by Bo Brennan
Monday 20th December
AJ Colt rolled over and looked at his iPhone. 3.12 am. He could only have nodded off an hour ago, and that hour was far from restful. Images of a small girl being savagely beaten with a belt were still fresh behind his eyes.
After six pints and half a bottle of Tequila, Gray had merely hinted at India’s past. Life had moulded her personality into a defence mechanism, the result of repeated and prolonged traumas that had eroded her very being, scarring her soul. People she had a god given right to trust had hurt her, time and time again, causing her to retreat deep inside herself, permitting her true self to be seen by only those that she trusted. And those people were very few, and very far between.
Colt had never had to deal with anything like this before; he merely plucked kids like her to safety. The hard work was done by the professionals. They were the ones who pieced lives back together, and taught abused kids how to trust again, usually over periods of years.
Tonight he’d learned some of her strange little quirks. Sex when sober wasn't one of them. Neither were relationships. That was something Gray's lips had loosened enough to give up. He’d got the sensible viewpoint that the father, who’d regularly beaten and abused her, actually did her a favour by leaving. But he’d got nothing out of him about drugs, illicit or otherwise.
Gray was not a convincing liar, but he was a sound negotiator.
Colt cringed with disbelief at what he’d got him to agree to do on Tuesday night. Worse, he’d promised. It was a sure sign he was a desperate man. But he sensed an ally in Gray, and knew he had to earn his trust if he stood any chance of getting closer to India, and past all those that were warning him off. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Colt stared at the hotel room ceiling and pictured his dad, a hard lump lodged in his throat. He’d looked up to him, they’d always been close. The man had never raised a hand to anyone in his life, but his reaction to him poking around about India had been unexpectedly violent. That was the clincher, the neon sign giveaway he was involved in something back then. Something rotten.
Colt clenched his jaw. He didn’t know the man at all, and that made him capable of anything.
The thought twisted his stomach.
He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. India Kane needed protecting; Colt just didn’t know who the bad guys were anymore. But he intended to find out.
India Kane’s mouth was bone dry as she walked into the office. It wasn't for the first time a man had her walking into the job she loved with feelings of apprehension.
Colt could make her life difficult, if he chose to. That wouldn’t be a first either. But this morning, she was more anxious about Gray. He hadn’t come when she’d called him last night, he’d sent Terri instead. The thought that he’d finally given up on her, filled her with dread.
Terri had been her usual blunt self, but she was right, India did need to talk to him. But not here, not at work, the boundaries were already blurred. What she had to say was going to be difficult enough . . . if she decided to say it at all. She certainly wasn't going to say it publicly. And if she had to air her shame at least she'd find out what sort of man he really was.
She kept her head bowed as she took her seat, a mug of hot black coffee keeping her hands occupied. Colt seemed calm and relaxed. Firman didn’t, he drummed his fingers on the table, watching the clock. Waiting. At 0758, they were still missing Dwyer and Foxy.
“Sorry, Guv,” Dwyer said as he slid into his seat with seconds to spare. “I had to call the doctor out to Lindsey.”
“She can't still be chucking up,” Sangrin said with a shudder.
“Everything all right, Tom?” Colt asked, genuine concern filling his voice.
“It will be,” he said with a beaming smile. “When the morning sickness passes.”
India glanced sideways at him and wondered if Mrs Dwyer was awake when conception occurred, and if he’d left her tidy.
“I never thought you had it in you, mate,” Sangrin said as a flurry of good wishes came from every corner of the room. “I thought you were shooting blanks.”
“Congratulations,” Colt said with a smile that lit up his face. “Let's hope the good news continues today. The sketch artist is sending over the neighbour’s picture of the suspect seen loitering outside your place India,” he said, smiling her way.
She nodded and returned her eyes to her notebook. He seemed remarkably buoyant for a man who’d had a declaration of love thrown back in his face yesterday.
