Dark Country by Bronwyn Parry Page B

stuff, is straight down
     the line, and won’t waste your time and money, or ours.’
    Cop or no cop, he trusted her recommendation, simple as that. She might crack under pressure later, but for now she was dealing
     straight and honest with him. Not on his side, but not against him, either, just focused on seeking justice.
    Surprise, gratitude, relief – he didn’t know what it was, but before he thought twice about it he opened his mouth and said,
     ‘Remind me later that I’m not supposed to like you, Blue.’
    Her huff of breath held as much amusement as her death-glare. ‘If it turns out that you had anything to do with that woman’s
     death, Gillespie, then you definitely won’t like me.’
    ‘I didn’t kill her.’
    He spoke quietly, held her gaze, and blue eyes drilled into his, undaunted.
    ‘I figured that, since I’m your damned alibi. But arranging someone’s death is as bad as doing the deed itself, in my book,
     and I’m not your alibi for
that
.’
    ‘I didn’t arrange her death, either.’
    She leaned against the wall, crossed her arms and studied him. ‘“I’ve already dealt with Marci.” That’s what you said on the
     phone last night, while we were in the car.’
    He grimaced, felt the small room closing in on him. Yeah, that would give any sane person more than enough reason for doubt.
     Throw in what little she knew about him and his past, and maybe he should be grateful she’d even taken off the cuffs.
    He slid back the chair and stood at the window. The view of the police yard was fractured through the pattern of the security
     grill, but he wasn’t looking for anything as stupid as an escape. Just the reminder, if not the reality, of space around him,
     beyond the crowding walls of the cell-sized room.
    With the window at his back, he faced her again, acknowledged her doubt. ‘Yeah, I did say something like that.’
    ‘So?’
    She shifted slightly against the wall, slid her hands into her pockets, the movement bombarding his senses with a rapid onslaught
     of contradictory impressions. The curve of hip, disguised by the masculine style of trousers. Slim waist, bulked by the uniform
     gun belt, loaded with the standard tools of the trade.
    He slammed the mental door shut against everything but that belt and what it meant. Police tools, police trade, and he shouldn’t
     for even a second let a misplaced, irrelevant and incredibly stupid lust make him forget it.
    ‘Is this a formal interview, Sergeant?’
    ‘No, the detectives will conduct the investigation. This is informal and off-the-record, because I’m a witness to your activities
     last night, and I’m trying to work out whether you’re an innocent man or a murderer.’ She tilted her head slightly to one
     side, and continued just as bluntly, ‘So, how did you “deal” with her, Gillespie?’
    He drew in a slow breath, debated silently for a moment the best strategy. Until he knew where he stood – who had set him
     up, and how – he didn’t plan on giving much away. Yet if he clammed up, avoided her questions, he’d give her even more reason
     to distrust him. Her alibi had to be putting her in a difficult position with her colleagues, but right now, that alibi was
     the nearest thing to a lifeline he had.
    ‘I paid six months’ rent on an apartment in Melbourne for her, and gave her a plane ticket to get there and some cash.’
    ‘Why?’
    The question caught him off-guard.
Fucked if I know
, he wanted to say. Yeah, like that would go down well. Possible explanations raced through his mind, but none of them worked.
     He owed Marci nothing. And any debt he might have had to Digger had been more than repaid, years ago.
    ‘Long story,’ he finally answered.
    ‘She was your ex- what? Wife? Lover?’
    ‘Hell, neither.’ At least
that
was easy to answer.
    ‘That isn’t what Petric thinks.’
    ‘It isn’t what a lot of people think,’ he conceded. Damn Marci and her delusional games – and himself, for