by Lisa Cutts
‘I know. And if you think you’re getting away with a bowl of nuts and an envelope full of cash through my letterbox, you’re very much mistaken, young man.’
He threw his head back and gave what she assumed was a genuine bark of laughter, and not the sound of sympathy minutes before bad news. She had nothing to base it on, yet it didn’t stop her from thinking something must be up.
‘So, what’s this all about?’ she said, Martini in hand, preparing for a large gulp to steady her nerves.
As Sophia tipped the glass towards her and studied Dane’s face, she thought she saw confusion run across it.
‘I’m having a good time with you, Soph. Are you telling me you’re not?’
It was his turn to lift his drink up and take a swig that wasn’t conducive to Martini-drinking.
‘I must have been overthinking things,’ she said, with a gesture towards their surroundings. ‘I wasn’t sure what tonight was all about. And what made you think I should have so much money spent on me, let alone given to me.’
‘I wanted to take you out for a meal, and I wanted to help you. The money was cash I won gambling, so I don’t want it back and there are no strings attached.’
‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me,’ she said, ‘but let’s start with the fact I don’t do charity or handouts.’
‘Well, I guessed that. From what you’ve told me, you do way too much overtime.’
‘Apart from the fact the police wouldn’t function without everyone doing overtime, I need the money. It’s no secret and I’ve told you why. I have to work at least twenty hours extra every month to live comfortably, and anything over that is a bonus.’
‘But you still live alone, no roommate or lodger?’
Sophia took another sip of her drink, a smaller one this time.
‘This wasn’t where I thought we were heading, I have to admit,’ she said, her eyebrows raised partly due to the alcohol hitting the back of her throat. ‘Are you trying to tell me you want to be my roomie?’
‘Don’t be daft, it’s just that I may have an answer to your money troubles,’ said Dane. ‘But let’s eat first and I’ll tell you more after dinner.’
Chapter 48
Sean Turner settled down in his seat at the back of The Grand’s restaurant. He had really missed this place: not the run-down seaside town, but this hotel, where he’d spent many sex-filled afternoons with a fair few women.
The hotel didn’t have the same air of desperation much of the town had, with its drugs, unemployment, immigrants and crime. No, this place was much more in keeping with his lifestyle. A bolthole within his working environment.
Pleased as he was with himself, bottle of Sauvignon Blanc in front of him, swordfish on its way (which he presumed hadn’t been locally sourced from the Channel), he was mostly looking forward to the peace and quiet.
The thought of booking a room had crossed his mind, but he had a lot to take care of, so he’d had Milo drop him off at the entrance with orders to wait nearby.
The waitress was a young beauty who melted his heart every time she brought something to his table. He gave her one of his winning smiles as she topped up his wine, and glanced at her name badge, which revealed that her name was Anna.
‘Everything okay, sir?’ she asked with a look that said she really cared what he said next.
‘Thank you, it is,’ he said. ‘I like being here at the back of the room away from anyone else. Don’t want to be made to feel conspicuous.’
He saw her face drop at his last word, a look of panic take over. Clearly, it was a word she was unfamiliar with, in fact, from the look of concentration on her face, every English word probably was a struggle.
‘You know,’ he said to help her out, ‘like everyone’s looking at me, the sad bloke on his own.’
‘Of course, sir,’ she said, a blush coming to her complexion.
And that was how Turner liked to spend his time alone: secure at his table at the back of any room, but able to see everyone coming and going in the restaurant.
Best of all, he was still visible to the other guests.
Sean had seen the two of them at the bar when he’d made his way to his table.
Surely two police officers making their entrance involved a recce of the place before they sat down. They were bound to see him. The young lady Hoopman had in tow wouldn’t know who he was, yet that didn’t matter. The important thing was that Hoopman saw him.
Some people deserved what they got in life; Hoopman was one of them.
Turner had never liked his arrogance, and his usefulness was quickly coming to an end.
He watched the bent copper swagger through the restaurant’s entrance, a brief pause at the maître d’ and a hand on the small of his date’s back. The exchange of a few words, pleasantries, laughter. All false, all bollocks.
He had to hand it to Hoopman: he had good taste. She was a very good-looking woman, stylish dress, great figure.
He took a sip of his wine.
He watched Dane’s date as she walked across the wooden floor, three-inch heels clicking their way to their table. Her walk was confident, her posture fine. Here was a woman at ease in the world.
From where he sat, Turner wondered how she was going to feel when she found out she’d been involved with a police officer on the payroll of a crime syndicate.
Guilt by association.
And if she managed to keep her job, perhaps she’d even think about coming to work for him. He was very much an equal opportunities employer and, come to think of it, he didn’t have many women on the books.
Chapter 49
Tom Delayhoyde had drawn the short straw again: he didn’t mind working late because the overtime always came in handy for his young family, but his eyes hurt from staring at the CCTV screen for so long.
Sat on his own in the incident room, trying to follow black Range Rovers around East Rise, was not his idea of fun. The Grand had whittled down their list of guests with black Range Rovers during the dates to a Mr Sean Turner, but unhelpfully hadn’t been able to provide his registration number. Despite all the computer databases Tom had access to, he couldn’t find anything on Sean Turner. It was as if he didn’t exist.
