Flesh and Blood (A DI Amy Winter Thriller)

by Caroline Mitchell

  Donovan reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘We don’t have to go in if you don’t want to. I can say you had to work.’

  Amy softened as she picked up on his concern, but it was too late. ‘They’ve seen us now.’ She pulled back her hand. ‘Is that really his house? It’s huge.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s done well for himself. They’ve got a hot tub out the back too. You could have brought your cossie.’

  Amy shuddered at the idea.

  Donovan failed to hide his amusement as he opened the car door. ‘Yeah, I thought you’d be keen.’

  ‘I’m not antisocial,’ Amy countered. ‘I like socialising . . . with the right people . . . in the right place . . . for a limited amount of time.’

  Bicks’s home was set in a beautiful spot, directly overlooking the sea, and there was nothing but a quiet stretch of road to hinder the view. Frinton was only a few miles from Clacton but had a completely different vibe. Known as an exclusive resort, its beaches were long and golden, with several small independent businesses in town. It didn’t have numerous pubs, a pier or amusements, but that was how the locals liked it. Amy gave a hesitant smile to Donovan, telling herself to get a grip as an outline appeared through the stained glass in the front door. It was Bicks, and he greeted them both warmly as he ushered them inside. Their hallway was as wide as the living room in Amy’s last flat.

  ‘Careful, mind your coat,’ Bicks said, as Amy brushed against a hall table. It held a huge vase of lilies, their stamens heavy with pollen. ‘I keep telling Susi not to buy the ones with the stamens, but she loves the smell.’

  Lilies were for funerals as far as Amy was concerned, but as she handed Bicks her coat, she kept her opinions to herself.

  ‘Nice gaff.’ Donovan’s voice echoed through the corridor of his friend’s home. He glanced up at the gallery stairwell in the middle of the hall. ‘There must be, how many? Four bedrooms?’

  ‘Five.’ Bicks smiled, with evident pride. ‘You get a lot more house for your money down this end of the country, or have you forgotten?’

  Amy was about to agree when a chubby little boy came bounding down the stairs.

  ‘Eh, Champ! Take it easy!’ Bicks called out. ‘What are you doing out of bed?’

  ‘Sorry, Daddy.’ He delivered a gap-toothed grin, clearly anything but sorry. He looked adorable in his bunny-rabbit pyjamas and matching slippers. Amy guessed him to be five or six, and you could see he was destined to have his father’s chunky build.

  Binks placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Come and say hello, Jamie. These are friends of mine.’

  The little boy regarded Amy uncertainly before extending his hand. ‘It’s very nice to meet you.’ The words sounded as if he was reading them from a piece of card. This was a child who had been brought up to learn the value of manners. Amused, both Amy and Donovan shook the little boy’s hand.

  Amy’s attention was drawn to a woman she could only presume to be Bicks’s wife as she entered the hall. Petite in stature, she had wavy shoulder-length blonde hair and was a good ten or fifteen years younger than her husband. Her figure-hugging jumpsuit flattered every curve. Amy was beginning to regret coming straight from work. Had she known what she was walking into, she would have made a bit more of an effort. She glanced at the numerous pictures displayed on the wall, resting her gaze on a plethora of old family photos, digitally reproduced and framed. Family was important here.

  ‘Why are we all standing in the hall?’ Bicks’s wife extended a manicured hand as Jamie was ushered up the stairs by his dad. ‘I’m Susi. Nice to meet you both at last.’ Her handshake was as light as a feather, and her gaze lingered over Donovan before she guided them inside. Amy gave Donovan a side-eye as she imagined what he was thinking – that Bicks had landed on his feet here. Life was so much harder for couples who were both in the police. She gave one last, longing glance at the front door before following them in. In work, Amy was confident and driven. But when it came to her personal life, she was a true introvert.

  The dining room was warm and welcoming, with corner lamps setting the room in a warm glow. The table was grand, in keeping with the building, and the fireplace brought a sense of opulence.

  As Bicks walked in, he caught Donovan’s gaze. ‘The fireplace is an original. It would have been a crime to brick it up. This used to be the living room, but we’ve extended on to the back.’

