Flesh and Blood (A DI Amy Winter Thriller)

by Caroline Mitchell

  ‘Mama Danielle? It’s Amy,’ she said, as the call was picked up. She preferred to drop the ‘Mama’ but was trying to butter her up.

  ‘Girl, you better have a good excuse for ringing me at this hour,’ Mama Danielle groaned. ‘What time is it?’ A fumbling noise ensued, followed by the sound of something being knocked over.

  ‘Half seven.’ Amy grinned, unperturbed. ‘Practically afternoon.’

  ‘Are you ringing to arrange a meetup? Because you could have done that by text.’ She sighed, muttering under her breath. ‘Dammit, where’s my lighter?’

  ‘Sorry, no. I’m working from Clacton. I need to speak to you before I go in.’ Amy liked Danielle’s forthright personality. She reminded her a little bit of herself.

  ‘Oh. So, no drinkies today.’ She spoke with a hint of disappointment. ‘Then you want some info – am I right?’

  ‘Well, I’m not calling to book an escort,’ Amy quipped. She listened to the swish of curtains opening and the rasp of a flint lighter as Danielle had what she called ‘breakfast’ – her first cigarette of the day.

  ‘What are you after and what’s it worth to me?’ Danielle said, exhaling a puff of air.

  ‘It’s worth the satisfaction of knowing you’ve helped solve a crime.’ Her phone cradled to her ear; Amy fixed the duvet on her bed. She didn’t want housekeeping thinking she was a slob.

  ‘Bitch, let me put you straight. Satisfaction doesn’t put food on the table, and it certainly doesn’t pay the bills. Give me cold hard cash any day.’

  Amy liked Mama Danielle, but she certainly wasn’t paying her today. As the sound of a hoover whirred in the corridor, Amy picked up last night’s underwear from the floor and slipped it into her suitcase. ‘Let’s see if you can help me first. Know anything about sex rings in seaside resorts? There’s a group of teenagers being bandied from one resort to another. Sounds like they need our help.’

  ‘If you want me to spill my guts about trafficking, then the price just went up.’

  Amy straightened, her interest piqued. ‘Why, is that what’s going on?’ The atmosphere between them took on a serious tone.

  ‘I’ve heard about those seaside deaths, and I have my theories.’

  The playfulness had left Mama Danielle’s voice, raising Amy’s concerns. She’d rung Danielle to talk about the teenagers. She hadn’t mentioned any suicides. ‘Care to elaborate?’ A spark of excitement grew as another connection was made.

  ‘Sure, I’ll help you’ – Danielle’s voice dripped with sarcasm – ‘if I want to get myself killed.’

  ‘Off the record,’ Amy whispered urgently. ‘I’ll keep you out of it.’ But as the silence between them stretched, Amy sensed reluctance on Mama Danielle’s part. ‘It can’t be good for business if punters are dying,’ she added, as an afterthought.

  Mama Danielle sucked a sharp breath between her teeth. ‘Bitch, please. We don’t deal with low-lifes like that.’

  ‘So, our drowning victims were clients?’ Amy tried to prise out the information Mama Danielle was keeping close to her chest. She slipped her feet into her shoes, conscious of the time. Soon she would have to leave for work.

  ‘You’re good, I’ll give you that. But don’t go putting words in my mouth.’

  ‘You know more, don’t you? Please. I’m grasping at straws here. Give me a dig out.’

  Danielle exhaled a sharp sigh. ‘Look. I’ve heard wind of some sex workers being moved around. The people doing it are not the sort of folks I’d want to tangle with.’

  Her head bowed, Amy gripped her phone tight to her ear. ‘So, who’s killing the tourists? Other sex workers? Vigilantes? Or are the girls themselves turning on them?’

  But Mama Danielle’s voice took on a warning tone. ‘Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you. And you’re not to connect me to any of this, you hear? You didn’t get this from me.’

  ‘You know you can trust me.’ Amy’s pulse picked up pace at the prospect of progressing the case. ‘I’ll come to London to meet you. Take a quick account.’