“When is she doing the barman's sketch?” Firman said
“Tomorrow night, before he starts his shift.”
“My money’s on them being one and the same,” Vicky said.
Colt stood when the knock on the door came, eager to get his hands on the sketch. He frowned hard, passed the pile of copies to Vicky, and slowly returned to his seat still studying the picture as she passed them on.
“I saw this guy at the hospital the night of your attack,” Vicky said, turning to India. “He was loitering in the car park while the boys took paint samples from Colt’s car.”
India frowned. “It looks like Zane.”
“Who's Zane?” Firman asked.
“The weird waiter,” Colt said, glancing across the table at her.
“How do you know him?” Veronica asked, her eyes darting back and forth between India and Colt.
“He goes out with a close friend of mine, Clare.” India stared at the picture. “He’d have been at the hospital with her.”
“The girls weren’t at the hospital,” Firman said. “Pete didn’t tell them till the morning.”
The room fell quiet as India studied the picture. It was definitely Clare’s new boyfriend, even Colt had identified him. Why would Zane be anywhere near her home? Clare lived fifteen miles away and had never brought him round to her place. She wouldn't, it was taboo. India’s place was strictly by invitation only, they all knew that. Except Colt it seemed.
India set the picture down and looked up. “It’s him,” she said. “It’s Zane.”
“What do you know about him?” Veronica asked.
India recited the information Clare had given her, intentionally leaving out the bit about oral sex regarding it as operationally irrelevant. In summary it wasn't much. She had no surname, no idea of where he lived, or where he was studying. The only thing she knew for sure was that he worked part time at Olivio’s in the evenings.
Veronica quizzed her about the relationship and how Clare perceived it. Was she happy? Depressed? Withdrawn? Down trodden? Veronica frowned hard, rolling her pen between her fingers, when India insisted Clare was completely loved up.
“What does it matter?” Colt said. “It’s him.”
“It doesn't fit.” Veronica sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Dr Fox said our man isn't capable of maintaining a relationship. If he was in a relationship it certainly wouldn't be a happy one for the woman involved, it would be soul destroying.”
“Sounds like a regular marriage to me,” Sangrin chirped, falling silent when every pair of eyes in the room scolded him.
“She could be wrong,” Colt said, glancing at the clock.
“How many times have you known her to be wrong?” Veronica said.
“This guy has been seen at the hospital and at India's home,” Colt snapped. “I've met him, Veronica, and to be frank he gives me the fucking creeps.”
“Weird and creepy he might be,” Veronica said, “but it's not enough to bring him in.”
“What shape’s Martin Kennedy in?” Colt said.
“Intensive care, with eyes outside his door,” Firman said. “He’s going nowhere.”
“Ok, we’ve still got the viewing diaries from the estate agent’s to work through,” Colt said. “In the meantime let’s switch Kennedy’s surveillance team to this Zane character.”
“Makes sense,” Firman reasoned. “Kennedy’s alibis for the last three attacks are rock solid, but I can’t shake the feeling there’s a connecti
on with this crowd somewhere.”
“What about this friend of yours,” Colt said, turning to India. “Is she capable of playing along with him if we bring her in?”
“No,” India said, without a moment’s hesitation. “She's a beautician, gossip’s her business. I only just trust her with my toenails.”
“What about getting an address?” Colt said.
India shook her head. “If I start asking her questions, it will be on the news by tea time.”
Colt frowned and let out a hefty sigh. “Let’s get to work on these viewing diaries and see if we can pull a thread. We’ll get eyes on the restaurant tonight.”
Colt flicked through the surveillance photos of Martin Kennedy’s business partner. If it wasn’t bad enough the bloke’s missus was shagging the sleaze ball behind his back, Parkinson’s disease had confined the poor bastard to a wheelchair.