  Each room seemed so expansive compared to what Amy was used to. Her parents’ townhouse in Earl’s Court was over several floors, but nowhere near as big as this. She could see the attraction of living by the sea, but London would always pull her back.

  Donovan was smiling, obviously impressed. Was this the life he wanted? Coming home to a house by the sea and a perfect wife and child? Amy shook away the thought. What was wrong with her? All she had done since coming here was put up imaginary obstacles between them both. The truth was, she was scared. She saw what Bicks and Susi had, and she wasn’t ready for it yet. She wasn’t sure if she ever would be.

  ‘Let’s get started,’ Susi said. ‘I hope you don’t mind eating so late.’

  As they sat around the heavy wooden table, both drinks and conversation flowed. Amy realised from the way Donovan and Bicks were talking that the reason for the get-together was to celebrate Carla’s life. She relaxed in the knowledge that she wasn’t going to be interrogated and soon she was working her way through the main course.

  ‘Remember when that guy drove his car into the sea?’ Bicks said, tucking into his coq au Riesling. ‘Carla was terrified of water, but she jumped in there with you, without a thought for herself.’

  Amy was surprised to see Donovan quiet for once. His head was low as he pushed his fork around his plate. ‘Amy doesn’t want to hear our old war stories.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Amy replied. ‘There’s nothing I’d like more.’ Bicks’s son was asleep in bed, so their conversation was uncensored. But the look on Donovan’s face suggested a level of discomfort. Amy’s curiosity grew.

  ‘The job started out as a domestic,’ Bicks said. ‘We’d let him off earlier in the day with a caution. When he got out, he nicked his girlfriend’s car from a forecourt while she was inside paying for petrol. But her two-year-old kid was in the back.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Susi exclaimed, dropping her knife and fork with theatrical display. From the frown growing on Donovan’s face, Amy could guess where this story was leading, and it was not somewhere good. Her stomach tightened as Bicks recalled the incident.

  ‘He drove the car into the sea as the tide came in, but then he chickened out and swam to shore. He said he couldn’t manage to get the kid out of the car seat, but I think he meant to leave him there. Revenge on his ex-missus after finding out the kid wasn’t his.’

  Amy could picture the scene; she had visited similar in the past. Domestics could be the most harrowing jobs of all.

  ‘Anyway, it was a rough evening,’ Bicks continued to a captive audience. ‘The tide was raging, and the sea was like ice. The coastguards were called, and Donovan sped straight down. Next thing, he’s in the water, tugging on the car door. Carla was with him, nearly drowned in the process. He pulled both of them back to shore.’

  ‘Did the little boy survive?’ Susi’s anxiety was streaked across her face.

  Bicks stared at her for a second before clearing his throat. ‘Only just,’ he replied, returning his gaze to his plate. ‘He had hypothermia and a belly full of seawater. If Donovan hadn’t got him out in time, he wouldn’t have made it. By the time the coastguards came, the car was submerged.’

  ‘How did you get both of them out?’ Amy said, as Donovan shifted in his chair.

  ‘Basic policing.’ Donovan shrugged, exchanging a furtive glance with Bicks.

  ‘I don’t know how you do it.’ Susi glanced around the room. ‘Any of you. I’d fall apart.’

  Bicks reached over and squeezed his wife’s hand, his expression brightening. ‘Susi’s a fashion designer. She’s launching her own line
next year. She designed the jumpsuit she’s wearing. She’s got a huge following on Instagram.’

  ‘Fashion for the vertically challenged.’ She flashed a smile, back in her comfort zone. ‘You should check it out.’ She turned to Amy. ‘Some of our lines would look great on you.’

  ‘Sounds . . . nice.’ Amy forced a smile. Her wardrobe consisted of sharp black suits and starched white shirts that were tailored to fit. On her days off, jeans and sweatshirts sufficed. She couldn’t see herself in any of the creations Susi would conjure up.

  As their plates were cleared, Amy slipped her hand beneath the table and gave Donovan’s knee a squeeze. ‘You OK?’ she said quietly, as Bicks and Susi left the room to get dessert.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, briefly patting her hand. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ But his smile couldn’t disguise the haunted look behind his eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MO

  Yawning, Mo took a seat on her therapist’s couch. A fan whirred in the corner of the room, but it was still too warm for her. ‘I might just fall asleep today.’ She crossed her legs, making herself comfortable. ‘I was out last night. Didn’t get to bed until three or four.’

