500 Miles from You (Scottish Bookshop #3)(83)

It took Lissa a minute. “Oh God,” she said. “Is this . . .”

The woman looked at her. “Shh,” she said. “I’m a youth worker, yes. But I really did have to go.”

Her brow furrowed.

“Not so much now.”

“I mean, please do . . .”

“I can’t now, I’m too uptight.”

The alarm stopped going off.

“Phew,” said Lissa, feeling oddly better now that she was comforting somebody else. “How about now, without the alarm?”

“Nope,” said the woman. “Still not feeling it. It’s like all the pee has hopped back up me.”

She frowned.

“This is going to do nothing for my gluten intolerance.”

“Well, no,” said Lissa truthfully.

They both approached the door. The noise seemed to have died down.

“Do you think it’s safe?” said Lissa.

“Well, either that or they’re just a pile of corpses out there,” said the woman. “I’m joking! I’m joking! Wish me luck!”

She paused.

“And listen. I know they sound rowdy. But they’re just lads. Tell the truth and shame the devil, and it’ll all be fine.”

“That’s what Toilet Guy said. He said I should talk about it.”

“Well then.”

And they smiled tentatively at each other, and Lissa turned the handle on the door.





Chapter 67


“But I was just passing by!” said Cormac uselessly, as the two policemen marched him into the van.

“That is what they all say,” said a slim, bespectacled police officer with a wispy mustache.

“I know!” said Cormac. “But I’m a medical professional.”

“And I am the uncle of a monkey,” said the policeman—unnecessarily, Cormac thought. The local copper in Kirrinfief knew every single person in the village and spent a lot of time posing with tourists and trying to stop toddlers escaping from the nursery.

There was a paddy wagon ahead. Surely not, thought Cormac. This was a joke. But there it was. He was being arrested, as was everybody else.

He remembered back a few short hours when he had woken up with the sun on his face, full of happiness and feeling like singing out loud. What a wonderful day he had planned. Surprising Lissa at the courthouse, and seeing her lovely face beam the same smile on him as he’d seen in the photo . . .

Rather than, of course, what had actually happened, when he’d ended up sitting down in a dirty corridor doing a fake accent while she sobbed uncontrollably. Not exactly what he’d had in mind.

Oh, and now he had handcuffs on.

It struck him that this wasn’t remotely funny, and also that he should probably let her know that he wasn’t coming for lunch. He scrabbled around in his back pocket for his phone, which promptly fell on the floor.

“I’ll have that,” said the young officer, taking it peremptorily and putting it in a bag.

“What! I need to call someone!”

“You’ll get your call at the station. Until then, all phones are confiscated.”

There were general growls of annoyance all around. Cormac blinked. If he had only one call . . . could he call someone he’d never met to come bail him out? That really was an almost worse introduction to someone than meeting her for the first time when she was collapsed sobbing on a dirty bathroom floor. Oh God.

“Seriously, I’m not involved!” said Cormac in desperation.

“This is why we had to pull you off someone in the fray,” said the constable. “Okay. Got it.”

Cormac winced. This could be bad.

And who the hell was he going to call?





Chapter 68


Once order had been more or less restored, Lissa crept back to the witness room. Roisin was waiting for her, arms folded.

“Well, you’re here now,” she sniffed.

“Sorry,” said Lissa.

“I’m sympathetic,” said Roisin, sounding anything but. “But you’re lucky it got delayed. We can’t do this without you. You’re the only witness who wasn’t involved!”

“I know,” said Lissa, breathing deeply. “But I think . . . I think I’m all right.”

“Good,” said Roisin, as a number flashed up on the wall.

“Okay, that’s us. Let’s go.”

THE COURTROOM—A windowless room with stained cheap carpet and pinboard walls, that smelled of stale coffee and dusty lighting—was not remotely impressive. The judge sat looking half asleep, not a flicker of interest on her face as Lissa entered.

The big group of Kai’s friends had all gone, likewise the family of Marcus, the defendant, who stood defiant in a cheap suit and a razor-sharp haircut, swaggering in the dock facing the judge’s podium. A stern-looking lawyer was sitting behind him, scribbling; a hodgepodge lineup of people sitting expectantly to the side, she realized, of course would be the jury.

“Alyssa Westcott called to the stand,” said a bored-sounding woman on the side.

Lissa took a deep breath. She wished that she’d asked her mum to be here—or even, she thought suddenly, Cormac. He would have come. Still, she would see him after this. All she had to do was to get through with this and . . . she checked her mobile phone. She hadn’t heard from him, but that’s okay. She’d WhatsApp him when they were out and then—well, she’d probably better redo her makeup and, Christ, her hair. But then . . .