STEALING POWER: A powerful psychological crime thriller (A Detective India Kane & AJ Colt Crime Thriller)

by Bo Brennan

  The room was modern and bright, minimally furnished with expensive looking designer pieces. A sumptuous brown leather corner sofa occupied two walls in the lounge, framing the densely woven rug that almost covered the solid wood floor. No cheap shit B&Q laminate here. Smart and sophisticated. A built in proper wood corner unit housed a state of the art BOSE music system and hundreds of CDs arranged in alphabetical order. She pursed her lips and raised a brow, very organised, very nice. Good taste in music too.

  “Telly’s gone,” Dwyer mumbled.

  India frowned. No TV and no obvious space where it should have been either. She slumped down into the leather sofa and scanned the room. “There wasn’t one,” she said, pointing to the painting of an abstract seascape above the fireplace. “That’s the seated focal point.”

  The mantel piece housed nothing but a small glass jar with fragrant oil sticks protruding. She gave the jar a poke and sniffed the air, had seen these room fresheners in the posh interiors shops Terri and Clare dragged her to and didn't get it. You could buy ten aerosol air fresheners for the cost of one of these, and opening a window was free. Besides, nice as it was, the delicate scent of sandalwood was no match for the smell emanating from the open doors to the left.

  India joined the others in the kitchen where the stench of vomit was over ripe. A green gilled Dwyer attempted to casually lean against the door frame covering his mouth and nose with the back of a hand.

  “You'll adjust in a minute,” Kate Wesson said, smiling across at him.

  Or add to it, India thought. The DI’s Achilles heel had always been vomit. And here it was plentiful, the smart slate tiled floor and upturned chair awash with it. Puke didn’t bother India; she could cope with just about anything . . . anything, except bloodbaths. And contrary to Dwyer’s belief that there was always a reason for the stomach churners, in his case – his sister puking in his school shoes as a kid, there wasn't one for hers. She simply didn't do blood.

  SOCO Vicky Maplin took the Tiger Balm from her kit case and passed it to him. Dwyer smiled meekly and stifled a gag as he smeared the potent scented grease below his nostrils. “What we got then?” he asked.

  “The neighbour called it in,” Kate Wesson said, “heard shouting and screaming, phoned 999 and reported an attack in progress. Paul and I got here in four minutes, she was still screaming then. We waited a further two minutes for backup to get here with the door breaking equipment. By the time we'd gained entry it was all quiet.”

  “Anyone in custody?” Tom asked.

  “No one else was here,” Paul said. “It was just her, curled up in a ball under the kitchen table. We couldn’t get near her; the paramedics had to coax her out.”

  India frowned. “And who is she?”

  “Sharon Cutler, thirty-five year old accountant, single, lives alone. According to the neighbour she’s more dinner party than raver. Quiet, usually.”

  India took in the scene as he spoke and peered at the skew whiff blind; it had been dropped in haste. Only a skinny acrobatic midget could get through the window. Or a cat – those bloody things could get anywhere. “Any signs of forced entry?”

  Vicky shook her head and gestured to the small kitchen window. “With the exception of that top flap, all windows and doors are secured from the inside. But I've dusted all openings for prints anyway.”

  Dwyer crossed his arms and looked to India. “You have signs of a struggle, all entry points secured from the inside and nobody else here.” He raised his eyebrows when India stared at him. “So, your assailant must have left through the front or back door and she locked up behind them.”

  “No one left while we were here,” Paul said. “But I did notice the telly’s missing.”

  “If it was a robbery they would have taken this.” India poked the cursor pad of the open MacBook with her car key; the black screen sprang to life. Password protected. “I’m not sure anyone else was here at all,” she said. “Smacks of panic or illness to me.”

  “Ah, the classic female meltdown,” Dwyer said. “Happens once a month in my house.”

  When Paul Smith chuckled in agreement he earned himself a withering look from his partner. India ignored them both. “Where'd they take her, Kate?”

  “Royal South Hants,” Kate said quietly, then glanced at Paul Smith and cleared her throat. “It might be nothing, but she could’ve had bad news this morning. All that’s in the kitchen bin is an envelope; the rest of her mail is untouched on the side out there.”