  ‘Are you trying to finish me off?’ Danielle shrieked. ‘Is that it? Because if you put my name to that little operation my days are numbered.’

  ‘Don’t be such a drama queen.’ Amy’s jaw tightened. She was beginning to lose patience now. ‘You’re in your room, aren’t you? I take it you’re alone. Because so am I. Nobody’s going to hear you. What aren’t you telling me? What’s the problem?’

  ‘Can’t you see? YOU are the problem. Just talking to you about this is putting my neck on the line. I’m sorry, Winter, but I can’t help you. Not this time. Drinks I can do, but try to rope me in as informer on some crazy-ass operation? Uh-huh, no way.’

  Amy stared at her phone in disbelief as a dead tone rang out. Are you trying to finish me off? Mama Danielle had asked, her voice brittle with fear. She had never cut her off like this before. Danielle had zero sympathy for the victims, so in contrast with Amy’s last big case. And what did she mean, saying she was the problem? Was it something to do with her past?

  Danielle managed high-end escorts and lucrative clients – a world away from teenagers being sex-trafficked around seaside resorts. Amy’s frustration grew as she pressed redial and was rewarded with a voice asking her to leave a message after the beep. At least Mama Danielle had pointed her in the right direction. But was it possible? The victims had no previous convictions. A doting dad, a Santa lookalike and a nursery worker hardly fitted the bill as sex pests. The most frightening monsters are made of flesh and bone. The thought that lingered in Amy’s consciousness originated from a dark place in her soul. All at once, she knew that their ‘innocent victims’ were not so innocent after all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ‘Have you seen this?’ The question came from Julie O Toole, Martin O Toole’s sister and next of kin. Julie was a stern woman, thin and sharp and not much taller than Molly. She was wearing a duffel coat, despite the warm weather, and a woolly jumper and skirt that could explain the sheen of sweat breaking out on her skin.

  Molly fixed her gaze on the newspaper as Julie slammed it on the table before her. ‘WHO KILLED SANTA CLAUS? DI Winter murder enquiry team leads investigation into suspicious deaths.’

  Damn, Molly thought. The press has got a hold of it. She gazed at the picture of Martin O Toole in his Santa costume. The story went on to mention Chesney and Darius too. Of how their deaths had been deemed suspicious and that police had discovered further evidence that they were holding back. Molly sighed in exasperation. This was a major pain in the backside.

  ‘And I don’t mean to be rude,’ Julie continued. ‘But are you old enough to be a detective?’

  ‘Of course,’ Molly answered. It was her most appropriate response. She had encountered such discrimination many times before. It was as if her youth was a disability, holding her back from doing her job. She knew the Julies of this world would find more reassurance with a man like Paddy, who would tower over her, or Steve Moss, who had more muscles than sense. But Molly had been assigned to speak to Julie. Her brother had been victim number two. Martin O Toole had been sixty years and three days old when his body was washed up from the sea.

  ‘I don’t know how the press got hold of this information,’ Molly said apologetically. ‘But you need to take what they say with a pinch of salt.’

  ‘So you don’t have any evidence that you’re holding back?’ Julie peered at Molly through narrowed eyes. Molly wasn’t sure how to answer that. You’re damned if you do and you’re damned if you don’t, her inner voice warned. ‘Full details of the investigation will be released in due course.’ Avoidance was the safest option. DI Winter had told them the pathologist had requested a second tox report. Who knew what that would throw up?

  ‘It’s just that . . .’ Julie piped up as Molly pulled her chair into the desk. ‘I had hoped someone more senior would be handling Martin’s case.’

  ‘There’s a whole team of experienced officers behind this.’ Molly forced a smil
e. ‘Why don’t you take off your coat and have a seat? It’s a bit warm in here, don’t you think?’

