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Crocodile Tears

Crocodile Tears

Titel: Crocodile Tears Kostenlos Bücher Online Lesen
Autoren: Anthony Horowitz
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officers surrounded him.
    “ You have the right to remain silent …”
    Bulman realized that he was being told his rights, but the words didn’t quite register. They were booming in his ears. He felt himself being picked up and propelled toward the car. A hand was placed on his head to stop him from banging against the door frame. And then he was inside, being driven away at speed. They had even turned the sirens on.
    An hour later, Bulman found himself alone in a bare brick interrogation room with a window set so high up, it showed only a small square of sky. They had taken his fingerprints and a swab from the inside of his mouth, which he knew would be used to check his DNA. There were two new officers sitting opposite him. They were older and more experienced than the men who had made the arrest, heavyset and serious. They had introduced themselves as Bennett and Ainsworth. Ainsworth seemed to be the senior of the two, bald, with small, hard eyes and a mouth that could have been drawn with a single pencil line. Bennett was slightly younger and looked as if he had recently been in a fistfight. He was holding a file.

    Bulman had been given a little time to collect his thoughts. He had worked out what he was going to say. “Listen to me,” he began. “This is all a stupid mistake. The way you’ve treated me is outrageous. I am a well-known journalist, and I’m warning you—”
    “ It’s good to see you, Jeremy,” Bennett interrupted.
    “ That’s not my name.”
    “ Jeremy Harwood. Did you really think we wouldn’t find you?” Ainsworth laid the file on the table and opened it. Bulman saw a black-and-white police photograph. Once again he recognized himself.
    But it had this other name underneath it.
    He drew a breath. “My name is not Jeremy Harwood. My name is Harold Bulman.”
    “ Harold Bulman is dead.”
    “ No.”
    “ We’ve already analyzed the blood we found on the knife in your briefcase. It’s Bulman’s. You killed him.”
    “ No. You’re making a mistake. This is all wrong.” Bulman fought for control. How could this nightmare be happening?
    Ainsworth flicked a page in a file. There were fingerprints—ten of them in a row—and what looked like a chemical formula. “We’ve checked your DNA and your fingerprints, Jeremy. They all match up.
    There’s no need to pretend anymore.”
    “ You escaped from Broadmoor two months ago,” Bennett said.

    Broadmoor? Bulman blinked heavily. That was where they sent the most dangerous prisoners in the country, the ones who were considered criminally insane.
    “ Why did you kill Harold Bulman?” Bennett asked.
    “ I … I …” Bulman tried to find the answer, but the words wouldn’t come. Something had happened to his thinking process. He was aware that there were tears trickling down his cheeks.
    “ Don’t worry, Jeremy,” Ainsworth said. He sounded almost kind. “We’re going to take you back.
    You’ll be safe, locked up in your cell. You won’t hurt anyone ever again.”
    “ You’ll be taken back to Broadmoor this afternoon,” Bennett added.
    “ No …” The room was spinning in ever-increasing circles. Bulman gripped the table, trying to slow it down. “You can’t—”
    “ We can. The arrangements have already been made.”
    The door suddenly opened and a third man came in. From the very start he didn’t look anything like a policeman. He was more like a retired colonel, about fifty, with thinning hair and a face that was hurrying toward old age. He was wearing a suit that didn’t match his brown suede shoes. “Thank you,”
    he said. “I’ll take over now.”
    He didn’t exactly radiate authority, but there was something in his voice, an edge of steel, that cut straight to the point. The two detectives stood up immediately and left. The man took their place at the table, opposite Bulman. His eyes were empty and cold.
    “ My name is Crawley,” he said. Bulman was still crying. There were tears dripping out of his nose.
    Crawley reached into his pocket and took out a tissue. “Use this,” he suggested.

    Bulman wiped his nose and ran a sleeve across his eyes.
    “ I work for the intelligence services,” Crawley explained. “A branch of MI6.”
    And suddenly Bulman understood. It was like being slapped across the face. MI6! Who else could have twisted his life out of shape with such ease? If he hadn’t been so terrified, he would have been furious with himself. He should have expected something like

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