be solved."
"What really happened that night, Archie?" Miller asks gently.
Archie looks at her with tear-filled eyes. "I honestly don't remember. We went to all the places I told you, and after Chumley's, it's nothing but flashes. Binky passed out at a table and Del staying behind to take care of her. Walking and drinking. And Frankie's voice...angry and loud and scared."
"What do you remember doing?" Hardy says. "What do you remember feeling? What are the last things you clearly remember?"
Archie scowls, thinking hard. "I remember...I remember walking out of Chumley's. Staggering, really, and...falling. Leaning on one of the others." He's silent as he searches his memory, then slowly says, "I remember having a drink in Chumley's and dancing with Binky and Del." He smiles suddenly. "Those two loved to dance." He sobers. "They all did."
"How many drinks did you have in Chumley's?" Hardy asks.
"One, that I can remember. But the others said I started slamming them back not long after we got there. Probably why I can't remember anything after that point."
"Did something happen to cause you to drink more heavily?"
Archie grimaces and once again scrubs his hands over his face. He looks at them with a sigh. "We were supposed to do it that night. Kill her mum. We were going to slip something into everybody's drinks at Chumley's so they wouldn't really know what was going on, then I was going to slip away, steal a car, go do it and get back without any of the others being the wiser, and all of them willing to swear I never left their sides all night because they would be in no shape to really remember if I was there or not."
He spreads his hands and shrugs. "The only thing I can think is that I grabbed the wrong glass at some point. I remember flashes, like I said, and I woke up the next morning in my flat, with Binky and Del passed out in the living room."
He grimaces. "I was never so scared and confused in my life! Had I killed the old biddy or not? I hoped I'd remember it if I did, but...nothing. I couldn't say anything to any of the others because none of them knew about it, and I couldn't get Frankie on her phone." He shudders. "To be honest, I still don't know which scared me more: committing a murder I couldn't remember or dealing with Frankie if I hadn't got the job done."
Hardy and Miller frown.
"None of the others knew about the plan?" Hardy asks sharply.
"None. The fewer who knew, the less likely somebody would go to the police, yah? I mean, we covered for each other, but stealing the occasional car here and there isn't the same thing as murder, is it? Besides, I didn't want the others burdened with it."
"Frankie's journal is very clear that at least some of the others were involved in the plan," Miller says flatly.
Archie's eyes widen. "No," he says firmly, "nobody else knew. She promised she'd leave the others out of it." He glances from one to the other, taking in the expressions on their faces. "No," he says, furiously shaking his head, "Frankie promised—she swore it was just the two of us!"
"It's very clear from the journal that there were others involved in the plan," Hardy says.
"It was just supposed to be just the two of us," Archie whispers. "The others didn't deserve to be burdened with that shit! Binky had too strong a sense of justice-she hated it when we stole cars! And Del! Del was just a sweet, good-hearted girl, in spite of that brutal arse of a dad of hers. She didn't need any more shit piled on her." His eyes widen. "If others knew about the plan, does that mean...is it possible I didn't make a mistake that night? Was I deliberately drugged? Is it possible that I didn't do anything to Frankie after all?"
Hardy tilts his head to one side. "You tell us."
Archie simply stares sightlessly at the table in front of him.
"Archie?" Miller coaxes. "Who else might have killed Frankie?"
"Maybe nobody," he whispers hoarsely.
*/*/*/*/*
"Do you think Francesca faked her death?" Miller asks Hardy on the drive back to their hotel. "Think she's been hiding out, watching all her friends fall apart?"
He sits silent, thinking it through, then says, "Unlikely. If she was so open in her journal about what she planned for Dottie, I can't imagine she'd leave something like that out."
"Unless she didn't plan it. Just ran when Archie accidentally drugged himself and she couldn't convince anyone else to help her."
He concedes the point with a nod. "Or maybe the journal wasn't written when we think it was written."
Her head whips round at that. "What the bloody hell does that mean?"
"If Francesca is alive and knows we're poking round her disappearance, she could have written that journal last week just before she dropped it in the post."
"Oh, God," Ellie groans. "What is there in this case that we can grab on to and know it's the truth?"
"Well," Hardy says with a sigh, "Archie Reynolds really did confess."
*/*/*/*/*
They go out for dinner, bickering companionably the entire time.
"Why didn't we stay with Rachel and Charlie?" Ellie asks suddenly as they're strolling back to their hotel in the crisp autumn air.
Hardy shakes his head. "Mackenzie's down from London this week."