‘Exciting life of a detective,’ he muttered to himself as he scribbled down the camera’s recorded time on the CCTV viewing log.
With a glance at his watch, he was about to call it a night when his mobile phone rang.
‘Hello,’ said the man’s voice in a reasonably well-spoken accent. ‘I’m the shift manager at The Grand. Is that DC Delayhoyde?’
‘Yes,’ said Tom sitting up, all traces of tiredness gone. ‘What’s happened?’
‘When I took over a couple of hours ago from the day manager, she told me to let you know if a Mr Sean Turner should return to the hotel.’
‘Yes,’ said Tom, impatience barely hidden.
‘He’s here, well, he was here.’
‘What do you mean? Where is he now?’
‘I’m so sorry, officer, but he was in the restaurant and now he’s gone. The person taking the booking didn’t know what he looked like, so we only realized it was him when we went through the night’s bookings.’
‘Oh, f—. Give me ten minutes and I’ll be there.’
Shaking his head at how easily they might have let a murder suspect slip through their fingers, Tom grabbed a stab-proof vest, a police Airwave radio and ran out towards the police station car park.
Within eight minutes, he had called the control room and let them know that all patrols should be aware of a black Range Rover in the area belonging to Sean Turner, possibly using false plates. He had also let his wife know that he would be home late and he had called Harry.
The last call was the toughest and undoubtedly had the most swearwords in it.
‘Sir, there’s been a development,’ said Tom into his handsfree as he pulled out of the car park. ‘There was only one possible name of guests with a black Range Rover at The Grand, an
d that name was Sean Turner.’
The air in Tom’s car was filled with the sounds of Harry swearing.
‘I’m not sure if that name means something to you, sir, because I can’t find anything on him.’
He waited for a response from Harry but when he didn’t get one, he carried on. ‘The Grand’s manager just called me and said that Sean Turner was in the hotel tonight . . . only he’s gone.’
‘For fuck’s sake.’
‘I know. I’m on my way there now. I’ll call you later.’
*
Tom pulled up outside the hotel main entrance, got out and ran up the steps towards reception.
He waved his warrant card at the nervous-looking middle-aged man on reception who introduced himself as the shift manager and then led him to the back office.
Secured within the small windowless room, Tom said, ‘When did Sean Turner leave?’
‘It was probably about an hour ago.’ He looked worriedly down to the floor. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t call you earlier. It’s only that no one was monitoring the names in the restaurant, only the rooms. I have the CCTV footage ready for you to view.’
The shift manager indicated towards a large screen split into six camera views. He took a seat and pressed the button, speaking over his shoulder to Tom.
‘It’s interesting, because there was a couple eating in the restaurant. The man left the woman at the table briefly to get up and talk to Mr Turner.’
Fascinated by what he was watching, Tom leaned across to get a better view.
He need not have worried about the quality of the footage: it was evident to him who else was in the restaurant with the suspected murderer.
Sophia Ireland and Dane Hoopman were a stone’s throw from Turner’s table.
Tom was sure that his jaw was hanging open as he watched Dane get up from his table, walk over to Turner, lean down and say something to him.
Whatever it was, Tom stared as Turner sprang from his chair, threw a handful of notes on the table, and all but ran from the restaurant towards the hotel’s foyer.
Chapter 50
When Harry’s meeting with the senior officers at HQ ended, he left the building, grateful for the cool May night air.
He stood for a minute or two next to his car enjoying the sensation of his lungs filling with fresh Riverstone oxygen.
He wished he smoked: he could really enjoy it then.
Lost in the idea of buying himself a vape, he was rudely plunged back into reality by his phone ringing.
Harry was all the more surprised to see the name that came up on his screen was Sophia Ireland.
‘Everything okay, Soph?’ he said, frown creasing his forehead.
‘Harry, I’m . . . er . . . sorry to call you so late, especially on a Saturday night. You’re probably at home with Hazel . . .’
‘S’all right, girl. What’s up?’
Hesitation, then: ‘I feel stupid now . . .’
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘if it’s important enough for you to call me, it’s important enough for you to let me know why.’
Apart from being tired and desperately wanting to get home, having just left a meeting with a gutful of people talking shite, which he thought would never end, Harry was also aware that anything he now said to Sophia – in fact anything anyone said to Sophia – was no doubt going to be monitored in some way. He cut to the chase.
‘Has this something to do with Dane?’ he asked.
Sophia’s voice caught as she tried to speak. It sounded to Harry as though she was on the verge of tears, and the slight slur to her voice probably meant she’d been drinking. When she eventually managed to get her words out, there was a tremble to her voice.
‘I’m so confused, Harry. I can’t think straight at the moment. I could do with someone to talk things through with.’
‘Soph, you’re no fool, but I’ll always be here if you want to chat. You know that.’
There was silence on the line for several seconds until Harry said, ‘Look, are you on your own now?’
