Detained

“You can go in.” The sergeant pointed at Darcy. “You can’t.”

“Ah, she’s my special assistant counsel,” Peter paused; Darcy looked up at him in amusement, “on public affairs.”

“She so is not,” said the sergeant, in a close approximation of the thirteen year old he probably had at home

“Do you want to debate this with me?” said Peter.

The officer sighed. “I’m new on shift, I’ve got a cold coming on, and already it’s a madhouse. So I’m going to close my eyes and make you,” he looked at the business card, “Mr Parker, swear she,” he pointed at Darcy, “won’t cause any strife other than what she’s already done on the tellie. And you,” he pointed at Peter, “will take full responsibility for her.”

“God help me, sergeant, I’ll try,” said Peter. He tucked his arm through Darcy’s, and said, “Come along, special counsel Campbell,” and she struggled not to laugh. If Peter was joking around, things couldn’t be that bad for Will on the legal front.

He led her quickly down a nondescript corridor, past various rooms with wide windows, interview rooms, with one-way glass she guessed.

“What’s going to happen to him?”

“They’re going to hold him just to be annoying while they go over some forensic accounting to make sure they can’t get him, or me for that matter, on tax fraud, and then they’re going to release him with a statement to thank him for helping with an investigation on the disappearance of wanted criminal, Norman Vessy. The statement will say Will had no part in the accidental drowning of Vessy and the matter is closed.”

She stopped walking, dragging Peter to a halt too. “Why did he do it?”

“Watch Norman drown?”

“No. Why did he expose himself to this madness, this reputation risk? It was a well kept secret. It need not ever have come out.”

“You need to ask Will to tell you his reasons. I think you know it’s always haunted him. And the more successful we became, the more worried he was about the kind of start we had, and about what sudden uncontrolled exposure might do. It’s why he always dodged the press.”

Her stomach lurched. “He was trying to control the news agenda today. To be the news, not wait for someone to turn him into it.” Someone just like her.

“I think that’s a fair summary of how he saw it. But you need to have that conversation with him. Come on, he’s waiting and he’s not expecting you.”

“Hold on, what about you? Norman was your father.”

Peter’s face took on a severe look. “Norman wasn’t my father. He was a professional monster. The only thing he taught me was how to hate. Will taught me everything else I needed, including how to love.”

Darcy gulped, tightened her grip on Peter’s arm. “This exposes you too, how are you feeling about it?”

He sighed. “It was certainly easier when we avoided the press, and I never believed exposure like this was a serious risk. But I knew it chewed at Will, and when the whole kidnap, Feng Kee nightmare was over, all he could think about was that it was only sheer luck no one discovered

this. He thought you might.”

Her breath constricted. “Oh, God. He thought I might use it against him.”

Peter shook his head. “No, Darcy. He thought you might compromise yourself not to.”

Darcy put her hand to her chest, her heart was hammering in her throat. Was Peter saying Will did this for her?

When they’d planned the interview Will had pushed her to ask the tough questions, but she’d insisted there was enough of a story without the need to expose the truth about Norman. The whole idea of the interview was to restore Will’s reputation, stop the speculation about their personal lives, and do some good by giving hope to dyslexia sufferers. At the studio, after he’d manipulated the interview, he said he’d given her another headline. Almost the words she’d once said she lived for. He wanted her to be true to herself, and he’d made sure she could be.

He was going to break her heart right out of her chest.

“Where is he, Peter?”

Peter lifted his chin, indicating the end of the corridor. She dropped his arm and ran the distance, stopping outside the last window. There was Will, his seat kicked back on its two hind legs, shiny shoes up on the table, arms folded, head down, eyes closed. He looked like he was having a power nap, not detained by police on a manslaughter investigation.

She’d seen him look like this at Tara, but in threadbare jeans, barefoot, shirtless and with his old friend Akubra shading his face. She wasn’t sure whether he got to her more in classic pinstripes or his ragbag look.

Peter opened the door. “Time to wake, sleeping beauty.”

“I’m awake. I’m just resting my eyes.” That voice, laconic and lazy. Will didn’t move. Pete cleared his throat. Will’s lids slid open, then bounced quick when he saw her. He pulled his feet down and sat straight.