She pulled up as the media pack outside the station came to life, rushing the police car that drove into the adjacent car park. Foley got out and stood at the back of all the movement. She couldn’t see Nat. Two policemen escorted a woman towards the station doors. They tried to shelter her from shouted questions, microphones and cameras stuck in her face, but she stopped and faced the pack.
A journalist shouted, “Alison, what happened?”
Foley stepped forward to listen. This was the woman Drum attacked. She was mid twenties, heavy-set and carried herself with an air of importance. She was dressed in brightly coloured, ill-fitting clothing, too lightweight for the weather. There was a lot of skin on display. Her hair was a tangle of snarls in a never brushed fashion that’d never been fashionable, and one arm was covered in silver bangles from wrist almost to her elbow. But it didn’t matter what she looked like, or what she said now, no woman deserved to be attacked.
“The caveman assaulted me. It was unprovoked. He’s a danger to every woman, anyone who uses Marks Park,” she said.
Questions flew. “Where did it happen?”
“What time did it happen?”
“Why were you in the park?”
“Are you sure about who attacked you?” That was Nat.
Alison’s answers were drowned out by other shouts. The whole thing took less than two minutes before the police ushered her inside the station.
Foley made her way to Nat, but before she got close another cop car pulled in. The media pack converged on that car as well. Another two cops got out, but there had to be more going on. Foley moved so she could see around a TV camera crew.
Drum got out of the car and the shouting started again. He ignored it. He was taller than both cops. He didn’t slouch or hunch into himself, he didn’t seem to see the crowd of media jostling for his attention, but he saw her. Their eyes locked, the connection so powerful, it almost pulled her forward, before he dropped his gaze, and let the cops clear a way to the door.
The moment left Foley shaken, the next moment rocked her further. A journalist shoved a handheld recorder in her face. “Who are you?”
A hand pushed it aside. “My flatmate.” Nat to the rescue.
The guy focused on Foley. “You know him? The attacker, the accused.”
“Fuck off, Toby,” said Nat.
Toby gave Nat the finger. “Where do you know him from? Did he do it? How do you know him?”
Nat got in Toby’s face. “Fuck off and die.”
“What’s it to you? You trying to keep a source to yourself, Nat. That’s not collegial.”
“She’s my flatmate and friend and she has nothing to do with this.”
“What’s your name, honey?”
That woke Foley up. “It’s not honey, that’s for sure.” The TV crew was leaving, so were most of the radio folk.
“Look, he’s a dirty scumbag rapist. He should be strung up for what he did. You saw Alison, did she deserve to be attacked? If you know something about him, it’s a public service to talk. I saw the way he looked at you. If you won’t talk to me, at least talk to the cops.”
Foley looked at Nat who said, “Did you bring my lunch?” She blinked in confusion then caught on.
“Yeah,” she patted her bag. “That you left at home.” She turned to Toby. “I’m just here to give Nat her lunch.”
“Sure,” he said. “I saw the way the two of you looked at each other. That wasn’t about leftovers for lunch.” He transferred his attention to Nat. “The way to get out of a suburban newspaper is to make contacts at a metro. You’re not helping yourself, sweetheart.”
Toby laughed as he walked away and Nat fumed. “Could’ve told me you were coming.”
“Would you have rolled out a different welcome wagon?”
“I’d have had a better explanation for why you were here. Wish you did bring me a sandwich.”
“I’m here for council.”
“Oh.” Nat was placated. “I thought you were here for you.”