‘Kind of.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean by that, but if you want to come over now, or if you want me to come and get you, I can call Hazel and let her know you’ll be popping in for a late drink. You know her, she won’t mind.’
There was something that sounded like a short laugh from Sophia and she said, ‘You’re just about the kindest, most decent person I know, H. That’s why I love working for you. The world could do with several more Harry Powells.’ She paused, Harry assumed to take in his offer. ‘Look, that’s very sweet, but could I come over tomorrow instead? I’ll bring some pastries. I need to talk to someone, but tomorrow’s fine.’
Harry screwed his eyes shut, leaned against the side of his car and said, ‘Course. We’ll see you around, say, ten tomorrow.’
He ended the call, pocketed his phone and wondered if there would ever be a convenient moment for him to tell Sophia that he had just sold her out to almost every chief officer in the force.
Chapter 51
Early hours of Sunday 10 May
I woke up with Sophia next to me in bed. And by bed, I meant her bed. It had taken a bit of persuasion on my part, but if I knew nothing else, it was how to manipulate people.
I preferred her place to mine. She had a much nicer home. I knew she was struggling to pay the mortgage, but so was I on my run-down one-bedroom flat.
I would have felt sorry for her, but her life was simple: she went to work and got paid for the hours she put in. How I’d love that as a way of living now.
Instead, I was sneaking around while she slept trying to find something to blackmail her with. It was a dirty way of operating, but how else was I supposed to get by? I’d managed on my looks for a long time, which had become middle-aged attractiveness. Now, rapidly approaching forty, I understood that what was once seen as virile, would soon be seen as past it.
There would be no more Sophias or Marions. No more Jills, bloody Chardonnays, even once there was almost a Jonathan. I had to admit that I was running out of time. There would have been a point I’d have waited it out on my police pay: that was no longer an option with Sean Turner making less than idle threats. Things were simply too risky for me to hang around.
As I rifled through Sophia’s paperwork in the desk drawers in her spare bedroom, it saddened me to think how much the police had tightened up on access to information.
It was as if those in charge no longer trusted us.
Leaving that thought aside, I found a couple of photos tucked inside a diary. One was of her and that bloody red-haired old fool of a DI. He had his arm around her, but sadly, they were both fully clothed and the old twat didn’t even have anything near a lustful look on his face. It was clearly at some sort of Christmas function. Still, I suppose it was touching that she kept a photo of her detective inspector. I had always thought of most DIs as dickheads.
At the point where I thought I was either going to have to sneak out of the house or nip downstairs to put the kettle on, pretending I’d been waiting for Soph to get out of bed and join me, I struck gold.
My fingers lingered over the paperwork in front of me. I couldn’t quite believe my luck.
I had tears in my eyes as I silently read the words that would change both my life and Sophia’s.
I didn’t have to throw her to the wolves after all.
Chapter 52
Sunday 10 May
Feeling oddly nervous in his own home, Harry made himself busy making sure that the coffee was brewing and the glasses for the orange juice were sparkling. Hazel had already laid the table for the three of them with serviettes, cutlery and plates, but it didn’t stop him fussing.
He saw her look at him once or twice, probably wanting to ask why he was pacing. They had been a couple for long enough now for her to know when something was up, yet she rarely asked. Instead she let him get it out of his system, always ready to listen and give advice when he needed her.
And he did –
every single time.
Except this time, he hadn’t told her what was bothering him, and it was highly likely that he wouldn’t. Not with so much at risk.
He had learned the very hard way after Pierre’s passing that he needed to talk to Hazel when things got too much, but the situation with Sophia was so bloody sensitive. It could cost Soph her job, the department its very being, and what was left of Harry’s reputation.
The one thing he knew it couldn’t jeopardize was his relationship with Hazel. That was simply not worth losing.
Right on time, Harry heard a car pull up across the driveway.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Hazel step back slightly to allow him through to the hallway first.
Harry opened the door wide and stood with a grin on his face as he waited for Sophia to get out of her car.
She walked down the driveway, enormous white cardboard box in her hands.
‘Morning, Soph,’ he hollered at her from the front step. ‘What you got there, girl? A bloody birthday cake?’
He watched her face relax, saw her throw back her head and give a genuine laugh. Though it didn’t distract him from the rings around her eyes, with their purple hue, or her unusually pale complexion. Still, at least she was laughing.
‘Hiya, Harry,’ she said, as between them they manoeuvred the box out of the way long enough to give each other a hug and kiss on the cheek.
‘Watchya, Haze,’ Harry heard Sophia say as they stood, one arm around each other, box precariously held to the side.
‘Morning, Soph. Harry, are you going to let her go before you knock that box out of her hands?’
He stood back, held her at arms’ length and said, ‘Course I am. There’s food in there and I’ll be fucked if it’s going to waste.’
Sophia handed him the box before making her way to Hazel and giving her a more modest embrace.
‘Come through,’ said Hazel. ‘We’ve only this minute put the coffee on.’
Harry followed the pair of them to the kitchen. Once they were seated around the table, the aroma of the coffee filling the room, Harry pointed over towards the counter.