“What is this?” Freya asked, glancing at the paper suspiciously.
“That’s proof that Compton couldn’t be Clive’s father. There’s no DNA match.”
Panic crossed Freya’s face. “But how... No. This isn’t real.” She threw the paper back at him. “You manipulated the results.”
Surprised and puzzled, Isabel turned to Michael for answers.
“We took the DNA from Clive’s bloody nose after the pub fight. As luck would have it, there were DNA results on record from Compton’s great-nephew, who happens to be doing time in prison back in the States, so we were able to get the lab to do a rush analysis. There was no connection to the MacKenna family.”
“So, Clive never had a claim,” Isabel said. “Do you think he knew?”
“I doubt it. I think Freya kept that little secret to herself... with one exception.”
“Who’s that?”
“Walter MacCarthy. The analysis shows a genetic match to him.”
“So that’s why MacCarthy was so involved in stopping me. He was Clive’s father. He and Freya had big plans, didn’t they?”
“Yes,” Michael said, turning his attention back to the monitor.
Sinclair was shaking his head. “Lying comes easy to you, doesn’t it?” he asked Freya. “Do you ever tell the truth?”
Freya didn’t have anything to say to that. Her chin came up a notch, and her eyes all but glowed with her hatred.
“Graeme Gibson has already confessed,” Sinclair said. “He told us you hired him to kill Isabel MacKenna.”
Freya slammed her fist on the table. “He’s lying. He’ll say anything to save his own skin.”
Once again, Sinclair tried to get Freya to come clean, but when she wouldn’t budge, he called a halt. “I’m finished here,” he said as he shut his notebook.
He called out to another officer, who immediately entered the interrogation room and pulled Freya to her feet.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Sinclair muttered something under his breath, then once again gave her a summary of the charges against her. She homed in on the charge of attempted murder, acting as though she were just now hearing about it, though the inspector had spelled out each charge two or three times already.
“Attempted murder? You can’t be serious. I didn’t attempt to murder anyone. That MacKenna woman attempted to murder me. Do your job,” she snapped. “Go arrest her and let me go home.”
Isabel couldn’t watch any longer. “I’m beginning to think she really believes what she’s saying.”
Michael disagreed. “She knows what she did. I doubt she’ll ever own up to it, though.”
“I’m ready to get out of here.” She stood, arched her back to work out the stiffness. “It seems we’ve been sitting for hours.”
Sinclair looked worn out when he joined them, and Isabel didn’t want to keep him, but she still had a few questions.
“Inspector, what made you decide to test MacCarthy’s DNA? And how did you get it?”
Sinclair took a seat and leaned back, folding his hands behind his head before patiently explaining. “Freya has been with any number of men, but her connection to MacCarthy seemed to be stronger than most. I guess it was just a hunch. But a pretty strong one, so I sent a man to MacCarthy’s house to find something—hair, skin, blood—anything we could send to the lab.” He smiled. “Lucky for us, MacCarthy was going bald and there was hair everywhere—on his pillow, in his comb...”
“With all the proof against her, I can’t believe Freya still denies everything.”
“She can deny all she wants,” Sinclair said. “Facts don’t lie.”
Before letting them leave, he told them he had all the information necessary to contact them, but he didn’t think they would have to return to the Highlands anytime soon. He would keep them informed of the progress—the courts were glutted with cases now—so it was going to take a while before Clive Harcus, Graeme Gibson, and Freya Harcus had their day in court.