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.
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| (source) |
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