  The smell of fresh sweat rose in the air as Julie hung her coat on the back of the chair. Taking a tissue from her pocket, she blotted her brow. ‘I came here on the train. Makes me anxious, it does, mixing with all those people, with all these viruses hanging around,’ she said, by means of explanation. ‘I’m not used to public transport, or police stations for that matter. I didn’t sleep a wink last night.’

  Molly’s feelings towards the woman softened. Her own mother rarely used public transport; it brought her out in a cold sweat too. ‘Can I get you anything?’ Molly smiled. ‘A drink of water? A cup of tea? It’s vending machine brew, I’m afraid, but better than nothing.’

  ‘Very kind of you to offer, but I’ve just had three in the cafe up the road.’ Julie’s face relaxed, at last, a hint of gratitude curling her lips into an almost-smile. ‘I was early,’ she said, by means of explanation. ‘And I needed the loo.’

  I’m not surprised, after three cups of tea, Molly thought, watching Julie rifle in her handbag.

  ‘You don’t mind if I give the table a clean before we start, do you?’ She proceeded to pull out an anti-bacterial wipe from a pack. Giving the table a good rub, she threw the dirty wipe in the bin. ‘Would you like some?’ she said, taking a small bottle of hand sanitizer gel from her bag.

  ‘Sure,’ Molly said, as much to reassure her as anything. Her team were well versed in hand washing and hygiene these days. She rubbed her hands together as the blob of disinfectant alerted her to every papercut. At least the room smelt better, and Julie was a little more relaxed.

  Molly checked her watch. Time was limited, and she had so much to be getting on with. As soon as one tasking was ticked on the system, three more were lined up to take its place. She went on to explain how their team worked, what various officers did and to patiently answer Julie’s questions. Little progress had been made by Brighton CID, which was buried in work when the murder came in. But it was better to say that updates would be forthcoming when they could release them.

  ‘I know you’ve given a statement,’ Molly continued. ‘But we like to hear from family first-hand. What was your brother like?’

  ‘There was only a year between us and he was a rascal when he was young.’ Julie rested her hands on her bag, which was now placed on her lap. ‘But he grew into a good man. I got married, had kids . . . did all the normal things. My brother and I grew apart. He got in touch shortly after my Bertie died.’ She imparted a sad smile. ‘He was my husband. He passed not long ago.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ Molly said, touched by the sorrow in her words.

  ‘Don’t be, love,’ Julie replied. ‘It was a long illness. He welcomed death in the end.’

  Molly shuffled her paperwork. She’d had a dance with death in the past. It was no stranger to her. She glanced down at the copy of Julie’s statement which she had printed off. ‘So he came to visit just over a week ago?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Julie replied. She must have caught the sympathy in Molly’s eyes as she tilted her head to one side. ‘I’m OK, I have friends. I go bowling and to the bingo. I’m not lonely.’

  Molly was glad to hear it. Loneliness was the worst feeling in the world. ‘How did he seem when he turned up?’

  ‘Quiet. I tried to encourage him to come out, but he didn’t want to meet my friends.’

  ‘Did he say why that was?’

  ‘Only that he was tired and wanted to rest in his room. I thought, why come all this way to see me if he didn’t want to explore what Brighton has to offer? It’s such a lovely place, you know, have you ever been? It has something for everyone.’ Her face was brighter now as she spoke of home.

  ‘So he didn’t go out during the day?’ Molly tried to keep her interviewee on track. She had never been to Brighton. She had never even been anywhere much, really.

  ‘No. I asked Martin if he was in trouble, and he laughed, saying I was watching too much Midsomer Murders on TV.’

  Molly reined in her smile. ‘You said he walked the dog that night, and you knew something was wrong when . . .’ Molly’s eyes dropped to her paperwork as she searched for the dog’s name. ‘Trixie was scratching at your door.’

  A flame ignited in Julie’s eyes. She became animated as she spoke about her pet, and how upset she’d been when she returned home alone. ‘Anything could have happened to her. I was so angry with Martin for losing my little girl like that.’

