Chapter 77

Chapter 77

‘David Reynolds, I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and false imprisonment.'

Charlie stood opposite the decorated officer, who was eyeing her with naked hostility. As she continued to read him his rights, Reynolds never once broke eye contact, his gaze burning into hers, challenging her to stutter, to stumble, to give up. He was determined not to make this easy for her, yet it was he who was in the dock here, standing alone in his living room, surrounded by family photos and police commendations, even as a dozen fellow officers were preparing to turn this place, his life, upside down. Concluding the speech that she'd made so many times before in her career, Charlie took a step towards the suspect.

‘You know the drill,' she continued briskly. ‘So if you could turn around for me …?'

But Reynolds remained where he was, his eyes glued to Charlie. She saw anger there, but also incomprehension that he was about to be led out of his own house in handcuffs. Already a crowd was gathering outside, ensuring his departure would be a very public event, no doubt to be recorded and circulated on social media within minutes. There was no such thing as quiet justice these days.

‘PC Reynolds, I'm asking you to submit to being handcuffed. If you refuse, I will have to add resisting arrest to your already lengthy charge sheet.'

He remained as still as a statue, only the sound of his breathing confirming that he was actually alive.

‘Fair enough, have it your way …'

She moved to circumvent him, but as soon as she was halfway there, he finally turned around, joining his wrists together. Annoyed, Charlie returned to her initial position, sliding the cuffs on and securing them tightly. There was a brief reaction, pain morphing into anger, as the metal bit his skin, but Reynolds kept his counsel. Placing a hand on his back, Charlie guided him forwards, manoeuvring him towards the uniformed officers by the door. On cue, both officers dropped their gaze, clearly deeply uncomfortable about arresting someone they shared a locker room with on a daily basis.

‘Yeah, you might well look ashamed,' Reynolds hissed. ‘All of you. This is a stitch-up, a bloody witch hunt.'

‘All right, Reynolds, that's enough,' Charlie warned.

‘But let's see who's still standing when this is all over, eh?'

All present avoided his eye, his aggressive presence seeming to fill the room. Reluctantly, he walked on, pausing only at the doorway, turning back to look at his wife and son, who had appeared to watch his departure.

‘I'll be back for dinner,' he announced. ‘Make sure you cook me something nice.'

Jackie Reynolds said nothing, staring at her husband, distressed and concerned. His son remained silent and, given the livid bruising that was starting to blossom on his cheek, Charlie could guess why. Having said his piece, Reynolds now disappeared from view, led away by his colleagues. On cue, Jackie and Archie vanished too, hurrying back upstairs to cleave to each other and lick their wounds. This was tough on them, but Charlie knew there was no question of sparing their feelings, of diminishing their embarrassment or pain. They had a job to do, so raising her voice once more, she declared:

‘Right then, let's get to it. Let's tear this place apart.'