  India picked a careful route across the kitchen floor, and stomped on the foot pedal of the fancy bin. It glided open with a soft hydraulic sigh. Her eyes narrowed at the contents. “Nice one, Kate,” she said, snapping on a latex glove and pulling the envelope free. India held it up to Dwyer. “It’s identical,” she said. “Still think Darcy’s a dead duck?”

  Vicky raised her brows and held out an evidence bag. She’d worked the Darcy envelope herself and found nothing. If this was what it looked like, hopefully this time they’d get a print. “I’ll seize the MacBook and search for a disc,” she said.

  “Thanks, Vicks.” India discarded her glove in the kitchen bin and watched it silently close again. “How long for the results?”

  Vicky Maplin threw her hands in the air. “How long's a piece of string? They've laid off one of the fingerprint analysts and frozen overtime.” She shrugged. “We’re backlogged, could take a week, maybe two.”

  India sighed and rolled her eyes. “Anything I can do to speed things up?”

  Vicky straightened up and huffed out a breath. “I'm not making any promises, but if you get her prints back to me today for comparison I can submit the whole package. The boys and girls at the lab appreciate that, cuts down their work load, no double handling.” She smiled. “And if you chuck in some chocolate biscuits they might even appreciate it so much they'll push it up the list.”

  “I've got a print pad in the car,” India said, elbowing Dwyer. “You ready or what?”

  London.

  AJ Colt slipped the gears in his sleek black Lexus into neutral, and tapped the steering wheel in time to the music. He'd forgotten how bad it was getting out of the capital these days, no one rushed in rush hour. Whoever coined that phrase was having a laugh; at this time of night the M25 was transformed into Europe's biggest car park.

  The exit was no more than two hundred yards away; he could see it, but anticipated suffering at least another thirty minutes of boredom before reaching it. He sighed, was in no rush to reach the bland confines of the hotel room he was booked into at the other end, but the last place he wanted to be when the forecasted heavy sleet fell was on the M25.

  He crawled along with the traffic queue, inching painfully closer to his exit, and his eyes wandered to the stationary queue to his right. An attractive blonde twenty-something driving a Lotus constructively utilised the dead time to freshen up her already immaculate make up. He raised a brow and returned a smile when she blew a kiss his way.

  She lost his attention when the news came on, he turned up the volume. Hawley was back walking the streets again tonight; Colt was anxious it wasn’t broadcast in case the bastard went to ground. Mags was gutted, she’d done a great job snaring him online. The perverted ice-cream man didn’t know what hit him when he turned up at the park – with a bag full of sex toys and a bumper pack of condoms – to meet thirteen year old ‘Rona,’ and got AJ Colt and his team instead. There was nothing on the news; he breathed a sigh of relief. God only knew what lay ahead, but at least he was leaving London intact.

  He flicked his indicators left and edged onto the slip road, ignoring Blondie’s manicured hand waving her details out of her passenger side window, her eyes constantly on him as she practiced her pout. Under usual circumstances the ephemeral stress relief Blondie was offering might be welcomed, but a cursory glance at the boxes filling his back seat were enough to dampen any man’s mood. Besides, he’d had enough of high maintenance blondes to last him a lifetime.

  Royal Sout
h Hants Hospital, Winchester.

  “She's heavily sedated,” the doctor said with disdain. He was frowning so hard his bushy grey eyebrows had taken on an identity of their own and threatened to leap from his forehead and attack Dwyer at any second.

  “We need her fingerprints,” Dwyer said.

  “Unconscious, unable to give consent,” the doctor said sternly.

  “This is a police investigation.” Dwyer cocked his jaw, like that was ever going to seal the deal.

  “And this is my hospital,” the doctor responded loudly.

  While the testosterone fuelled stand-off continued, India chewed at her cheek and watched the never ending stream of people coming and going through the toilet doors opposite. She peered at the young nurse creeping past wearing pale blue Crocs, head down, trying hard to stay out of the doctor’s line of sight. The nurse gave a shy apologetic smile when India made eye contact and rolled her eyes.

