It was Sofie’s turn to blush. “That’s not what I meant,” she mumbled.
Jennifer laughed and reached out to touch her arm. “It’s just that Connie’s loaded, lucky lady, but wealth can bring its own problems, especially if you’re not the socialite sort, which she certainly isn’t. She’s far too sincere.”
Sofie was nodding, having thought through the conversation. “So the Fairbright bus is, what? A private jet?”
Henry nodded.
“Connie Fairbright,” continued Sofie. “My parents have mentioned her, or at least my dad has. I think they’ve met. Something to do with a charitable foundation.”
“Small world,” said Henry, “but that sounds about right; Connie’s involved with so many of them, I can’t keep up. She has a whole team devoted exclusively to charity work. Anyway, perhaps you can understand why we prefer to remain under the radar.”
“Definitely,” agreed Sofie.
* * *
The following morning at eight, Sofie shuffled into the kitchen to find Jennifer sniggering over a note she was reading. As she looked up, she pulled a face in sympathy.
“Oh dear, DC Lukina, you look a little delicate. Is all that drumming coming from your head?”
Sofie grimaced. “Massed marching bands. An endless parade of them.”
“Paracetamol?”
“Just water, thanks,” said Sofie, reaching for the fridge door.
“Actually the stuff out of the tap is fine,” said Jennifer, nodding towards the sink. “It’s not the usual London poison, loaded up with all the chemicals the government thinks are good for us. It’s been filtered, resin-exchanged and purified to within an inch of its life and is now on a par with the best of mountain springs.”
Sofie ran the cold tap, filled a glass and drank it down. She nodded in approval as she refilled it.
“Impressive. From a different universe. The stuff that emerges from my parent’s taps is so full of chlorine it’s like drinking swimming pool water, which is why I’m forced into buying bottles.”
Jennifer waved the note at her. “Trish sends her love. Apparently, there was a development in her case overnight, so she had to leave early for the office. If her head’s like yours this morning, I pity anyone who comes within biting range, junior or senior. She doesn’t take prisoners unless they’re bad guys.”
Sofie swallowed down her third glass of water. “The other face of Detective Superintendent McVie, eh?”
“Yes, when she switches into professional cop mode, you wouldn’t recognise her. She keeps threatening to have me drafted onto her team, but I’m not sure how it would affect the dynamics of our friendship. That’s one reason I’m pleased about my move to Nottingham; I’ll be beyond her reach for the time being.”
“Do you know the D Super in the squad you’re moving to?”
“Hugh Gregson? Yes. Well, I’ve met him. Jovial, but far too overweight for his own good. Derek says he’s a great boss. He came in to fill the void left by Freneton and the SCF is now a far happier place. She was a tyrant, even ignoring her serial killer proclivities.”
Sofie walked over to the island unit where Jennifer was standing and sat on a bar stool.
“Jennifer, thanks so much for a wonderful evening. I hope I wasn’t slurring too much by the end. It’s lovely of you to welcome me so warmly and of course to meet your amazing dad. Connie Fairbright is a lucky lady.”
Jennifer’s smile was warm. “It was fun and I’m delighted you and Trish have hit it off. I need someone to keep an eye on the human, more vulnerable Trish when I’m not around. And, yes, Connie is lucky, but she’s a pretty special lady herself. So unaffected by her vast wealth. I’ve met a lot of super-rich types through my work with the Art Fraud squad and none of them was as grounded as Connie.”
“Do you have any plans while Henry’s here?” asked Sofie. “Oh, I forgot, you can’t go anywhere together, can you?”
Jennifer’s raised her eyebrows in amusement. “You’re right. Jennifer Cotton and Henry Silk are not seen together in public. But Jennifer Cotton and her favourite uncle Erasmus, well, that’s altogether different. There’s nothing to stop them heading off to an exhibition at the V&A, say, if they wish to. Nothing at all.”
“Erasmus!” Sofie clamped a hand to her mouth. The name had come out louder than she intended.
“Did somebody call?”