"Ah." She shivers a little in the cool wind and startles away as he moves to slip an arm round her shoulders. He quickly lowers his arm, looking embarrassed.
"No," she says hastily, "it's all right. It just surprised me, that's all."
He looks at her, uncertain, before cautiously putting his arm round her and snugging her closer to his warmth. She smiles a little anxiously as she hesitantly slips her arm round his waist.
"I never really thought you'd be the PDA type, Hardy," she says with forced brightness. He scowls in confusion and she laughs, relaxing slightly. "Public displays of affection," she clarifies.
Now he looks startled. "This isn't a public display of affection," he scoffs, "I'm just trying to stay warm." Then, before she registers what he's doing, he stops in mid-stride, swings her round to face him and presses a warm kiss against her mouth. He lifts his head and gives her a cheeky grin. "Now that's more like it."
She's still sputtering as he starts them walking again.
*/*/*/*/*
The kiss good-night outside her hotel room is longer, more thorough, and leaves her with a happy grin as she slips into her hotel room and leans her back against her closed door.
Yes, she thinks as she dreamily gets ready for bed, these 'extras' are a very good idea indeed.
*/*/*/*/*
They meet in the hallway the next morning, where they share a quick kiss before checking out, eating breakfast, and going to the police station to meet with Rebecca. She shakes Miller's hand with a speculative gleam in her eyes before they sit in front of her desk and explain what they've discovered. She considers them in thoughtful silence once they've finished.
"Do you think Frankie might still be alive, then?" she finally asks.
Hardy huffs a sigh and shrugs. "Unlikely," he says, "but we'll still run some searches on her ID, see if anyone's used it in the last eleven years."
"So, if Frankie isn't still alive, then...what? One of the other AlphaBetties was also involved?"
"Most likely more than one," Miller says, "and possibly all of them. Witnesses saw the entire group within two blocks of Chumley's and said some of them were leaning on their friends. None of the statements identify who was helping who, if they could even figure it out then."
"And after eleven years, it's unlikely they'll be able to remember any details now," Rebecca sighs. "Where does that leave you?"
"Where we started: with the AlphaBetties," Hardy says.
"So all you have to do is get one of them to talk."
Hardy nods.
Rebecca leans forward in her chair. "I'll put in the paperwork to have the case officially re-opened. You two work with Isabella to put out a press release; make it a general call for new witnesses to come forward, yah?"
"Yah," Hardy says as he rises to his feet. "We'll let Dottie know today."
Miller stands, too, as does Rebecca. She gives Miller a rueful smile and says, "I'm glad to finally meet you, Ellie. Next time you're in town, leave a little time in your schedule so we can go for drinks. We'll share Hardy war stories."
"I am standing right here," he says drily.
"Why do you think I made the invitation now?" Rebecca says and grins.
They're at the door when Hardy pauses and turns. Rebecca lifts an eyebrow in question.
"The review of Tess and Dave's cases. How's that going?"
Rebecca's eyes flick to Miller then back to Hardy. "We're progressing. We received a tip a couple weeks ago, told us to take a closer look at a couple of cases. We're just finishing that off now. I'll let you know as soon as we're done."
Hardy frowns, eyes narrowed as he stares at her. "A tip? From whom? About what?"
"Anonymous," Rebecca says smoothly. "Probably nothing, but you know how it is with tips: you have to follow every one even if they're just dead ends."
Hardy stares at her in puzzled silence until finally he nods. "Right," he says, and follows Miller out of the office.
*/*/*/*/*
He's still frowning as they walk in to Isabella's office.
"Well," she says with a grin, tossing her pen on her desk and leaning back in her chair, "it's lovely to see your smiling face again, Hardy. Ellie, you look smashing," she adds with more sincerity.
Hardy rolls his eyes. "Rebecca already call down?"
"Of course," she says, waving them towards the chairs in front of her desk and leaning forward. "This is very exciting! Re-opening a case everyone thought was solved what? Ten years ago?"
"More like nine," Hardy and Miller say together, then glance ruefully at each other.
Isabella nods, bright eyes flicking from one to the other as she fights the smirk tugging at her lips. "Right," she says, "nine years ago." She pulls a pad of paper in front of her and picks up a pen. "So, you'll be sending out a call for new witnesses, yah? You probably want some local press as well, call attention to it, maybe stir up some memories?"
Hardy scowls but says, "Yah. The bloody media can make themselves useful."
"You won't give interviews, I take it?"