  “Can we at least just see her?” Dwyer was starting to sound desperate. “Leave our contact details . . .”

  “Come back tomorrow,” the doctor said with a dismissive flick of his wrist.

  Dwyer sighed, resigned all too easily to defeat. “What time?”

  “The mental health team will assess her in the morning, so I suggest late afternoon.” And with that he turned on his heels and disappeared down the corridor, white coat flapping victorious in his wake.

  “Pillock,” Dwyer mumbled under his breathe.

  “You feeling all right, Boss?” India said. “You look a bit peaky.”

  “Do I?” He pressed his palm to his forehead. “I must admit I do feel a bit warm.”

  India nodded sympathetically and took a step towards him, gave an exaggerated sniff and peered closely at his well-groomed hair. She waved a finger in his general direction, lowered her voice and said, “You might have a bit of sick . . .”

  “Oh Jesus,” he cried, and disappeared through the door marked ‘Gents’.

  Right on cue India Kane's new found friend emerged from the ladies. “Great shoes,” she said, stepping towards her. “Love the colour.”

  “Thanks,” she said, hesitantly looking up and down the corridor.

  “It's all right he's gone,” India said. “They both have.”

  The nurse smiled and India observed her hunched shoulders relax. “They’re so comfy,” she enthused. “They were only eight quid in Aldi. Bought 'em at the weekend; if you're quick you should be able to grab a pair.”

  “I’ll do that.” India took her by the arm and lowered her voice. “Can you help me? I really need to see Sharon Cutler.” She swallowed hard and dropped her eyes to the floor. “My boss . . . he just doesn't understand, keeps bollocking me for getting personally involved, you know?” India glanced up to see the nurse nodding sympathetically. “If I don't see that she's ok with my own eyes, I won't get a wink of sleep tonight.”

  The nurse did a tentative corridor check before guiding her to a door near the empty nurses’ station. “Two minutes. He starts his rounds at six,” she said, then scurried into a side room.

  India quietly closed the door behind her and took a moment to observe the woman sleeping peacefully in the bed. A shock of thick auburn hair cascaded across the pillows; in the dim light of the room her pale skin resembled porcelain. Women who looked like this and lived in a place like hers, did not have unexplained meltdowns. She hoped she was wrong, hoped the woman was having a funny five minutes, but having seen the envelope, India couldn’t shake the feeling that history was repeating itself.

  She took her shunted and taped manicured hand in her own, and said, “Hi Sharon, I'm Detective India Kane from Hampshire CID. I'll be back tomorrow afternoon to speak to you about what happened today.” She looked at the steady beeping lines on the monitor and the tray of medical paraphernalia and dressings below it; spotting the antiseptic wipes she glanced over her shoulder at the closed blinds and pulled the print pad from her bag. “But right now I'm going to take your fingerprints so we can speed things up a bit.”

  Chapter 3

  Wednesday 1st December.

  Hampshire CID, Winchester.

  “How's your dad enjoying his retirement?” DCI Len Firman asked, as they lugged the last two boxes of case files from the back of AJ Colt’s car and into the Winchester meeting room.

  “Lots of fishing apparently.” That’s what he was doing every time they’d spoken in the last year anyway. Colt hadn’t seen him since Christmas, been too busy. His mother kept him up to speed with the family goings on in her weekly phone call. Luke generally kept in touch by email, sending over documents concerning the house, and pictures of the kids which Colt duly framed and stuck on the wall in his apartment, like a good brother, uncle and son.

  “Eighteen months and I'll be joining him,” Len said. “I’m counting down the days, even got my rods out the shed last weekend and cleaned 'em up ready.”

  Colt stifled a yawn and looked at his watch, 0715. Although not high on miles the three hour journey down from London last night had proven high on stress. By the time he'd checked into the hotel, checked out the gym, eaten and showered it was almost midnight before he even handled the files. He'd woken at five this morning, the faces of unconscious victims littering the bed. Not a great way to start the day.

  “Take a seat,” Len said, closing the blinds in his office. “The troops will be arriving shortly; don’t want the buggers gawping.”

