
Proof That Lies
The camera has him on Fen Road at 21:04. At 21:04 you walked past holding room 2, and he was inside it with his shoes in his hand.
Halstrow, a northern English city, tonight. You are the force's digital exhibits officer: civilian, on nights, alone in a steel cage under Marsh Lane with every image that will ever be shown to a Halstrow jury. At ten past ten an assurance countersignatory comes down with two coffees and a continuity form. There was a protected person in the original footage, so a corrected version has been certified in its place; it is served on the prosecutor at nine, and yours is the second signature. On the screen a man puts a fifty-seven-year-old witness on the pavement at 21:04, and his face is Craig Bewley's. Nine days ago at 21:04 you walked past holding room 2, and Craig Bewley was inside it with his shoes in his hand. Nobody in this building will lie to you, threaten you or break a single rule. Your weapons are the chain of custody, the systems nobody remembers, and paper that exists in two buildings. There is no ending here.