Sofie’s head shot round in time to see a man in his mid-to-late sixties walk into the kitchen. She gasped. She knew instantly it was Henry, even though all the visual clues her eyes were feeding her told her otherwise. This man seemed not only shorter and more rotund but also his whole bearing was the antithesis of Henry’s. At that moment, it occurred to Sofie that acting was far more than speaking lines with conviction; this man was playing the part with every fibre of his body and yet doing it so naturally that the illusion was perfect.
Jennifer laughed at the look of confusion on Sofie’s face.
“Sofie, meet Uncle Erasmus. He flew in with Henry last night, but Henry keeps him hidden in his suitcase.”
“Mean bastard at the best of times,” muttered Uncle Erasmus.
Sofie laughed in delight. “What a brilliant performance. Even your voice has changed completely.”
Erasmus leaned his head towards Jennifer. “What’s the girl talking about, young Jennifer?”
“No idea, Uncle Razzy. She’s seems confused.”
Erasmus stood up straighter and transformed physically, if not visually, back into Henry.
“Pleased to know I’m not losing my touch, Sofie. Can’t afford to be complacent.”
“I’d love to have some lessons for when I’m working undercover,” said Sofie.
“Hmm,” replied Henry, pulling a doubtful face. “A few years at RADA, a few more working rep, films and TV, plus an innate, God-given talent. Shouldn’t be a problem, Sofie.”
“Be sure to keep working on the modesty, too,” cautioned Jennifer.
“Overrated, dear daughter. Now, get a move on. It takes your old uncle a bit longer to get around than his sprightly brother.”
Chapter Seven
For Jennifer, returning to the Serious Crime Formation was bittersweet. When she walked into the squad room with Derek on her first Monday morning, the team of DCs and civilian officers gathered around to welcome her and escort her to an empty desk next to Neil Bottomley’s. Neil, reluctant to retire after so many years, had stretched out his time to the limit and was due to leave in three months.
“Not quite ready to give up my desk, lass,” he said, “even though there’s no one else I’d rather give it to.”
“I can wait, sarge,” she said, automatically addressing him as she always had.
“It’s no longer sarge, lass, not now you’ve begun moving up the ladder, and especially after everything we went through together in the name of crime detection.”
Jennifer’s smile was tinged with sadness. “I know, but I reckon I’ll always think of you as sarge.”
She looked around the room. “Looks much the same as it did three years ago, just a few different faces.” She could almost hear echoes of DI Rob McPherson’s gruff Scottish growl. She shuddered briefly before smiling at the assembled group.
“Yes,” said Bottomley, checking his watch. “And as usual, there’s one missing. It used to be Thyme here who was always almost late. We didn’t call you Justin for nothing, laddie, before Jennifer here took you in hand,” — he shook his head in weary resignation as he nodded at Derek — “but you had nothing on DC Brooke. If his surname was Thyme, we’d be calling him ‘Never On’.”
There was a general muttering of amused agreement, at which point the door to the squad room flew open and DC Gus Brooke marched in, seemingly oblivious to his situation until he saw that all eyes were on him.
He paused mid-stride. “Er, morning everyone,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Sarge,” he added, his eyes finding Bottomley’s. “Sorry to be late. Bloody car let me down again. Took
ages to start.” He lifted his shoulders and pulled a face.
“Time you got it sorted, laddie. If that pile of junk you call a car lets you down on the way to a call-out, you’re going to find yourself in big trouble. Anyway, it won’t be my problem for much longer. Let me introduce you to your new boss. DS Cotton, this is DC Brooke.”
“Great to meet you at last, er, sarge,” said Brooke to Jennifer, a half-smile on his lips as his eyes fixed on hers. “Derek’s told me all, er, mentioned you, of course.”
“You too,” replied Jennifer, hoping her answer was suitably ambiguous. “It’s Gus, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sarge, it is,” he replied, tilting his head in an obvious expectation that Jennifer would offer her first name. She didn’t. Derek had already briefed her on the new office Romeo. She could understand why he thought himself something of a catch: he was good looking in a muscular, rugby-playing way, and at around six two, the same height as Derek. His vivid green-blue eyes, almost aquamarine, sparkled as he continued to look into hers. I hope his wife keeps him on a short rein, she thought. Looks could be deceptive, she knew, but even without Derek’s heads-up, her antennae would have been sending out warning beeps.
