What Happened Next? Episode Nine

Episode NINE

UNDER THE LIGHTS

The forecourt hummed under the fluorescent strip lights, diesel hung in the breeze, and somewhere a pump clicked in the silence, reminding me why I was there in the first place. Under normal circumstances, I loved Mark’s biceps wrapped around me, but something about it felt forced. I wanted to believe him, I truly did, yet there was something almost imperceptible about his voice that gave me the creeps. Was he telling me the truth? What the hell was going on? It all got too much, so I squirmed out of his grasp and then immediately shoved him backwards.

“Dolcie, I—” he began.

“Start talking,” I instructed.

He dragged a hand over his face, keeping his eyes fixed on the puddle of spilt oil where my hatchback had just vanished. He looked like he wanted to step into it and disappear.

“I found her in the back of my van three nights ago,” he explained, rubbing his neck. “She said she was hiding from someone.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did she get in your van?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“What do you know?” I asked.

Mark sighed, interlocking his fingers behind his head as he stared into space. His chest rose and fell too fast, and a little line had settled between his brows, the one that appeared when he pretended that everything was fine.

“She came back the following night, so I gave her a couple of quid to get something to eat.”

“Then what?”

“I suggested she go to the police, but she freaked out. Started saying they were going to hurt her family.”

“Sounds familiar,” I remarked.

“After I saw her face on the news, I did some digging. It turns out that she’s done this loads of times under different names.”

“For what?”

“I have no idea.” He peered at the floor.

Before I could interrogate him further, blue lights washed across the pumps as two marked police cars swung onto the forecourt from opposite ends. The sudden splash of colour turned everything theatrical—the pumps, the kiosk, even Mark’s face. I barely had a chance to take a breath before the doors flew open and uniforms poured out.

“Hands where we can see them!” an officer shouted.

I raised mine before Mark did the same. Inside the kiosk, the attendant stepped back from the glass with his mobile pressed to his ear, mouth open, and eyes big as saucers.

“Dolcie Harper?” a sergeant called, striding over with intent.

“Yes,” I managed.

“You’re under arrest on suspicion of kidnap and conspiracy to kidnap,” he said before turning to Mark. “You too, sir.”

“What?” I stared at him. “No, you’ve got it wrong! The missing girl, Isobel—she was here. She took my car and—”

“Face the vehicle,” he said, already behind me.

I wasn’t given the opportunity to comply. In the blink of an eye, I was slammed against Mark’s bonnet, and cold metal closed on my wrists. Mark put up more of a fight than I did, trying to shake off the other officer’s grasp until he was thrown to the ground and cuffed. The ugly grunt he produced when he hit the deck made my stomach flip.

“Call DS Zahradnik,” I let out, struggling to turn my head. “She’s already on the case. She’s been to my house.”

“No need,” the sergeant replied. “She’s at the station.”

As he began to read me my rights, I flinched after a bright flash illuminated the forecourt. Then another, then another, until I spotted the source, a man standing just beyond the pumps holding a long lens camera. He seemed to smirk at me as the officer behind me adjusted his grip on the handcuffs and slowly approached, taking another photograph every few steps. The shutter sounded indecently loud.

It was Philip Anthony Smith.

“Sir, step back,” an officer warned.

“It’s a free country, isn’t it?” he asked pleasantly, totally ignoring the instruction as he gleefully lifted his camera to take another snap.

“What are you doing here?” I spat.

“Just making sure you’re both brought to justice.”

“We haven’t done anything wrong!” Mark pleaded from the ground.

“Hmm,” Philip mused. “That’s up for debate.”

Laughing to himself, he turned the screen of the camera to the officer holding me, and started flicking through the pictures. Although I couldn’t see what was displayed, I knew it wasn’t good because the officer’s grip tightened every time he saw a new image. The little, disapproving huffs he made each landed on the back of my neck.

“We’re going to need copies of those,” the officer said.

“Of course!” Philip beamed. “Glad to be of service.”

“We’ll take your statement at the station,” the sergeant said without looking around.

“Please,” I said, twisting my head towards him as far as the cuffs would allow. “Check the CCTV, I wasn’t trying to kidnap anybody—I was trying to help her.”

“We’ll review it,” he said, just to shut me up.

Without wasting any more time, the officer started marching me towards his vehicle, and Mark was forced into the other. Philip sauntered over to take one more photograph once I was seated, then leaned into the gap of the window as the officer walked around the vehicle to get in the driver’s seat. Up close, I could see the flecks of grey in his beard and the deep, practised lines at the corners of his eyes.

“I told you to be careful who you trust.” He smirked.

Thank you to Jennifer Gillibrand from Carlisle, UK for her contribution to this episode!