Page 98 of Slack Tide Kill

"Yes," she answered.

"Very well. When you are ready."

Sally looked into the camera and the red light blinked on. Chakrati read out the date, the purpose, the time and the officers present, then Sally began, pouring out the details like an incoming tide. Twenty minutes and it was all done.

Gemmell asked questions. Many were echoes of what Mayhew had asked her at the scene, and she answered them smoothly. The hardest was the one she'd feared.

"If you were in the same position again, would you repeat your actions?"

There was no point lying to that. "Yes. I would."

Gemmell frowned. "You would?"

"I regret the outcome. But I do not regret my choice."

After that, they were done. Chakrati unplugged the camera.

"Good luck," Gemmell said.

"And to you."

Sally headed out. She felt clearer in her own head, with only one duty.

Liam.

40 PUB CRAWL

It was dark and drizzling outside the station. Sally glided through the thin ranks of the press like a boat cutting over still water. A few lackluster shouts followed her, barely eddies in her wake, then she was clear.

No car. No partner.

She tried Liam's phone but got nothing. Within minutes she found the first pub, Cinque Ports. An old building on the corner, wholly painted a modern teal. She glided inside, nearly 7 p.m. on a Tuesday night, and it was quiet. Wooden beams, wooden floors, wooden tables and chairs. Rustic, a fire in the hearth, that yeasty beer smell, locals holding up the bar, Springsteen on the radio.

No Liam.

At the bar she showed a photo to the bartender; on her phone, one from the aftermath of Dark Peak. "Has this man been in tonight?"

"Wanted, is he?" the girl asked.

"Yes."

"Oh. Right. No. I don't think so."

"If he comes in, call me." She gave her number and left.

Sally walked along the Market Road, then the High Street. People moved around her, men and women, young and old, all on their own paths. There were bookshops and sweet shops, shops for crafting and for paperweights, a gallery, a bank, then another pub.

The George in Rye. More wood, beer pumps behind the bar, gilt-edged paintings of Tudor aristocracy on the walls, but no Liam. She left her number and moved on.

A camera met her at the door.

Tania Brown stood there, one hand holding her cell phone out, the other tucked into her coat pocket. She gave Sally a small, satisfied smile.

"Long night, Officer Rogers?"

Sally started walking. Brown followed.

"Is this official NCA business? Or are you just wandering around Rye asking strangers questions because Kent Police finally took your keys away?"