  “I’m bringing Lacey Fox in,” Colt said, settling into a chair. “And the Crown Prosecution Service are coming in tomorrow, thought it best to have them both in for the full brief.”

  “Sensible.” Len nodded and slid the pile of documents on his desk towards him. “One DI and two DCs,” he said.

  Colt raised a brow, knew the powers that be wanted the investigation kept low profile but these resources might as well be non-existent. “Three detectives, is that it?”

  “Orders from above,” Len said. “Times are hard.”

  Colt had spent three years on the side-lines, powerless to act, as the Sex Crimes Unit made a complete balls-up of the investigation tarnishing his life. Even when the DVDs stopped arriving and the SCU stuck it on the back burner, he'd never stopped looking. Finally he was one step ahead and holding the reigns, and the limited resources they gave him to nail the bastard consisted of mere novices. He might as well pack up and go home now. “Two of them are DCs, Len.”

  “They're bloody good,” he said defensively. “I've worked with three generations of your family, Jim; don't tell me you're the one who favours rank over result.”

  Colt frowned. Three generations, it had started already. He hated being compared to the rest of them, hated the underlying connotation that he was here by default instead of his own merits. But even more than that, he hated being put in his place.

  “Tom Dwyer and India Kane picked it up, so they stay on board,” Len said evenly. “It’s Kane’s first lead too, so she’ll need a personal explanation as to why she won't be leading it anymore.”

  A disinterested Colt absently gazed over Len Firman's shoulder to the framed photo on his office wall. Len, Colt’s dad, and another bloke who he didn't recognise, smiled cheerily from the deck of a boat holding up a bloody great big cod. The tight crop of the photo cut off half the cod's tail. Judging by the full head of hair his dad was displaying he was about Colts age then. Christ, this was going to be a nightmare.

  “What's going on?” Dwyer said.

  India didn’t bother looking up from her Southampton case file. “No idea, I just got here,” she muttered, and continued reading through Katherine Darcy's limited statement for the umpteenth time, while the DI shuffled aimlessly at the side of her desk. Her rape investigation had stalled. Not good.

  She tapped her fingers on the message Vicky had left for her – no disc recovered at Sharon Cutler’s place and nothing on her computer, then looked at the message from Katherine Darcy. She’d be home all day, anytime was a good time for India to drop in.
/>   Her gut told her they were linked.

  She scanned her diary. The afternoon was completely off limits, she was interviewing Sharon Cutler at the hospital. A minor shuffle this morning and she could be in Southampton with Katherine Darcy around eleven-thirty. It meant missing lunch, she'd already missed breakfast. She'd grab a packet of chocolate hobnobs on the way and have a coffee and biscuit with Katherine, make it relaxed and informal, a chat between friends. Then go straight onto the hospital from there and wait for the head doctors to finish with Sharon Cutler. If the worst came to the worst she could grab a bacteria bap from the hospital shop.

  “I've been in for twenty five minutes, Boss.” Lee Sangrin’s smug voice punctured her brain, shattering her concentration. He sidled up to Dwyer, reducing his tone to a conspiratorial whisper before continuing. “I’ve asked everyone who he's got in there. No one knows a thing. But if the blinds are down, someone's in for a serious arse kicking.”

  India rolled her eyes; she didn’t give a toss who was in there . . . until the Guv’s office door creaked open. “Tom, India, a word please,” Firman shouted.

  She took one last glance at the file and decided against taking it with her. She didn’t need to defend herself, had worked round the clock and exhausted every lead. Confidently she rose from her desk and smoothed her jacket.

  “Hold on to that cute little arse, Kane, you're in for a spanking,” Sangrin chirped

  India turned her head sharply in his direction. One snap of her teeth was all it took to send him scurrying back under his stone.

  “Meet Detective Chief Inspector AJ Colt, he's joining us on secondment from the Metropolitan Police Service with immediate effect,” Firman said.

  Colt rose from the snug fitting chair and extended his hand. Tom Dwyer took an audible gulp; Colt guessed that at over six feet tall, it wasn't often Tom had to crane his neck to look up at someone. He saw the glint of excitement in his eyes and figured he was a rugby man.