The Ex (DS Jenna Morgan)

by Diane Saxon

  With a quick huff, she turned to look at him one step above her on the slope. ‘Thanks.’ She swiped at the sweat dripping from her chin as a flicker of concern crossed his face while he surveyed the surrounding area and she read his mind. ‘I know, technically, we should probably wait for the experts to come in and do this. It's pretty damned dangerous, but if that's the little boy, we need to get a clip on. We don’t have the time to wait.’ She gave Mason's heavily muscled arm a quick squeeze as he stepped level with her while Ryan pulled up alongside, his pale skin brightly flushed.

  She flashed them both a reassuring grin. ‘If it’s not Joshua, we’ll go back up and call in some of the hill climbers and mountain rescue guys and let them deal with it. In the meantime, let's get moving.’

  She turned her back, confident in the belief they would stay right on her heels.

  16

  Sunday 11 July, 13:20 hrs

  Fern Shenton gave a long, slow stretch and pushed the blackness back as the tinny echo of a child’s whimpers infiltrated the sluggish machinations of her brain.

  She sipped in small snatches of breath while her heart raced. Her child. She needed to tend to her child.

  A low, pained grunt surged from deep in the pit of her belly as she rolled onto her side and stared through the dim lighting of the empty bedroom while she pushed through the fog in her mind to find a small semblance of memory.

  Nothing. There was nothing there. Her mind was blank. All memories wiped clean.

  She propped herself up on her elbow and then swung her legs over the side of the bed to place her feet flat on the floor while the child’s voice continued to echo. The soft mewls escalated to scratch at nerves raw and tender. She flopped her head into her hands, elbows on knees and blew out cooling breaths to stop the hormonal blast of heat from rushing up her neck into her cheeks.

  It wasn’t real. There was no child. There never had been. It was her imagination. Her deepest, most desperate desire.

  It didn’t make her heartbeat slow down, nor stop the sick lead weight of loss forming a ball in her chest.

  She raised her head and pushed up from the bed, each step a painful squeeze on her delicate feet as she gingerly made her way across the landing into her bathroom.

  Bloodshot eyes stared back at her. She’d been crying in her sleep again. Not that she had any memory of it. Just the evidence of the red-rimmed eyes. The stickiness in the corners.

  Fern turned on the tap and let it run hot while she selected a sunshine-yellow flannel from a small stack on a little wire rack screwed to the wall.

  As she soaked it while the sink filled, she stared through the steam at her reflection in the mirror. Quiet and accusing. Eyes blurred through alcohol and lack of sleep.

  She shouldn’t have had anything to drink on her medication. It was lethal. All the rules were there. Rules she’d broken.

  Weary eyes met her through the mirror with little comprehension or communication. The previous day’s make-up smudged to highlight the soft purple puffiness in the soft skin under her eyes.

  The child’s wails increased in volume, but she shut them out as she squirted three measured units of make-up remover onto her fingertips and then smoothed it over her parched skin. She closed her eyes and rubbed in soothing circular motions around her eyes and across her lips and attempted to block out the insistent cries. Cries that were only in her head.

  With eyes closed, she dipped her fingers into the hot water, took hold of the flannel and wrung it out. Tighter and tighter, her fingers straining until there wasn’t another drop of water left to squeeze. All the time, she breathed long, slow breaths through her nose while the child’s voice rose in ever-ascending wails.

  Fern flicked out the flannel and then scrubbed in soft circular motions the way the dermatologist had taught her. To stimulate the blood flow, remove dead skin cells and not stretch the skin, which was showing the first signs of ageing, she’d been informed.

  With soft movements, she rubbed at her eyes. It wasn’t what the dermatologist recommended, nor would she approve. She’d give Fern a lecture on the delicacy of the skin in that area, but Fern couldn’t be bothered with that additional step today. It wouldn’t make her eyes any less puffy or bruised-looking and those fine lines were not as fine as they used to be as she rapidly approached thirty-seven.

  Three weeks’ time and it would be her birthday. Another one she dreaded, as all hope of ever having a child slipped away. Especially as having one would involve actually being in a relationship. Or at least having unprotected sex – something she wasn’t willing to risk with just anyone, even for the sake of a child.