"God, no! A statement through you, of course, but that's it. Nothing really to be interviewed about, anyway."
"Oh, Hardy," Isabella sighs, "for a detective, you really do try to bury your head in the sand, don't you? Besides the whole 'Hardy and Miller Together Again' angle, the Livingstone case was the case everyone followed when it happened. This entire city sighed with relief when Archie Reynolds confessed and another one when he was sentenced. The fact her body was never found has always been a lingering sore point. You must remember some of this! You were here then, yah?"
Hardy shifts uncomfortably. "It wasn't my case, but I followed the story in the papers," he mutters. "I don't remember the details."
"So how do you expect some poor bloke who might have once passed these people on the street eleven years ago to remember anything and come forward with it?" Isabella demands.
"I don't," Hardy says, "but the people involved in the crime don't know that."
Isabella gapes then laughs. "Right then, I'll get working on the press release. When do you want this to go out?"
He glances at Miller. "Any time after we talk to Dottie. If we don't see her today, I'll let you know."
Isabella nods. "Right. You'll have something in your e-mail by the time you get to your office tomorrow. We should be able to make Saturday's paper."
They nod and stand and start to leave the office.
"Hardy," Isabella calls, and he pauses. "You know this is going to bring the media down on you again, right?" She glances at Ellie. "On you, too. They're going to absolutely love this."
Hardy rolls his eyes. "Try to hold them off, yah? They'll just get in the way."
"I'll do what I can, but if we put your name out there as the lead detective, well...there's not much I can do about it."
"Can't you keep our names out of the press release?" Ellie asks.
Isabella shrugs. "We can give that a try, but it's not standard protocol. People need to know who to speak to, if they come forward."
Hardy groans and scrubs his hands over his face. "Do what you can," he growls. "The longer you can keep them out of our way, the better."
Isabella looks doubtful. "I'll do my best," she says, "but they're still interested in you, you know."
"I don't care," he says flatly, and walks out of the office.
*/*/*/*/*
Dottie looks stunned when they finish updating her on the course of their investigation. The blood had drained from her face, leaving her looking her age for the first time since they met her.
Hardy leans closer, his dark eyes intent on her face. "Do you still think Francesca is alive?" he asks softly.
She stares at nothing, her mouth working as she mulls the question.
"Maybe," she whispers, her voice a thin thread in the silence of the room, "although it wouldn't be like her to send you the journal. At least not one that would cast her in a bad light."
"Do you have anything of Francesca's here? Any more journals?" Miller asks.
Dottie blinks and seems to remember they're still in the room with her. "I-yes. Personal things, clothes and trinkets, that sort of thing. But no journals." She gives them a thin smile. "I've gone through those boxes endless times in the years since she disappeared; I would have noticed journals by now."
"Is there an address book or something similar?"
Dottie shakes her head. "Whatever there was would have been kept by the police, wouldn't it?"
"At the time, yes. But after so many years, and the case was officially closed..."
"Whatever there was might have been destroyed?"
Hardy nods.
Dottie sighs and rubs her eyes. "Well, you can ask Elena or Ginger if they have anything like an address book or something similar."
Hardy's eyebrow rises. "Why those two?"
"They were the first of the AlphaBetties. They were Francesca's oldest friends. If anyone has a stray journal or papers or something like that of hers, it would be them."
*/*/*/*/*
Ginger yanks open the door and blinks at them in bleary surprise. "You," she finally says.
"May we come in?" Miller asks.
Ginger runs a hand through her dark cloud of sleep-tangled hair and looks despairingly behind her. "Yah, why not?" she mutters and steps aside.
They follow her in to the living room where empty beer bottles are littered on every surface and on the floor along with overflowing ashtrays. The place smells stale and smoky, and Ellie's nostrils twitch at the smell of rotting food drifting through from the kitchen.
Ginger rubs her hands against her rear and mumbles, "Haven't got to the cleaning yet today." She gestures vaguely towards a sofa that's half-obscured by a quilt that's halfway on the floor. "I can-"
"No, no, we won't be long," Miller says with an uncomfortable smile. "We're calling to see if you have any of Francesca's papers or other of her personal items."
Ginger frowns, one hand resting on her hip while the other alternates between trying to bring some kind of order to her hair and rubbing at her temple. "Papers? Frankie's papers? Like...her birth certificate or something?"
"No, no-an address book, notebook, journal, notes on scrap pieces of paper-anything like that."