  ‘Where did you go?’ Her therapist palmed her pen and notebook before sitting down.

  Mo’s eyebrow arched. What the bloody hell did it have to do with her? Ms Harkness was here to talk about her past, to find out what made her tick. But she knew she would get nowhere by being snarky, and she had brought it up, after all. ‘I was walking the streets. It helps me think.’ Sometimes Mo felt like an alley cat when she was out alone at night. There was nothing to be afraid of, despite what people around her said. She could take care of herself.

  Ms Harkness turned a page on her notepad and rested it on her crossed knee. She was wearing glasses today, and the maroon frames matched her designer shoes. ‘Are you finding it easier to think since starting therapy?’ she said, catching Mo’s eye.

  Mo had always been an observer. She didn’t like getting caught staring. She scratched her cheek, buying herself time to come up with a suitable response. ‘I suppose so.’ She wasn’t sure if ‘easier’ was the right word. But it did feel like there was an opening up inside her, a prising of a door that had been firmly shut. It wasn’t even that she needed to feel better. She just wanted to understand. Were her actions really that bad, given what had been done to her? Why was it OK to kill in self-defence but not any other time? Was she really abnormal? Questions crowded her mind and quickened her breath. Was there something wrong with her brain? All she wanted was to understand. ‘Put me under,’ she said when she could stand it no more. ‘I want to go back.’

  ‘Very well,’ Ms Harkness said. ‘As long as you’re getting value from it. Remember, this is a safe space. You can come out of it any time you wish.’

  In a matter of minutes, Mo was there, in the time when it all began. But the school corridors held no fear for her any more. She knew that Lizzie had been warned off the second her old adversary passed her in the hall. There were no jibes, no name-calling, no high-pitched outburst of laughter. Mo waited for the barrage of insults, but none came. As Lizzie edged along the wall, Mo felt her confidence grow. ‘All right?’ she said, giving her a stink eye.

  ‘Stay away from me!’ Lizzie clutched her schoolbooks to her skinny frame, tripping over herself to get away.

  Mo grinned. This was more like it.

  ‘You’re smiling.’ The therapist’s words sliced into Mo’s thoughts. ‘What’s making you happy?’

  ‘Lizzie’s scared of me, and it feels good,’ Mo said, revelling in the short burst of satisfaction. She basked in the sense of power, knowing someone had cared enough to stick up for her. But her internal alarm bells told her there would be a price to pay. And it would not come cheap.

  ‘Let’s move along to the next important stage in your life. When things began to turn sour.’

  Reluctantly, Mo revisited the time that was kept locked in an emotional vault. She took a long breath. She was at a gathering that made her feel anxious and awkward. Everyone was so much older than her. ‘I’m at a party,’ she said, her voice raised over the music playing in her head. ‘I don’t like this place. It stinks of damp and rotten food. There’s no heat and no electricity, just candlelight everywhere. Jen said it’s a squat. A derelict building with rats and spiders as big as the palm of my hand.’

  Her eyes closed, Mo lifted her hand in the air. ‘Only . . . my palm is small because I’m thirteen and I’m small for my age. I think of Jacob and hope he’s OK. I’m doing this for him. I buy him treats from the money Wes gives me and . . . well, I like nice things too.’ Mo touched her collarbone. ‘I’m wearing the necklace Wes gave me for my birthday. It’s a small silver heart, engraved with our initials. Mum thinks I nicked it. She doesn’t know the truth.’ Mo shuddered, feeling the bite of cold, despite the warmth of the therapist’s room. ‘I’m freezing. Where’s Wes?’ Her mouth dropped open, her expression darkening as fear and uncertainty were replaced by annoyance.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ the therapist said, her voice sounding far away.

  Mo’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Wes is here. But he’s in the hallway, talking to another girl. I’ve seen her in school. She’s in the year below me. It makes my stomach sick.’ Her jaw tightened. ‘She shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Why? You’re there, aren’t you?’ the therapist spoke.