Colt leant back in his chair and cracked his knuckles. All the evidence pointed to the estate agent’s being involved in one way or another, but there was definitely something amiss with the waiter, gut instinct told him that the second he clapped eyes on him. He had reddish hair too. Lacey herself had conceded it could be a valid reason for the hat, but he was too young to fit the profile. And for all the CPS bleating about personal opinions, Veronica had quite rightly reminded him that Lacey had never been wrong.
He couldn’t completely agree. He’d always thought Lacey made a big mistake dumping Veronica for Karen.
His mind probed the possibilities of the two of them working together. Maybe the estate agent was the perp and the waiter was his bitch – or as Lacey would put it – his narcissistic supply. But she was adamant he was working alone, and the recovery of the tripod from India’s place reinforced that. Colt slammed the file shut. Where the fuck is Lacey when you need her?
Resting his elbows on the table, he closed his eyes and massaged his temples. Breathed deeply in through his nose and out through his mouth, a technique he'd learned years ago to put his temper back in its box and secure the lid. And it helped. Well, to keep it bubbling just below the surface and prevent the full on descent of the dangerous red mist at least. When he opened his eyes, India Kane stood uncertainly in the doorway watching him.
“Hey,” he said, feeling his temper subsiding just because she was in the room.
“Want an aspirin or something?”
He smiled and shook his head. He thought about the something she was offering along with the aspirin. He wanted far more than something, he wanted everything and he wanted it for keeps. “I'm good thanks,” he said. “What can I do for you, India?”
“I thought you might want to, well, like to, erm, maybe talk,” she said quietly. “But I . . . not here. Would you like to come over tonight?”
Colt watched her as she flustered. This was hard for her, painful. Tonight he was committed, and here she was ready to open up to him. He swallowed hard, needed to be very careful how he worded his response. “There is nothing I would like more,” he said, “but I can’t, not tonight.”
“I understand,” she said, almost sprinting out the door.
Colt leapt from his seat. No, she didn't understand. “India, listen,” he called after her, and stood with his hands casually in his pockets, waiting for her to come back into the room and face him. “I’d lov. . . I really want to, but I promised Lacey I’d have dinner with her tonight.” Fuck. He’d made another promise to meet someone at midnight the following night too. “But I can come by early tomorrow night if you'll have me.”
“All right.” She shrugged and closed the door as she left.
It wasn’t all right. She was walking away thinking he didn't give a shit. Thinking he didn't want to hear it. He did want to hear it. Needed to hear it. All of it. He wanted to know what made her who she is. And he couldn’t wait until tomorrow. He wanted to hear it on her terms, tonight, and he didn’t want to leave after.
Colt looked at the clock. He’d never broken a promise in his life, but Lacey’s lateness might have given him some leverage to postpone this particular one. He scrolled through his phone and called her mobile. She always liked to cut it fine but this was out of character. Even if she'd been roped into one of Karen’s dramas she'd never be this late, not without calling him. He frowned when it went straight to voicemail, hung up and started scrolling. Scrolled past ‘Dad,’ and scowled when ‘Karen’ appeared in his contacts list. Fuck it, can’t speak to any of them, he thought, and thrust the phone in his trouser pocket. She'd turn up sooner or later.
He strolled to the meeting room door and peered out through the glass panel, everyone had their head down. Len was on the phone in his office, red faced and stressed. If he stroked his beard any harder there’d be nothing of it left.
Colt stared at India with her nose stuck in a pile of estate agent viewing diaries and pulled out his phone again. As soon as his trusted London right hand picked up, he said, “Do me an off the record favour, Mags, I need all the information you can find on Detective India Kane and her family, in particular her father.”
“Jesus Christ,” India mumbled when Firman flung his office door open so hard it rattled every window in the building. She watched with interest as he ran across the office to the meeting room; she'd never seen her Guv’nor run before. By the looks on everyone else’s faces none of them had either.
Seconds later Colt emerged with him, hastily shrugging into his jacket, his face full of confusion but empty of colour.