  She dropped the flannel into the water, ignoring the soft splash as droplets sprayed over the sink and her naked stomach. As it floated like a dead thing on top of the water, she stared at the smudges of black eyeliner and mascara and the streaks of vivid crimson lipstick she had no memory of applying that daubed the bright yellow flannel. She didn’t own a red lipstick. She erred on the side of muted neutrals so as not to attract attention.

  She tilted her head to one side. She had beautiful lips, softly curved with a generous Cupid’s bow. She liked to think her lips were her best feature. Not the mud of her eyes, which had never decided between a dark brown or a clear green, but something slushy in between. Officially hazel on her passport, but that was too generous.

  Porn star lips, she’d been told. She didn’t need men to think that. She’d never wanted to be a porn star. She’d have settled for a wife and a mother, but it wasn’t to be.

  Her gaze slid back up to the mirror to inspect the fine lines that had started to feather outwards. Soon even her best feature would be beyond help.

  She looked back down at the flannel and tilted her head to one side, confusion nudging at her.

  Still, she never wore red. It wasn’t her colour. She must have borrowed it. She narrowed her eyes as she searched her memory, but there was none. A complete blank.

  With shaky fingers, she grasped the mirrored bathroom cabinet door and drew it open. Trepidation in every move, she stared at the contents. The box of medication stared back at her.

  She drew the tip of her forefinger down the side of the box while her heartbeat quickened as the child’s voice ramped up a notch. Undecided, she gazed for a moment longer before she slid the door closed again.

  Her own dull eyes stared back at her before she turned and moved away. Away from the fear that lurked in her expression. Away from the acknowledgement that something wasn’t right.

  She stepped out into the short hallway of her nearly new house, set on a hillside overlooking vast numbers of houses rolling out over what used to be green fields. She’d thought she’d moved to the countryside on the outer edge of Telford, but within two short years every trace of countryside had been swallowed up by bricks and mortar.

  Her mistake. She’d not been in a good place at the time of the move. Her decision had been about being bright and shiny again. Bright and shiny had tarnished in recent months.

  Fern turned away from the narrow hall window and faced the closed, white-painted door. She reached out and put her hand around the doorknob and breathed in deep breaths. She shouldn’t go in. It was no good for her. The child’s wails were just an echo of time gone by. A deep desire she’d long missed the boat to achieve.

  It wasn’t real.

  The child wasn’t real.

  If she just checked, she’d see there was no child.

  Fern turned the brass knob and gave a firm push on the door.

  The child’s screams blasted her back a step and horror filled her chest as the breath she’d sucked in lodged there hard enough to choke her.

  ‘Oh, dear God.’

  She slapped her hands to her burning cheeks.

  ‘Emily. Oh my god. Emily. What have you done?’

  17

  Sunday 11 July, 13:25 hrs

  As she came closer, anticipation coursed through Jenna’s veins, adrenaline pumping to form a rhythmic th
ud in her head. The excitement of finding Joshua.

  She raced a few feet further down the hillside. Each footstep slipping in the thick mulchy vegetation. Her toes tangled in vines, which wrapped around her ankles and threatened to upend her.

  At the sound of something large charging through the undergrowth towards her, Jenna’s spine snapped rigid and she whipped her head around and staggered to a halt as out of nowhere, PC Blue, the Belgium Malinois search and rescue dog, shot from above her down the hillside to skim the space just in front of her. ‘Shit.’

  Sergeant Chris Bennett, his handler, stumbled to reach her side in a breathless burst. ‘Sergeant Morgan. I heard you need help… Fuck!’

  An enormous ball of fluff shot in front of him, skidding in between the two of them with Blue in hot pursuit. The dog rammed his head into the front of Chris's knees and took him clean out. Chris hit the ground and rolled in a fast whipping motion several feet down the hillside until he slithered to a halt.

  A deep guttural grunt flew from Chris’s mouth, along with a stream of obscenities even Jenna considered impressive. She thought she’d heard them all.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Ryan drew up alongside her and puffed out a breath.

