Page 86 of Ink's Devil

The detectives exchange snide glances with each other. “You do have the right to have a lawyer present. Have you an attorney on speed dial?”

“No, but I have his daughter who’s my best friend. Her father lives in Denver, but he must know someone local who could help.” It’s only been two weeks since I was at Mel’s wedding. I’d spoken to her parents there and found her dad an approachable sort.

They seem reluctant, but they give me some time to make a call. Mel immediately agrees to contact her father. He’s fast. It’s only a couple of hours before a lawyer, a Mr Ottoman, is shown into the room. He’s a big, black man who regards the detectives with sharp eyes, while gentling his expression when it lands on me. He must be about Mel’s father’s age and immediately gives me twin feelings of confidence and comfort.

After he’s seated beside me, he nods to the detectives and immediately takes control. “You’re interviewing Ms Foster as a witness, I believe, and that she has not been charged with any crime?”

“Not as yet,” Barker confirms, unpromisingly.

Ottoman turns to me. “Go ahead and answer their questions. If you feel unsure about anything, let me know and we’ll discuss it. Likewise, if I’m not happy with a question or whether you should answer, I’ll indicate.”

I feel a little more relaxed now he’s here.

“If we can begin?” Barker asks but starts without waiting for an answer. “Ms Foster, can you tell me how well you know Damon McNeish.”

I frown and shake my head. “I know no one of that name.” I’m being completely honest.

Impatiently, Barker elaborates, “You may know him as Ink.”

“I don’t know him at all.”

“Ms Foster,” Barker says sharply, “your lawyer should have advised you to tell the truth.”

“I didn’t say I hadn’t met him, but we didn’t have much time for conversation. As you must realise, he didn’t even tell me his real name.”

“So, when did you meet him?”

“At Mel’s wedding. Melissa Evans as she is now. She married her man, Pyro, Brendan, two weeks ago.”

“And what relationship have you got with Mr McNeish?”

I shrug. “You know what weddings are like. A lot of drink flowing, people looking to hook up. Look, it may have escaped your notice, but I’m tall. Ink’s taller and that was refreshing. He intrigued me, and with the alcohol in my blood, I was attracted to him. We… er… made love. That was it.”

“You only saw him that one night?”

“I went to the Satan’s Devils’ clubhouse the following weekend. I’d been one of Mel’s bridesmaids, the other were women whose partners were Satan’s Devils. I’d gotten to know them quite well. Mel invited me back as they were having a surprise birthday party for Violet’s man Demon—he’s the prez. As I knew everyone going, it sounded like fun. Ink was there. We hadn’t planned on meeting again, but well, we again hooked up.” I’m having no difficulty so far. Everything I’ve said is the truth. Except I hold back that the sex was amazing and the best I’ve ever had. But there’s no way I’m divulging that.

The older detective, quiet until now, speaks up. “You’re saying you only had a physical relationship with Mr McNeish?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a relationship, but that’s not a crime, is it? I’d be stupid to imagine anything other than that. Most bikers enjoy the single life.”

“So, you’re leading us to believe you’re a woman who just goes with a man for sex?”

“That, as Ms Foster has observed, is no crime,” Ottoman puts in calmly, no judgement at all in his tone or expression. “Perhaps you can explain what you want to know about Mr McNeish, other than trying to establish a relationship where it appears there was none.”

“Did Mr McNeish use any illegal substance in your presence?”

“No,” I say fast. “If he had, there would not have been a second time. I wouldn’t trust a man with a habit. I saw no drugs being used in the club, I wouldn’t have felt comfortable if I had. Of course, the odd joint, but nothing more.” And a live porn show, but that’s no crime.

Is this all they’re going to be asking?I start to feel less tense.

Barker opens a folder in front of him and passes a picture across. Ottoman takes it before I can glance at it, but after a second, slides it in front of me.

“Ms Foster, do you recognise this rucksack?”

It’s mine and has clearly been photographed as evidence.

“I had one just like that,” I point to the picture and admit.

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