“Back at the station.”
“I’ll drive you back,” Sinclair said.
“I left the keys in Freya’s car.”
Sinclair nodded. “Don’t worry about it.”
The three of them drove down the steep road but were stopped midway. Danny’s car blocked them from going any farther. He was out of the car and looking down at the bottom of the hill where Freya stood with two officers on either side of her. They were offering assistance, but she was having none of it. Lashing out at them, she cursed and tried to jerk her arms free of their grasp.
She really was a mess. Her thick eyeliner had dripped black lines down her cheeks, and her hair was standing on end. When she looked up and spotted Isabel, her obscenities intensified.
“She kinda looks like the clown she painted, doesn’t she?” Michael remarked.
Isabel couldn’t resist. Wanting to let Freya know that Gibson hadn’t succeeded—that she was alive and well—she took a step forward, waited until Freya looked at her again, and then waved.
Another round of profanity followed her gesture.
Unfazed by the onslaught of insults, Isabel merely smiled and said, “Shall we go?”
THIRTY-SEVEN
MICHAEL AND ISABEL WATCHED THE INTERROGATION. DANNY HAD SET UP THE MONITOR IN
the adjoining office and had pulled up two chairs for them to sit while the inspector questioned Freya.
They had been back at the station for a couple of hours. While Freya was being told the charges against her, Isabel, in another room, was giving a statement detailing the events from the time Freya showed up at the law office to the arrest of Gibson. It had been a long, trying day, but when Sinclair offered to let Michael and her observe the interrogation, there was no way Isabel was going to miss seeing Freya try to manipulate her way out of the mess she was in.
Michael thought the interrogation was hilarious at times; Isabel found it infuriating.
Everything out of Freya’s mouth was a lie. Michael had to block Isabel with his arm several times to keep her from bolting out of her chair and storming into the interrogation room to give Freya a blistering for telling so many lies.
Freya blamed everything, including her miserable life, on Isabel. None of what happened today was her fault. According to Freya, it was Isabel who forced her at gunpoint into the car and proceeded to “scare her to death” by driving like a madwoman. She was certain Isabel was going to shoot her because she kept waving her gun and poking it into her side, and when they had almost reached the top of the treacherous road, Isabel had reached over, opened the passenger door, and pushed Freya out.
“I pushed her out?” Isabel gasped. “Did you hear what she said?”
Michael once again arm-blocked her to keep her in her chair. “Yes, I heard. I’m waiting to hear where you got the gun.”
“I didn’t get a gun. It’s hers.”
He laughed. “I know it’s her gun. I want to hear the spin she puts on it.”
They both looked back at the monitor just as Danny walked into the interrogation room and handed Sinclair an envelope. The inspector opened it, read the paper inside, and told Danny to make a copy and give it to Michael Buchanan. “Then bring the original back to me,” he instructed.
Freya continued to glare at Sinclair from across the table. She had been given a change of clothes, a long-sleeve, lime green T-shirt and sweatpants. A considerable amount of makeup had been wiped from her face, and she now looked fifteen years older than Isabel had previously estimated. Being as mean as a rabid rottweiler had obviously aged her.
“That MacKenna woman is a greedy bitch,” Freya grumbled. “She knows the land belongs to my son. She tried to kill me to shut me up because I’ve been telling everyone the truth.”
Sinclair looked at the camera and shook his head. “Compton MacKenna was never going to marry you or claim Clive for his son. I’ve done a little research, Freya,” he said as he opened his notebook.
“You already had somewhat of a reputation before you met Compton.”
Freya crossed her arms defiantly. “Oh? And what was that?”
“According to the people I’ve spoken to, you’ve had quite a few—shall we say— intimate relationships with men.”
She reached out with her hand to strike him but stopped herself in time. “How dare you,” she shouted.
Sinclair decided to be more direct. “You had sex with a lot of men back then, didn’t you?”
Freya scoffed as though Sinclair’s question were absurd. “I like sex. There isn’t anything wrong with that.”
“Did you ever take money for sex?”
She shrugged. “Men like me, and they like to take care of me. I let them.”
“Did Compton like you?”
“He must have. He got me pregnant.”
At that moment Danny walked into the room where Michael and Isabel were watching and handed Michael the copy of the paper Sinclair had given him. Michael quickly scanned the page.
“What is it?” Isabel asked.
Instead of answering, Michael pointed to the monitor and said, “Watch. You’ll see.”
Isabel turned back to the screen to see Danny hand the original back to Sinclair.
“The land doesn’t belong to your son, does it, Freya?” Sinclair asked as he held the paper up in front of her. “Compton MacKenna isn’t Clive’s father, but you knew that already, didn’t you?”
“You’re wrong. Compton is his father,” Freya argued.
Sinclair handed the paper over to Freya. “DNA doesn’t lie.”
“What is this?” Freya asked, glancing at the paper suspiciously.
“That’s proof that Compton couldn’t be Clive’s father. There’s no DNA match.”
Panic crossed Freya’s face. “But how . . . No. This isn’t real.” She threw the paper back at him.
“You manipulated the results.”
Surprised and puzzled, Isabel turned to Michael for answers.
“We took the DNA from Clive’s bloody nose after the pub fight. As luck would have it, there were DNA results on record from Compton’s great-nephew, who happens to be doing time in prison back in the States, so we were able to get the lab to do a rush analysis. There was no connection to the MacKenna family.”
“So, Clive never had a claim,” Isabel said. “Do you think he knew?”
“I doubt it. I think Freya kept that little secret to herself . . . with one exception.”
“Who’s that?”
“Walter MacCarthy. The analysis shows a genetic match to him.”
“So that’s why MacCarthy was so involved in stopping me. He was Clive’s father. He and Freya had big plans, didn’t they?”
“Yes,” Michael said, turning his attention back to the monitor.
Sinclair was shaking his head. “Lying comes easy to you, doesn’t it?” he asked Freya. “Do you ever tell the truth?”
Freya didn’t have anything to say to that. Her chin came up a notch, and her eyes all but glowed with her hatred.
“Graeme Gibson has already confessed,” Sinclair said. “He told us you hired him to kill Isabel MacKenna.”