Page 56 of Savage Justice

The lawyer is waiting for us in the reception area at the police station. Lynne Meadows thrusts her hand at Nico, then at me as soon as we enter the waiting room, ignoring the young officer behind the desk. She introduces herself, then draws us into a corner for a briefing huddle. She is a matronly sort wearing a staid tweed two-piece suit and rimless spectacles, her greying hair scraped back into a severe bun. Despite her conservative appearance, I get the impression she is a force to be reckoned with.

“Death of Atalanta going missing has caused an international furore,” she hisses in a low tone. “They’re desperate for clues, anything to help locate it.”

“I’m not sure I can—”

“No, obviously not. We just need to convince them of that, and they can be slow on the uptake, this lot. Words of one syllable tend to work best. Leave the talking to me.”

“But I want to help,” I protest. “If this is about Borys—”

“Then we’ll send them his way, naturally. Now, shall we get this over with?”

I can only nod. Lynne hustles over to the desk and wags her finger at the nervous young officer on duty. He initially invites us to take a seat, but Lynne’s having none of that.

“We shall see Inspector Norris now,” she insists. “Please inform him.”

“I’ll see if he’s free—”

“Now,” she repeats, in a tone that I swear would peel paint from the windowsills.

The rookie constable pales under her determined glare and picks up his internal phone. He ends the call and does his best to drum up a confident smile. He fails utterly.

“I’ve been asked to show you into interview room three,” he stammers. “Through here.”

We troop through, to find ourselves in a utilitarian little space, sparsely furnished with a wooden table, screwed to the floor, and four chairs, also secured down. Obviously, they’re accustomed to a bothersome class of clientele.

There’s a recording machine on the table, red light flashing, and an obviously one-way window set into the far wall. I imagine a team of bored detectives on the other side, watching and listening to proceedings in here. Clearly, I’ve been watching too much television.

A couple of minutes later, two men enter. Their name badges identify them as Detective Inspector Martin Norris and Detective Constable Ian Fletcher, but they go through the honours anyway.

The constable is hefting a substantial file which he deposits on the table with a resounding thump.

His superior settles himself in front of the file and opens it at the first page. “Please, be seated Ms Lowe. Thank you for coming in so promptly.”

There are only two spare seats. I take one and Lynne the other. Nico lounges against the wall, his back to the peculiar window.

“Would you be more comfortable waiting outside, sir?”

Nico grunts. “I’m fine. Get on with it.”

“Of course. I need to inform you that this interview will be recorded. Those present are…” He flicks the switch to turn on the machine and recites his own name and credentials, and those of his companion. Then he pauses to allow the rest of us to say who we are.

“Molly Lowe,” I say. “Amelia.”

“Lynne Meadows, legal representative, representing Ms Lowe.”

“Nicolai Hanssen,” Nico intones from behind us. “Accompanying Ms Lowe.”

Inspector Norris slides an A4 sized picture out of the folder and places it on the table. “Do you recognise this, Ms Lowe?”

“Yes. It’s Death of Atalanta. Albrecht Dürer, 1498.”

“Have you ever seen this painting, Ms Lowe?”

“Not personally, though I am familiar with it. I studied Medieval Art as part of my degree at university. Death of Atalanta is an old master, widely known and admired. I doubt there’s an art student anywhere in the world who wouldn’t recognise it.”

“You are familiar with it, then?”

“As I explained—”

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