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Lynda discovers she has a new neighbour.

We have evidence linking you to plots to bomb several major London tourist attractions. We have the photos, Miss Phillips, we have the photos. Now, why don't you tell me all about your little friends and what they get up to when you're not letting them fuck you."

"But these photos, they're not me. They're false. You have to believe me. You have to believe me."

"And why should I believe you? Why, when all the evidence points to you being deeply involved in acts of terrorism. Scum like you should be wiped off the streets of London and that's exactly what I'm going to do."

"But they're faked. Please, you have to believe me, they're faked."

"Is that the best you can come up with. Maybe be you need more time to think things over. We have all the time in the world and, trust me on this, you're going nowhere until you've told us everything you know."

"But I don't know anything. You've got to believe me."

"Take her away."

And Tamsin was, once again, hooded, bound and returned to her cell.

Time seemed to enter a new dimension. Tamsin really couldn't tell if she was there for minutes, hours or days. They kept noises going, screams, shouting, dogs barking, cell doors slamming shut, and, all the while, she had no idea whether they were real of faked. It did mean that she didn't get a moment's rest. Three more times she was taken for 'interrogation' although, if she hadn't been so petrified with fear, she might have gleaned that they didn't seem to be that interested in her answers. More it was a matter of piling on the 'evidence', evidence that she was deeply involved in some sort of Middle East terrorism. Their constant refrain was "we've got the photos. The photos don't lie, Miss Phillips."

As she lay on the had cold floor of the cell she was kept in she had plenty of time to think about the photos. They were, on the face of it, completely convincing. They looked like hard and fast evidence, evidence that would convict her of terrorist crimes, evidence that could and would put her in prison for a long, long time. Their phrase, 'the photos don't lie', echoed in her head. But they did lie, but they did, but they did.

The bag over her head was wet with her tears.

And then, suddenly, it was over. Still hooded and bound she was, once again, bundled into a van and driven away. When the van finally stopped she was manhandled out and put on the floor. Her wrists were freed, the hood removed and, as she lay there blinking in the light, she saw her captors leaving through the splintered remains of her own front door.

Her first action had to be cleaning up; first herself and then her flat. She was still in her badly soiled pyjamas and, after wedging the remains of her front door closed, getting under a shower was her top priority. She let the water cascade over her, trying to come to terms with what had happened to her. She was scared, really scared and, it would appear, with good reason. Eventually she had used all the hot water so she emerged from the shower, put on an old tracksuit and started picking up. Jim, an old friend, came round and fixed her front door for her and was fobbed off with a story about being burgled.
And she had been burgled. They hadn't just turned the flat up-side-down, her laptop, her phone, in fact any piece of computer hardware was gone. On the other hand, her wallet and its contents were left untouched. Once she had got herself as straight as possible she walked to the phone box on the corner and phoned the office. Unlike normal protocol, she was put straight through to Angus.

"Get your arse down here, now! I don't care what time it is, get your butt on a train and get down here." he all but screamed down the phone at her. "Meeting, my office, soon as."

She made her way to the station and caught the next train in and, it wasn't long before she arrived at the office.

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