“Anyway,” said Jennifer, glancing around the group. “Don’t let me keep you. I think I should report to the big bosses.”
“Quite right, DS Cotton, so you should,” boomed a voice from behind her. “Come on, let’s go through to my office.”
Jennifer turned, smiling as DCS Pete Hawkins’ familiar East Notts accent filled the room. “Yes, sir,” she said, but she was already talking to his back as he marched off in the direction of his office.
Jennifer winked at Derek as she walked past him. “Nothing changes,” she whispered, from behind her hand.
* * *
“Take a seat, Jennifer,” instructed Hawkins as he threw his coat onto a chair in the corner of his large office. “Good to see you, lass. Thought I’d be drawing my pension before we got you back here. Happy with the move?”
“Yes, sir, I am. It took me by surprise, I must say, coming immediately after my promotion, but, yes, I’ve been hankering after some regular crime work even though I thoroughly enjoyed working in the Art Fraud Squad.”
“You did well in the undercover case, lass, and catching Freneton, well, that certainly took us by surprise. You must tell me the inside story one day; I get the feeling there’s more to it than what’s written in the reports.”
Too right there is, thought Jennifer, but I’m never coming clean on that one, not when I’m technically guilty of murder. You’ll only ever hear an edited version.
“Yes, well, there’s only so much goes in a report, sir, as you know. The real hero of the day was Henry. I wouldn’t be sitting here now without his quick thinking, and nor would he be sharing Connie Fairbright’s luxury life with her.”
“Who’da thought it, eh, Jennifer? He was marched in here on suspicion of murder, turned out to be your old man, and then proved his worth in Italy.”
“Yes, he was far more deserving of the medal they gave me than I was,” said Jennifer.
“Don’t be so modest, lass. There was a lot of bloody good, old-fashioned detective work in there from you too. Don’t sell yourself short. Any road, we’ve got plenty here for you to get your teeth into. Hugh Gregson’s waiting to bring you up to speed, and Len Crawford will be your DCI. We never filled Rob’s post, told we had to cut back, but I’m still working on it. Got to have a chain of command.”
He paused, a cloud of concern drifting across his face. Jennifer wondered if he also still felt the echoes of the late Rob McPherson.
“Something wrong, sir?”
“It’s probably nothing,” he replied, his voice dropping uncharacteristically to little more than a whisper. “I’d like you to keep an eye on Hugh Gregson; I’m concerned about his health. He’s extremely overweight and not the fittest super around. Seems a bit breathless lately. I’ve tried to raise it with him, but, you know how it is, men like Hugh don’t like a fuss, tells me he’s fine. He’s a first-rate cop, really knocked the place into shape after the chaos of Freneton and her murderous spree. Christ, she was after the lot of us, could’ve succeeded too if Neil hadn’t stood up to her. But Hugh, he works all hours, total dedication …” Hawkins little speech drifted away to nothing.
Jennifer sighed inwardly. Men of Hawkins’ generation were so closed, bottling everything up, never giving vent to their emotions except when they were bawling people out. It was little wonder so many of them were unhealthy.
“I’ll do that, sir. I’ve been looking forward to working with Detective Superintendent Gregson; he has quite a reputation from his days in the West Mids. I’ll let you know if I think he’s overdoing it or hiding something.”
“Thanks, Jennifer. Knew I could rely on you. Well, no time like the present. He’ll be waiting for you in his office.”
Jennifer stood up and turned to leave. As she reached the door, Hawkins called out again. “Jennifer?”
“Sir?”
“It’s good to have you back.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s good to be back, believe me.”
* * *
“Come in!” Hugh Gregson called in response to Jennifer’s knock on his open door, his West Midlands accent in vivid contrast to Hawkins’ and most of the other officers in the SCF.