Ginger shakes her head, blinking owlishly, and Hardy's not sure if she's still asleep or just hungover. He suspects it's a combination of both.
"What are you looking for those things for?" she finally asks.
Hardy says, "We're officially re-opening the case and searching for anything that might have been overlooked in the first investigation, or perhaps returned once it was closed. We've also received an anonymous tip that Francesca might have faked her death and is alive and well, living under an assumed name."
"What?" The word is barely a breath as Ginger's eyes pop wide and she sways.
"Is Frankie the kind of person who would do something like that to her friends, Ginger?" he asks softly, his eyes boring into hers. "Would she do something like that to her mother?"
"God..." she whispers.
Hardy holds her gaze, eyebrows rising as he waits.
"I-God-I don't know!" she finally manages. "Why would you take such an idea seriously?"
"We have to follow every tip, even if it leads to a dead end. You don't think Frankie would do such a thing?"
"I don't know, I said!" she says, an edge of panic in her voice. "I never thought about it! And no, I don't have anything that belonged to Frankie!"
Hardy's expression doesn't change. "Do you remember where you were living when she disappeared?"
Ginger blinks at the sudden change in direction then scowls. "Right here," she says flatly. "This was my parents' house."
"You were living with them?"
"Me mum. My dad died just over a year before Frankie disappeared. Left us in a bad way but at least the insurance paid off the mortgage."
Hardy nods and makes another note. "Do you remember where the others were living?"
"Exact addresses? Not bloody likely!"
"We know Frankie had her own flat," Ellie says, "and you were living with your mum here. What about the others?"
Ginger blows out a nervous breath and says, "Del was living at home with her arse of a dad. He liked to take a round or two out of her the second she put a foot wrong. Archie was sharing a flat but we didn't spend much time there; his flatmates were a bit scary, to be honest. Umm..." she frowns, searching her memory. "Cora was living with her parents, so was Binky, and Elena had just moved into her first flat a couple weeks before everything happened." She glares. "You come all this way just for that?" she snaps.
"No," Hardy says softly. "Somebody sent us Frankie's journal in the post. A journal she kept during the last year before her disappearance."
Ginger glances away then back. "Oh?"
"It was very...enlightening."
She stills, staring, wide-eyed and silent, and Ellie can't help but think of a rabbit frozen in the glare of headlights. Ginger finally clears her throat and croaks, "In what way?"
"Did you know Frankie was planning to kill her mother?" Hardy's voice is still silky soft and smooth, but there's an edge to it that is as familiar to Ellie as her own voice.
Ginger's still unmoving until she finally says, "I don't know what you're talking about, and I don't believe you. Frankie-"
"Was making plans to commit murder. You were one of her closest friends, and you didn't know?"
"Well," Ginger says, finally showing some of the spirit implied by her name, "you're not likely to tell anybody you're planning to-to-to do that, are you? Unless you're bloody daft and trust me, Frankie wasn't daft!"
"No, I doubt Frankie was daft," Hardy says brusquely, "but I've read the journal. I've heard how she treated her mother and I've heard the way all of her friends refer to her mother. She seemed to enjoy manipulating people. I'm beginning to think it's true, that she made it look like something happened to her and simply ran away. Left the rest of you to take the blame, to mourn, to rip each other apart with suspicion and fear, maybe planted enough guilt and suspicion that it was only a matter of time before one of you confessed to a crime you didn't commit."
Ginger shrinks back beneath his words, fear and misery on her face, and beneath the dishevelled surface, Ellie catches a glimpse of the frightened young woman she had once been. She watches as Ginger's mouth opens and closes, her eyes darting round the room, then Ginger whispers weakly, "Frankie didn't do that."
Hardy raises an eyebrow. "Do you know that for a fact?" he asks, his voice almost seductively soft.
"Archie confessed!"
"But he doesn't know what he did. Think about that, Ginger. He doesn't know what he did! How do you kill somebody and not remember everything you did, every action, every second. How do you not remember the moment life leaves another person's body when it's your doing?"
"He was drunk," she whispers helplessly, "drugged. He didn't realize what he was doing!"
"Oh? You know that for a fact, do you?"
She gulps, tears springing to her eyes. "I want you to leave," she stammers, "I need you to leave!"
She all but pushes them out the door and Hardy and Miller walk back to the car in thoughtful silence.
"That was a bit cruel, don't you think?" she says mildly as they drive away.
"It's a murder investigation, Miller," he says tiredly.
"I know. Still."
He turns and stares silently out the window.
*/*/*/*/*