Keith stood for a moment, holding the phone, shifting from leaning on the outside of one foot to the outside of the other, his expression as neutral as he could make it. He had plenty of experience with the police when he’d been hustling. And even when he’d been just cruising. The police hadn’t been on his side. Once, he’d been beaten up “resisting arrest.” Colin was different. Colin was a top bloke. But the policeman who’d brusquely ordered them to wait … Keith was afraid, even though it had been years since he’d whored. He turned to look at Jason, feeling ashamed, and angry that he was ashamed.
Jason flashed him a quick smile of understanding, and took Keith’s phone from him. Stepping forward, he spoke with the kind of assurance—arrogance even—that comes from twenty generations of privilege.
“Excuse me, sergeant Kaminski,” he said, his eyes flicking to the triple chevron on the man’s shoulder tab, and his name badge on his breast, his accent cut-glass, “The sergeant from Macedon would like to speak with you. He was the man who interviewed our friend who lives here. The one abducted by the Mt Macedon killer.”
The sergeant’s eyes darkened and his mouth tightened. But he took the phone.
“Yeah?” he said, turning away from the three on the walkway, his voice showing his irritation.
They watched him intently.