  Flat on his back, wrapped in the undergrowth of brambles and nettles, Chris's voice echoed out over the valley. ‘Blue, you bastard. Down!’

  At the drop command, Blue stopped dead in his tracks and hit the ground.

  Winded, Chris blew out puffs of breath as he flopped his arms out wide. ‘Stay, you fucker!’

  Filled with contrition, the dog never so much as twitched until Chris grunted out the command for him to return to his side. With his tail tucked between his legs, Blue made his way back to his handler, ears back, eyes filled with remorse.

  ‘Do you think he needs help, Sarg?’

  She glanced up at Mason, his features hovering between concern and amusement. She shook her head. ‘I’ll get it, Mason, don’t you worry yourself.’

  ‘Not worried, Sarg.’

  Jenna picked her way down the hillside, a silent Ryan by her side as she lifted her legs high enough to escape entangling them in the vines, all sense of her own safety forgotten. As she reached Chris and leaned over to check him, the dog took one look at her and drew back his lips to expose long, sharp, white teeth. With a warning snarl not to approach his handler, Blue came to his feet, his head lowered, ears flat against his head while Jenna backed up a step into Ryan, adrenaline racing through her veins to send her heart into overdrive.

  ‘Chris, are you okay, because if your dog bites me, you won’t get any help from me.’

  ‘Nor me.’ Ryan backed up a step.

  ‘No, I’m fucking not,’ Chris grunted out again before he drew in a strained breath. ‘Steady, lad.’

  With some reluctance, the huge dog lowered himself to the ground to lie flat alongside his handler. His nose touched Chris's outstretched hand and the dog let out a long, pitiful whine, not taking his gaze off Jenna and Ryan until Mason came alongside and the dog raised his head at the newcomer, every muscle twitching on red alert.

  Jenna’s breath stuck in her throat for the sheer love the dog had of his handler. Certainly, he had the same attitude as most police officers. In the line of duty… and beyond.

  While full of respect and admiration for the dog’s attitude, Jenna still didn’t fancy a bite from him. His breed was high up on the dangerous dogs’ register. Mainly because of the size of his bite. It would only take one to cause some serious damage. Damage she wasn’t willing to risk. She had a job to do. So did Chris, but if he was injured, they’d need to call in the Air Ambulance again.

  She kept her voice quiet. ‘What would you like me to do?’ Aware Blue was about to take a piece out of her if she so much as touched his handler, Jenna stood frozen, Ryan at her back and Mason’s close presence one step above her on the hillside.

  ‘I've got your back, Sarg,’ he muttered in her ear and Ryan snorted out a laugh.

  The desire to punch either one of them rode high, but Jenna let it go. She’d get the opportunity to kill them some other time when things weren’t quite as pressing.

  Chris peered up at them from his recumbent position on the ground and laughter rumbled from his chest. ‘Good of you to put yourself in the front line, DC Ellis.’

  It was a joke, as they all knew Mason would step in the line of fire for anyone, not least his sergeant.

  Mason stepped to one side, with a healthy wariness of Blue, a grin splitting his face. ‘Are you injured, Sergeant Bennett, or do you want a hand up? Because if you need help, I’ll send the youngster down.’

  Ryan snorted and muttered under his breath, ‘Not unless the beast gets muzzled first. No chance.’

  Chris raised his head in a cautious test and let out a soft groan. ‘I’m okay. I’ll hurt like buggery tomorrow, but I don’t think there’s anything broken.’ He grunted as he propped himself up on one elbow. ‘He fucking winded me.’ He didn’t appear to have any trouble expressing himself, so he must have got his wind back. With a heartfelt groan he pushed himself into a sitting position and brought his knees up to his chest. ‘My arse hurts.’

  Chris issued another command for Blue to relax and Jenna considered they were all lucky the man hadn’t smashed his head on the ground and knocked himself unconscious.

  Mason stepped past Jenna and leaned down to link his elbow through Chris's. He gave one smooth, controlled pull, and yanked Sergeant Bennett to his feet. As Chris came upright, Mason patted his back in a show of masculine camaraderie which earned him a low growl from the dog.

  Jenna narrowed her eyes as she inspected the other sergeant. ‘Are you okay? Are you hurt? Is anything broken?’

