She could hear his screams long after she had been taken across the courtyard and thrown into the concrete room with no windows.
Lying in the dark, Mimoza quelled her tears and tried to figure out what was going on. Feeling naked without her son by her side, she listened because she couldn’t see a thing. Footsteps approached, the thin shaft of light slipping beneath the bottom of the door darkening as someone walked by. The footsteps faded. She strained to hear. No traffic, no birds. Deathly silence. Nothing permeated the solid walls.
She lay on the floor with only her heartbeat for company.
The man with the crooked teeth slammed his fist on the table.
‘I ask for one thing,’ he said to the two men in front of him. ‘And you mess it up.’
‘You said bring that Mimoza witch to be questioned.’
‘I did, but not in front of a full canteen and a screaming boy. Now they have all seen. How can I make her disappear? There are too many witnesses. Imbeciles.’
The two guards remained tight-lipped.
‘Bring her to the interrogation room without causing a scene.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Pacing the room, Fatjon came to a halt in front of the men.
‘And do something about the boy. I can hear him screaming from here.’
The pair left quickly.
Where had that bitch Mimoza gone yesterday? Who had she spoken to? He needed to know, and soon. The big plan could not be jeopardised at this stage – not by a snivelling whore and her snot-nosed brat. There could be no more mistakes. But knowing his boss, someone would pay for mistakes already made.
Fatjon bared his overlapping teeth at his reflection in the window. He had to make sure it wasn’t him.
Mimoza heard the return of footsteps. The door opened, bringing with it the amber glare of fluorescent lights. Rough hands grabbed her and shoved her out.
Up concrete steps and along a corridor of bare brick walls, single bulbs lighting the way. Five doors, then they stopped outside the sixth. The guards pushed her into a room similar to the previous one. A red-topped table with two chairs reminded her of her mother’s sparse kitchen a lifetime ago. She banished the memories before they could reduce her resolve to be strong. She had Milot to think of now. Standing erect, she hoped her posture would instil bravery.
The man with the crooked teeth stood in the centre of the room.
‘Where did you go yesterday morning?’ He walked around her, so close, the musk of his body clinging to her skin as he moved.
‘I bring Milot to town. Ice cream. He want ice cream.’ Her eyes darted around as she tried to lock down her fear.
‘At seven a.m., huh? Truth,’ the man shouted, one of his teeth catching the light. ‘Tell the truth.’
‘I am.’
He pushed her onto a chair. A lamp on the table flashed in her face.
‘Look at me.’ He thumped the table. The lamp shook. Mimoza did too.
‘I c-can’t see you.’ The brightness blinded her. Perspiration trickled down her nose. Be strong, she silently pleaded with herself.
There was another man sitting at the other side of the table. She hadn’t heard him enter. She couldn’t see him properly because of the light from the lamp. His hands rested on the Formica. Did she recognise those hands? Something familiar? She couldn’t think with the light glaring in her eyes. When he moved his head, his unshaven chin jutted towards her.
‘Who are you?’ she asked as he continued his silent vigil.
‘Who I am is not your concern.’ He spoke in her native tongue.
‘I told you where I went,’ she said.
His voice. She thought she knew it. But where from? She recoiled into the hard chair as he stood up and moved behind her. He banged a chair down beside her and sat. His canvas trousers six inches from her knees. Reaching out, he ran a finger along her cheek. She flinched. The touch of his skin scuttled her blood through her veins. She was sure he could see her heart trying to leap out through her ribs. His hand trailed around the back of her neck and he screwed her hair in a knot. Pain leapt up her skull as he tightened his hold, pulling her face close to his. She smelled the sourness of his breath. Bile rose in her stomach and she struggled to keep it from releasing. Still she could not see his face.
‘I do not like to be crossed.’ His spittle rested on her lips, her cheeks. She forced her eyelids up and the vomit down. ‘I do not like liars.’ With a jerk he released her and she fell back on the chair. ‘I do not like you.’
And then she did puke, a straight projectile flow of vomit onto his shirt.
She welcomed the slap to her jaw and the thump to her forehead as she slumped to the ground, spitting acrid liquid out of her mouth.
‘You are a bitch,’ he said. ‘I will make you suffer. I will make your boy suffer.’
‘No, please no.’ Heat blazed through her body. ‘Not Milot. Don’t touch him.’
Three sets of black boots on the concrete floor merged before they were raised and aimed at her stomach.
She welcomed the pain if it could save her son. She welcomed the stars swimming behind her eyes, if only to blot out the face she thought she knew.
And at last she welcomed the relief of darkness.
Nineteen
Lottie eyed Boyd over the top of her computer and smiled. He cocked his head to one side and she noticed the slight upturn of his lips, the beginning of a question.
‘I’m only after noticing. Are you growing a beard?’ she said. The soft stubble, flecked with grey, matched his cropped hair.
‘No law against it last time I checked,’ he replied and returned to his work, averting his hazel eyes from her inquisitive green ones.
She wasn’t letting him get away that lightly. ‘Did someone say it would suit you?’ She noticed a flush creep over his cheeks. Was there a woman in Boyd’s life? She hadn’t considered this.
‘You’re jealous, Inspector Parker.’
He stood up and walked over to her desk. She leaned back in her chair and studied him. The sun sneaked a streak of light over his face.
‘Doesn’t matter to me one way or the other,’ she lied, turning away. She tapped loudly on her keyboard.
‘You’ll break it.’
‘Feck off, Boyd.’
‘You are jealous,’ he said, and rotated her chair so that she was facing him.
‘If I knew what there was to be jealous of then maybe I might be, but as I don’t know anything, how can I be jealous?’
‘The riddle queen of Ragmullin,’ he laughed, giving her chair an extra spin.
She stamped her feet to the floor, halting the chair’s movement, and stood up. ‘Well, am I right? Is there a woman telling you to grow scruff on your face?’
For an instant she was sure she read a sadness written in capital letters in his eyes before he shrugged his shoulders, went back to his desk and began tidying his files, which were already neatly lined up end to end.
‘You break my heart, Lottie Parker. You know that. You show no interest in me unless…’
‘Unless what?’ Suddenly the office was too hot. ‘Unless I’m full to the gills with alcohol?’ she prompted, indignation colouring her cheeks.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I never know where I stand with you.’
‘Like I already said…’
‘What?’