As he stood to greet Jennifer, she suppressed a gasp. She remembered him as being a large man, but nothing like the unhealthy specimen now facing her. His face had a pasty pallor and there were beads of sweat across his forehead.
“Detective Sergeant Cotton,” he said, panting breathlessly. “Jennifer. Delighted to meet you again.” He waddled around the end of his desk and held out his hand.
“You too, boss,” replied Jennifer. She paused for a moment before taking the plunge. “Is everything all right, boss? You look a little unwell. Would you like me to fetch you some water?”
Gregson looked in her direction, but she wasn’t convinced his eyes were focussing on her. “I’m fine, Jennifer, thank you. I’m just … it’s a bit, what, airless in here, don’t you think?”
No, thought Jennifer, I don’t.
“I’ll fetch some water, boss. Perhaps you should sit down.”
She turned and started walking towards the door, but she had only taken two steps when she heard a deep grunt from behind her. She spun around and was horrified to see Gregson had slumped across his desk and was sliding off as his knees searched the floor for purchase.
“Boss!” she yelled. “Help! Someone! Emergency!”
She ran towards Gregson, grabbing his arm in a vain attempt to ease his fall, but he was too heavy. Jennifer stumbled and fell with him, but was quickly back on her feet. She needed to turn him onto his back. She reached for an arm and pulled with all her strength. “Come on! Anyone!” she yelled. “I need help in here!”
The door burst open and Derek rushed into the office followed by two of the other detectives from the squad. Hawkins was right behind them followed by the DCI, Len Crawford.
“What happened?” bellowed Hawkins.
“He just keeled over, sir. I think it’s his heart.”
With Derek’s help, she had turned Gregson onto his back and was searching for a pulse in his neck.
“Christ!” she yelled through clenched teeth. “I can’t feel anything. Derek, we need to give him CPR. Someone call an ambulance!”
“Already done,” said a voice Jennifer didn’t recognise. “They’re only two minutes down the road. Let’s see if we can get him breathing.”
One of the detectives was leaning on Gregson’s chest and pushing it rhythmically and firmly. “Get the defibrillator,” he yelled, “it’s in the squad room.”
But their frantic efforts were in vain. Gregson’s heart had given out in one massive attack. Later, after the postmortem, the pathologist would comment to Hawkins that for the man to have continued for as long as he had defied all logic; there was nothing anyone could h
ave done.
* * *
“Bloody place is jinxed when it comes to superintendents,” muttered Neil Bottomley once the ambulance had taken Hugh Gregson’s body away. “No one’s going to want to apply for that job. First we get Freneton and now poor Hugh. Bugger it.”
Jennifer had never seen him so emotional. He was fighting back the tears as he sat fidgeting at his desk, at a loss as to what to do.
“Was he married, Neil?” she asked softly, laying a hand on Bottomley’s arm.
Bottomley responded by chewing his lip and nodding. “Joan,” he said, eventually. “His wife’s name. They are our neighbours. In Southwell. I’d better go and break the news. Pam will be devastated. They’d become good mates.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Jennifer. It was a statement, not a question. She didn’t want him to drive in such an emotional condition.
He looked up. “Thanks, Jennifer, you’re a good lass.”
Chapter Eight
The entire staff of the SCF was in shock at the sudden death of Detective Superintendent Hugh Gregson. Much admired, he had been the boss for almost three years, his combination of dedicated professionalism and instinctive detective skills lifting them from the doldrums following the gutting of their ranks by Olivia Freneton. They knew his jovial informality was a veneer that hid a ruthless tenacity when dealing with suspects, a skill they all attempted to emulate. They also knew he would always have their backs, his support a solid foundation for their hard work.
But life had to go on, as did work. When Pete Hawkins heard that Jennifer was about to take Neil Bottomley to break the news to Gregson’s wife, he overruled her.
“I’ll take him, Jennifer. For a senior officer like Hugh, it’s the only respectful way. And anyway, the Gregsons are friends; my wife and I see quite a bit of them. You stay here lass. The team needs you and I also want Len Crawford to get you up to speed.”
The Cambroni Vendetta Page 5