BooksBarbecue
Back Rabbit Hole
Chapters (73)
  1. Rabbit Hole
  2. Also by Mark Billingham
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. Preface
  8. PART ONE
  9. ONE
  10. TWO
  11. THREE
  12. FOUR
  13. FIVE
  14. SIX
  15. SEVEN
  16. EIGHT
  17. NINE
  18. TEN
  19. ELEVEN
  20. TWELVE
  21. THIRTEEN
  22. FOURTEEN
  23. FIFTEEN
  24. SIXTEEN
  25. SEVENTEEN
  26. EIGHTEEN
  27. NINETEEN
  28. TWENTY
  29. TWENTY-ONE
  30. TWENTY-TWO
  31. TWENTY-THREE
  32. TWENTY-FOUR
  33. TWENTY-FIVE
  34. TWENTY-SIX
  35. TWENTY-SEVEN
  36. TWENTY-EIGHT
  37. TWENTY-NINE
  38. THIRTY
  39. THIRTY-ONE
  40. THIRTY-TWO
  41. THIRTY-THREE
  42. PART TWO
  43. THIRTY-FOUR
  44. THIRTY-FIVE
  45. THIRTY-SIX
  46. THIRTY-SEVEN
  47. THIRTY-EIGHT
  48. THIRTY-NINE
  49. FORTY
  50. FORTY-ONE
  51. FORTY-TWO
  52. FORTY-THREE
  53. FORTY-FOUR
  54. FORTY-FIVE
  55. FORTY-SIX
  56. FORTY-SEVEN
  57. FORTY-EIGHT
  58. FORTY-NINE
  59. FIFTY
  60. FIFTY-ONE
  61. FIFTY-TWO
  62. FIFTY-THREE
  63. FIFTY-FOUR
  64. FIFTY-FIVE
  65. FIFTY-SIX
  66. FIFTY-SEVEN
  67. FIFTY-EIGHT
  68. PART THREE
  69. FIFTY-NINE
  70. SIXTY
  71. EPILOGUE
  72. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  73. Back Cover

The desk is in position, so I’m thinking there must have been a tribunal in here recently, or maybe there’s one arranged for later in the day. I stand and watch the DI walk behind the desk, take off his leather jacket and toss it across the chair. He sits down and invites me to do the same.

‘I think you spoke to my . . . partner,’ he says. ‘Dr Perera?’

‘Right.’ So he’s the one. I look at him and I think, yeah, definitely punching above his weight.

He introduces himself, but like a few times recently, the name doesn’t stick. It’s simple enough, but it’s . . . gone as soon as it’s arrived. It doesn’t matter, because I know that by the time this is all over, it’ll be a name I’ll probably never be able to forget.

‘What can I do for you?’ he asks.

‘Well, I know why you’re here,’ I say. ‘I know how these things work, so I thought I’d save you some time.’

‘That’s always good.’ He waits.

So, here we are, then . . . and suddenly all those things that once mattered so much seem very far away and utterly unimportant. Like minor bits of mischief and silliness. Masks and the scars on my arm and the clunk of a wine bottle against a skull.

Oh, just bloody say it, Al . . .

My voice or Johnno’s. It really doesn’t matter. There’s no accent, otherwise it could just as easily be a woman bleeding out on a toilet floor.

‘My name’s Alice Armitage,’ I say. ‘And I murdered Debbie McClure.’

FIFTY-SEVEN

FIFTY-SEVEN

The detective says nothing.

I stare at him. It’s not a hard face, but it looks . . . lived in. There’s a thin, straight scar running across the bottom of his chin which, for some reason, makes me trust him a bit more than I might otherwise, and his hair is greyer on one side than the other. I can sense that he’s definitely not stupid and, unlike his girlfriend, I’m guessing he’s rather more interested in facts than feelings.

When it comes to what he makes of my confession, though, I can’t read him at all.

Is he waiting for me to carry on? Surely it’s his turn.

I can hear muffled voices whispering outside, then Marcus very much not whispering as he tells whoever’s eavesdropping to move away from the door. Ilias and Lucy is my guess. I wonder what the two uniforms are doing. If they’re clever they’ll be drinking tea in the nurses’ station or, if they’re not, they’ll be learning a few lessons I never got taught at the training college just a mile up the road. I almost feel sorry for them, backed into a corner somewhere by a small but well-practised mob, to be mercilessly eyed up, sworn at, sung to . . .