  But he hadn’t lost her. He had died. It was interesting to note that Julie was a lot more upset about her dog than her brother. Martin may have given a lot to his community, but he was coming across as a man who grew to prefer his own company. From what Molly had heard from DI Winter, their previous victim had grown distant too. He used to sleep in the computer room, Molly remembered her saying. Several items had been seized to try to build a picture of the victims’ movements prior to their deaths. There was also something DI Winter had said when she came to the office this morning: that the victims might not be as innocent as they seemed. She had yet to elaborate, but Molly knew DI Winter had her sources, and would share the information when the time was right.

  A thought occurred to her.

  ‘Did Martin have a laptop, or use a computer when he stayed with you?’

  Julie shook her head, but Molly sensed reluctance there.

  ‘Any device? Anything he could get online with? What about a phone?’ She paused as Julie’s gaze fell to the table. ‘It’s important. It may have vital evidence.’

  ‘I need you to tell me something first,’ Julie said, in a conspiratorial tone. ‘Why did this happen? Because I keep thinking about the last time I saw him. If I did something to upset him. If I should have . . .’ Julie’s lips pursed into a tight, thin line as she fought to compose herself.

  ‘Please don’t blame yourself,’ Molly replied. ‘We’re doing everything in our power to find out what happened that night.’

  Julie sighed, her fingers pinched over the lip of her bag. ‘There’s an iPad. He spent half the day on the thing. I found it under his pillow in his room.’

  ‘And you didn’t give it to officers when they came to visit?’

  Julie shook her head. ‘It’s just that . . . well, I thought he’d want me to have it. I like playing Candy Crush. It passes the hours.’

  Molly nodded in understanding. Candy Crush would have to take a back seat for now. ‘We’ll have to have it, just for a while. You’ll get it back. I’ll ask some local officers to drop by your house.’

  ‘No need, dear.’ Julie reached into her bag. ‘I was playing it on the train. You can have it now.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Amy surveyed her team as she entered the room. Paddy was late for work, his short trip delayed even further by a doughnut run. Amy couldn’t understand the ritual of having to buy doughnuts for the team when you were running late. She only hoped Paddy would make the briefing on time. At least the rest of her team had turned up before eight; Molly was already interviewing a witness, Martin O Toole’s sister.

  Her gaze fell on Molly’s desk. It appeared as if she had always worked there, with a scattering of pens, paperwork and a couple of Beanie Babies (or mascots as she called them) that she had brought from home. Steve’s workspace was clear, apart from his usual protein drink. He was bulking – or was that cutting? She couldn’t remember. He put her gym efforts to shame. In his drawer would be the latest edition of Fitness magazine. She knew he carried two phones, one for ‘hot dates’ and the other for family and work. Keeping things separate was important to him, and she could understand that.

  Donovan’s desk was taken up with paperwork and reports which he had printed off the system. The station was trying to go paperless, but she knew he hated reading from a screen. She knew that if she opened his desk drawers, she would find a stash of food: apples, strawberries and some crisps and chocolate to balance the scales. She had never seen a man
who could eat so much yet look so good. Right now, he was upstairs organising a press conference to counter the story that had been leaked to the press. They had spoken to so many witnesses, it was only a matter of time before the media got hold of it. One of the most frustrating things for the public was when they held evidence back. But Donovan was steady and calming, much more comfortable in front of the camera than her. He would reassure the local community that there was nothing to worry about. Particularly now, when she was armed with information that the men who died could have been up to no good. Given Mama Danielle’s hesitance, she had kept her informant to herself. But the innocence of her male victims was being brought into question.

  She cast her eyes over Gary, who was staring at his phone. His shirt was canary yellow and appeared new, packet-creased. He had seemed unhappy since he arrived; something was obviously playing on his mind. She knew he had a girlfriend, Priti. She had once heard him say to Molly that he was thinking of popping the question, but the pair of them had clammed up as soon as Amy entered the room. Judging by the miserable look on his face, she could only guess that Priti had said no. As Amy interrogated the computer system, she saw that Gary hadn’t updated his taskings today.