“India, get your coat, you're coming with us,” Colt shouted, crossing the office at a pace approaching a run, Firman in hot pursuit.
She sprang from her seat and did as instructed; whatever was going on there was no time to ask questions. Unless of course, you were Lee Sangrin.
“What’s all the fuss?” he chirped.
Firman stopped dead in his tracks. “He . . . he got Lacey Fox,” he stammered in disbelief.
Chapter 57
When they arrived at the hotel shortly after 11 am, Vicky Maplin and her team were already hard at work. She greeted them at the cordon of the evacuated floor.
“I’m so sorry, Colt, really I am,” Vicky said, rubbing his arm. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Colt gave a meek nod. There was no want about it. He had to.
“Suit up then,” she said solemnly. “I’ll clear the room.”
Colt stood on the protective metal plates at the foot of the bed, silently staring down at her, and his eyes stung. The cleaners had found her like this. Shirt ripped open, bra sliced through exposing mutilated breasts, skirt hitched up to her waist, and plain white cotton spanx hanging from her left ankle. Through the death mask of tightly wrapped cling film, bulging eyes filled with fear stared out at him accusingly.
He swallowed hard and closed his eyes.
Kane + Abel was still carved into Lacey’s stomach when he opened them again.
“What time did she die?” he said.
He felt Len’s hand on his shoulder. “Jim, you should go, be with your family,” he said.
Colt made no attempt to move, he needed to know. He wasn't going anywhere until he knew how long she’d lain there on her own like that. He’d arrived back around ten-thirty last night, and needed to know when he was here, needed to know if he could’ve saved her.
“What time?” he repeated through gritted teeth.
“Body temperature puts it at sometime between ten and midnight,” Vicky said.
“Is Kathleen the ME?”
“No, Fisher’s back.” Vicky sighed. “He’s having a fry up in the restaurant downstairs if you want a word.”
Colt shook his head. “I need to inform the family.”
“I'll come with you,” Len said.
“No,” Colt snapped. “I'll deal with my family. Take India back with you, and don't let her out of your sight. Make sure she has an escort home.”
He stepped from the hotel into a flurry of flashbulbs and TV cameras. One of the staff must've made a quick fucking
buck calling this lot in. He put his head down and gritted his teeth, pushing through them as he headed for his car. Why the hell hadn't they set the bloody cordon outside the car park? He could hear the clippety clop of a woman's heels on the tarmac behind him.
“AJ,” she called. Colt looked up with his hand on the car door to see Miranda Ayres from Channel 4 closing in on him, microphone extended. Her oppo thrust the camera in his face just as she said, “Chief Inspector, is it true you were passed out in an alcoholic stupor in the room next door when the murder took place?”
Colt pulled up on the street outside his parents’ house; two marked police cars pulled in either side of him. From the driver’s seat, he watched the neighbour’s children taking it in turns to kick a football at the wilted remains of a fast fading snowman in their garden, and felt oddly detached when its head disintegrated in a puff of white powder to a chorus of cheers.
He looked up at his childhood home. Everything was normal. Peaceful. He hoped Karen was still there, the schools had broken up for Christmas this week, so she'd be in no hurry to return the kids to their father. Oh god – the kids. He took a deep breath and stepped from the car, nodding his acknowledgment of the four uniformed officers stationed lugubriously on the pavement.
“Do you want us to accompany you inside, Sir?” one asked.
Colt shook his head, and patted the officer’s shoulder. Taking another deep breath, he straightened his tie, smoothed his jacket and waistcoat, and strode to the front door.
His father smiled when he saw him, until his eyes fell on the wall of uniforms lining the drive. Bill Colt was well versed in what this sort of police presence meant. You were either going to prison for a very long time, or, one of your loved ones was dead.
His father looked him straight in the eye and quietly said, “What have you done, son?”
Colt frowned and set his jaw. “Is Karen here?”
“She's in the back with the kids, why?” his father said, a mixture of confusion and anxiety etched on his face.