Margo waited until the duty sergeant had returned to the front desk, as if she wanted to share a secret that was just for the two women to hear. “It’s Oscar. He’s killed himself.” Her voice was low, at complete odds to the banshee howl she’d issued at the front desk.

Frankie’s pen stopped in mid stroke and she engaged with Margo’s eyes at last. They appeared as dark pools, hauntingly pretty in their own way, but unsettling in the depth of anguish they displayed. They say you can read a person’s soul in their eyes. Frankie wondered, not for the first time, what horrors this woman sat opposite her had endured, to give her eyes like this.

“Are you sure he’s dead, Margo? Could he just be unconscious or something? We ought to get an ambulance out to him just in case.” She adopted a sensible, business-like tone. “Now, where exactly is he? Can you tell me what happened?”

Margo’s expression remained the same, but her voice now held a hard, sarcastic edge. “He’s hanging from the Hanging Tree, covered in shit, blood and flies. His head’s half off. It will take more than a fleet of fucking ambulances to bring him back!”

She laughed then, leaning back in her seat and baring her teeth to the overhead fluorescents. Margo felt lighter, almost happy for a brief moment. She felt one of the chains that had held her captive finally break, offering her a degree of freedom that had never before seemed possible. She smiled beatifically at Frankie as she composed herself once more.

Frankie felt a chill run down her spine. The woman was quite possibly insane, she might have even murdered Oscar. She tore her eyes away from Margo, risking a swift glance towards the front desk. Hamish was already making slow and steady progress towards them.

“Margo, we’ll have to check, you understand that?” She spoke more calmly than she felt. “Hamish here will take you to one of our rooms where you can have a lie down if you want. There’s a toilet and washbasin if you need to freshen up.” She stood up and Margo reached for her untouched mug of tea. “It’s OK, I’ll carry that for you.”

Frankie carried the mug, the surface of the tea forming miniature waves as her hand betrayed her nervousness. Margo made to pick up her bag, but Frankie forestalled her. “We’ll keep that safe for you here for the moment.”

Hamish led Margo into a holding cell, the euphemism for ‘one of our rooms’ needing no translation.

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have anywhere else to put you for the moment.” Frankie offered as way of an apology. The duty sergeant locked the door, the metallic clunk reminding Margo of another of her mother’s favourite phrases, ‘One door opens and another closes.’ Margo took the mug of tea through the hatch, and sat on the mattress, ignoring them both.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Have a wee rest and we can take your statement later.” Margo didn’t respond, sitting with both hands clasped around the mug as if in prayer. They walked the short distance back to the office in silence, each concerned with their own thoughts.