Karl-Heinz shook his head.
“Because she doesn’t deserve it, Dafydd. And you do. Go. Get dressed. We have to catch up with Milan.”
* * * *
Milan was almost at the top of the police station steps when Paganini’s Caprice arrested his attention again. He’d been ignoring all calls—they had all been from Karl-Heinz—but this one was from Lydia.
He smiled, looking forward to telling her what he was doing.
“Hey, Lydia. Tell Vanessa not to worry. I will rap for her. No, I mean, take the rap for her. Is that what you say? Yeah, I’m at the police now. I’m going to tell them I hit Daffy. Daffid. I ca
n’t say it. I did it, anyway.”
He paused, holding the phone a little way from his ear in response to the tirade that poured forth.
“You know what, Lydia? I don’t care so much about that. I can play the violin, so I’ll still have a career, right? I want to do the right thing. I want to do a good thing. For you. I know I don’t have to. I want to. Shh, shh, I’m going in. I’ll call you later, okay? Miluji te.”
He strode into the low-lit front office. The desk sergeant raised tired eyes then reverted to the report she was writing.
“Okay, I am making a confession,” he announced grandly.
The desk sergeant sighed and lifted her fingers from the keyboard.
“You want to make a statement?” she asked. “Is two o’clock in the morning the only time you can spare?”
“I must prevent a miscarriage of justice,” he said, tossing his hair. “An innocent person is wrongly accused. I cannot sleep while this hangs over her head. Please, allow me.”
The sergeant smirked, apparently enjoying Milan’s drama, and sat back, arms folded.
“What’s this about then?”
“You know there was a lady in here earlier, she is called Vanessa and you charged her with assault.”
“I haven’t charged anyone with assault tonight, sir, I only came on duty two hours ago.” She smiled tightly.
“Okay, well, this has happened. I suppose you have a file with it. I have come to say that Vanessa is not the guilty person. I am.”
“You are confessing to an assault?”
“Exactly, yes,” said Milan, nodding vigorously.
“And we should have the records here? Can you give me the alleged assailant’s name again?”
“Vanessa Robertson. It was a bit earlier, maybe ten o’clock.”
The sergeant made a few clicks of the mouse and frowned at her computer while Milan looked around him at the crime prevention posters and the thirsty pot plants. He hoped, now that he was here, that it wouldn’t come to arrest. He didn’t think he’d enjoy prison time. But it would get his picture in the papers again, which might be a good thing, on balance.
“Okay,” she said. “Excuse me a moment. I’m going to go and get someone who can deal with this. What’s your name?”
“Kaspar. Milan Kaspar.”
“Oh.” She looked up at him, squinting, then she grinned. “Next Big String, right?”
He nodded graciously.
“My mum’s a huge fan of yours.”
“Ah. Thank you.”