  ‘Yeah, but . . . she’s harmless. From a decent home. We’re not the same. And I’m Wes’s favourite, not her.’ Her hands curled into fists as her emotions see-sawed between sympathy and jealousy. ‘He’s mine. He shouldn’t be looking at her when he has me.’

  ‘Why do you need Wes in your life?’

  Mo had never answered many of the therapist’s queries before. But this way, she wasn’t in a quiet room with a counsellor. She was there, in the thick of it, experiencing so many emotions that it was a blessed relief to release them. Part of her knew that she was safe here, despite everything unfurling before her, and Mo began to relax once more. ‘Because he’s nice to me.’ A sad smile crept over her face. ‘I had an awful row with Mum because she wanted me to stay home and mind Jacob. But there was no way I was missing seeing Wes.’ Leaning back on to the sofa, Mo immersed herself in being thirteen all over again. The music played from a battery-powered stereo that someone had brought along. It was house music, something she only pretended to like. She paused to take a sip from her bottle of beer, stiffening as Jen came up from behind and dragged her to one side. Her breath smelt of stale cigarettes and her pupils were wide. ‘All right?’ she sniffed, dragging the back of her hand under her nose.

  Mo’s gaze roamed to the bruise on her cheek. It was almost as dark as the circles beneath Jen’s eyes. She looked rough. Her skin had broken out in spots, the yellow film on her teeth suggesting she hadn’t brushed them in a while. Mo described the scene in vivid detail. She knew Ms Harkness was making notes, and that was fine with her. Sometimes, being hypnotised felt strange and detached, like knowing you were taking part in a dream, or watching from afar. But today she was totally immersed and caught up in the emotions, with the benefit of knowing Ms Harkness was nearby.

  Jen steered her away from the music to a dingy room off the hall. Mo wrinkled her nose as she caught the smell of burning rubber. In the corner, a group of teenagers were taking turns with a crack pipe. But Mo had more pressing matters on her mind. ‘Did someone warn off Lizzie?’ she asked, remembering how she had avoided her in the corridor earlier on. Mo could tell that Jen wanted a word with her, but she needed answers first.

  Jen nodded. ‘She won’t be bovvering you again. I told ya. Wes looks after his own.’ She paused to light a roll-up cigarette, her eyes never leaving Mo’s. ‘Now it’s time you did something for him.’

  Mo’s stomach lurched. She knew Wes recruited some of the local kids to deliver drugs around the estates. A kid cycling about on a BMX was rarely stopped by police and under tens could not be prosecuted. But perhaps Wes wa
s short of runners and needed her to fill in. As she relayed the scene to Ms Harkness, she still felt scared.

  ‘What does Wes want?’ Mo asked Jen, slightly miffed he wasn’t asking her himself. Why was he ignoring her? She had taken a risk coming here. Her mum would kill her if she caught her. Some other mums on the estate were up in arms over the drugs in circulation. It wouldn’t surprise her if some vigilante group found their little lair.

  ‘He’s fed up of waiting around,’ Jen said, her face tight and pinched. ‘You’ll have to make your move if you want to keep a hold of him.’

  ‘Make a move?’ Mo coloured as she glared from Jen to Wes. He was monitoring their conversation, one hand on the girl’s shoulder in the corridor. Then it clicked into place. He didn’t want Mo to sell drugs. He wanted something more. While Mo enjoyed his company, she didn’t like the roughness of his mouth against hers. ‘What, you mean, kiss him?’ Mo asked, her words punctuated with a nervous laugh. The subject of boys always made her giggle, but Wes wasn’t a boy; he was a man.

  ‘You gotta at least act like you enjoy it,’ Jen said. ‘Stop scrunching up your face every time he gets close.’

  ‘I didn’t . . . I’m not . . .’ Mo protested, but she could not find the words.

  ‘It’s your own fault – you told him you were older,’ Jen continued. ‘And he’ll need a lot more than a kiss if you want to hang on to him.’

  ‘A lot more?’ Mo’s mouth was dry. She sipped her beer, which tasted bitter on her tongue.

  Jen was still talking, oblivious to her discomfort. ‘A blowie, at the very least,’ she rasped. ‘Look. It’s no big deal. I do it all the time. And if you don’t like it, then there’s some stuff Wes can give you to make you feel better about it all.’