  Chris made to step forward and came to a sudden halt, staring down at his feet, heavily entangled in thick undergrowth. As he kicked the vines off, his deep voice grumbled out his disgust. ‘Nothing broken. My arse is going to be black and blue.’ He raised his head and peered past her up the hillside ‘Mostly, it’s my pride that’s taken a blow.’ He narrowed his eyes against the glare of sun and wrinkles shot out in a starburst across his skin. ‘Thanks to my fucking dog.’

  Jenna turned her head to see what had caught Chris’s attention and gazed up at the silent spectator, phone in hand. ‘I hope that wassock hasn’t grabbed a photo of me on my arse,’ he nodded in Kim Stafford’s direction. ‘Otherwise I’ll be front page of the bloody Shropshire Star.’

  He cast a dark glare down at Blue, who flicked his ears back and ducked his head in a little display of contrition.

  After a short pause, Chris turned his hand palm outwards and softened his voice. ‘Come, lad.’ In barely a heartbeat, Blue leapt to his feet to shove his nose into the proffered palm. ‘Not your fault, lad, that the little fucker ran out in front of us.’ Chris raised his head.

  Jenna twitched her eyebrows as she met his gaze. ‘What the hell was it? I wasn’t close enough to see.’

  ‘Unfortunately, that was your heat source.’ His voice soured as he jerked his chin in the direction of the overhang. ‘One of those massive cats, from what I could see. You know, the “ragdoll” kind that people have in their houses.’ He huffed out a disgusted breath as he scratched Blue’s ears, drawing the dog in with an affectionate hug so Blue leaned against his thigh. ‘Size of a small bloody child. I think it was sunbathing under the eaves. That's your heartbeat. There's no child under there.’ He flexed his shoulders and gave out a guttural grunt. ‘We’ll fucking double-check just in case.’

  She’d never known Chris swear as much.

  He glanced at the one remaining bramble embedded in his trouser leg and bent down from the waist. He gingerly took hold of the thick vine in between the thorns and wrenched it from around his ankles, ripping away until his leg was free, leaving small tears in the material. He shot his dog another disgusted look before he squinted his eyes to survey the surrounding area. With fists on hips, Chris circled around until his back was to her.

  In the utter
silence, Jenna sucked her breath in through her teeth as she caught sight of the back of Chris's muscle-thickened arms bulging out from below the short sleeves of his shirt. Blood oozed and dripped down the length of them where he’d slid through the blackberry bush, small tears had ripped through his white shirt, peppering it with streaks of blood.

  Chris peered down at his arms, twisting around to get a better look and screwed up his nose as he swiped at the blood and scratches with his fingers. With an idle shrug, he rubbed his hands together, then brushed them down his trouser legs. ‘Eh, it's nothing, I've had worse.’ He centred his attention on Blue and scrubbed the top of the dog’s head again in a reassurance that he was forgiven. ‘Come on, lad. Let’s get on with finding this kid.’

  Behind Jenna, Mason’s low voice murmured. ‘I’ll ask Air One to do another pass-over.’

  In silence, she nodded her agreement as she watched Chris move off to check the area under the balcony.

  ‘Air One, this is DC Ellis, that was a negative, repeat negative. The heat source appeared to be someone’s cat.’

  ‘This is Air One. That must have been one big cat.’

  Jenna glanced up at the clear blue sky and the unforgiving sun and plucked her wet shirt from her body. ‘We need more help. We're going to have to find this little boy soon. If he’s out here he’s going to get dehydrated very fast.’

  Mason swiped the sweat from his forehead as he nodded. ‘Yeah, it was. Resume survey, Air One. One last pass over.’

  ‘Affirmative, DC Ellis.’

  At his words, the helicopter swept up the valley towards them and made a pass over the top of them, sending a strong downdraught to cool the air temporarily. Jenna turned her face up to the sky and closed her eyes to appreciate the brief respite from the unforgiving heat as the sweat coating her hairline evaporated.

  With a sigh, she opened her eyes and glanced down at her own trousers. Grateful now for the thickness of them against the thistles and nettles.