Across from her, Reuben flicked her a wink. He held his hands under the white melamine table, below her vision, and Bex suspected his fingers were busy texting.
The last man to enter the room occupied the seat nearest the door and furthest away from her. Bex recognized Detective Inspector Quinn Standing as the man she had seen conversing with Isla downstairs. Up close his bone structure was stunning and his brooding eyes compelling, ruined only by his staggering rudeness as he returned Bex’s cordial nod with a disgruntled glare that knotted her stomach. The only one on the team to be openly hostile, his rank designated him to be her second in command. Great!
Somehow she was going to have to jell this bunch of strangers into an effective team. The thought left her yearning to be in a familiar precinct dealing with a single partner, preferably Walt with whom she’d been as comfortable as an old shoe.
“I want everyone to take a look at this car crash footage.” Dresden’s fingers tapped the tablet in front of her, dimming the lights. “What you’re about to see is a bit disjointed because it’s cobbled together from CCTV, drivers’ dash cams and phone cameras. The most accurate time frame we have shows Bon Galliers’ car on Bridge Road around 8:50 p.m. last night.”
All eyes turned to the large screen, except Bex’s. Feeling as tightly coiled as a gasket about to blow, her eyes danced around the room almost feverishly as they avoided the screen. She hoped Dresden didn’t notice she’d clamped her palms over her ears to block out any sounds.
After several seconds, she took a risk, letting her attention graze over the screen. A woman was plunging into water, wading towards the partially submerged car. The river surged around her chest as she struggled around the side of the car.
The coupé was pointed down river, the driver’s side tilted on a thirty-degree angle into the drink with what looked like a partial torso hanging out. Flotsam from the splintered remains of two or three skiffs floated nearby.
Her eyes skittered away from the vision and her hands muffled the soundtrack from the rest of the footage.
Abruptly the screen went black as Sophie Dresden disengaged her tablet and flicked the dimmed lights back to full brightness.
“Part of what we’ve just seen on the big screen is what’s currently making the rounds on social media,” said Dresden in a firm voice.
“’Freakin’ Saint’s’ just notched up fifteen million views,” Reuben’s voice piped into the discussion. “They’re calling the woman a hero. Her daughter was slaughtered by the driver and she risked her own life to go to him and give him mouth to mouth to help resuscitate him.”
Dresden shot a curt look in his direction. In her early fifties, her short, smartly coiffed hair and cupid’s bow mouth softened an aquiline nose and deep tram lines on her forehead. She looked like she should be at home knitting up a storm, but Bex pegged her soft curves to hide a steely interior.
“And don’t forget the Romeo and Juliet rumors of unrequited young love,” Reuben interposed again. It seemed the man couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
“Speculation is mounting about the cause of this incident, ranging from a terrorist plot gone wrong to the driver being drunk or high on drugs,” Dresden continued as though Reuben’s interruptions hadn’t occurred. “The fact that the driver was Viscount Dunreath’s son, the Honorable Richard Bonneville Galliers, has brought prominence to this case. We can expect a lot of media scrutiny on this one.”
Quinn’s brows lowered in irritation. “So, the only reason we’ve been given this run of the mill job is that Dunreath’s a filthy rich political crony of the Chief Super? Titus knows that detectives across the city are drowning in paperwork and no one has the time to give this case the attention he thinks it deserves.” Quinn’s words reeked of insolence. His anger at Chief Superintendent Titus bounced off him in waves so strong that Bex wondered if Quinn was deliberately trying to get himself kicked off the team. “I thought this unit had been set up to sort out real youth crime, not cover up some rich kid’s misdemeanors.”
Eli gave a grunt that Bex had difficulty interpreting as either agreement or dissent with Quinn’s assessment of their situation.
“Whatever any of you have heard and no matter what your private opinions are, it’s our job to investigate this crime fully and impartially to determine the exact circumstances of these two deaths.” Dresden’s softly spoken words held a knife-edge of reprimand as her tramlines furrowed.
Her impassive stare rested on Quinn, daring him to voice more opposition. Quinn maintained his silence. Sitting back in his chair with his arms crossed in front of his chest, he let his belligerence show. Bex felt herself tense, anticipating another explosive outburst.
“Let’s stick with the facts.” Dresden tapped her tablet and two head shots flashed up on the large screen. One, a scowling girl with a lank curtain of mousey brown hair sweeping down her forehead from a side parting, and the other a teenaged boy, his gleaming, golden hair brushed back from his handsome face.
“The crash victim’s name is Clara Louise Butterworth, sixteen years old and a student at Merrywell Park School in Twickenham. The driver’s name is the Honorable Richard Bonneville Galliers, seventeen years old and a student at Harrow. Known to everyone as Bon. Both deceased. I’ve put pressure on the Coronor’s office and Forensic Pathology to provide us with the post mortem and other test results by tomorrow.
“Witness statements taken straight after the accident put the sequence of events as people first becoming aware of Galliers’ car outside Bill’s Restaurant on Bridge Street. He either stalled or stopped deliberately, thereby banking up traffic trying to turn into the street from both sides of Hill Street. There was a minor accident when one of the turning cars rear-ended another stationery vehicle.
“Several drivers left their cars to find out what was going on. There is agreement that Bon was heard revving his engine just before taking off. But statements are conflicted about whether he headed straight for Clara Butterworth or was simply racing down the street and lost control at the curb.”
“Who called it in?” Idris Carson asked, his voice level and devoid of inflection, although his fingers twitched restlessly with a ballpoint pen resting on his notepad.
Dresden consulted her tablet again. “Kevin Willis. Plumber, thirty-eight years old. He was one of the drivers banked up behind Galliers. He saw the whole incident and is one of our witnesses. According to him, it looked as though Galliers aimed his car directly at Clara Butterworth.”
“So this is a murder investigation?” Reuben’s head jerked up as he tore his attention from his phone. “But since both parties are dead, who do we charge?”
“Our role is to focus on the evidence to determine if the crash was pre-meditated or not. Obviously no charges will be laid, but our findings will go to the Coronor’s court,” Dresden answered patiently.
“As I read the situation, this team has been brought together to see if we can exonerate the Dunreath family reputation,” Quinn added, ignoring Dresden’s frown.
“Put rather baldly, Standing, but yes, essentially, Dunreath is in a position of power and he wants answers sooner rather than later, there’s no doubt about it.” Dresden avoided Quinn’s knowing smirk. “So we have to be mindful that there are political elements to this case.”
Bex couldn’t help looking blank and Quinn heaved a sigh as though she was fulfilling his lowest expectations.
“Viscount Dunreath is one of the leading lights of the Conservative Party and a member of the House of Lords.” His voice oozed with exaggerated patience as he explained the background details everyone else knew. “No doubt he wants to remain a political leading light but having a murderer for a son won’t do him any favors. He’s also made a fortune from his orthodontic practice. It has branches in every major city up and down the country. But if parents get worried by the bad press and stop using his dental surgeries to turn their kids’ overbites and malocclusions into photogenic smiles, it won’t do his
bottom line any good.”
Quinn flicked Bex a dismissive glance and ignored her tentative nod of acknowledgement. She stifled a stab of irritation.
Beside Bex, Dresden raised an eyebrow in his direction before resuming her commentary. “We also have a preliminary statement from Evelyn Butterworth, the victim’s mother, taken at the hospital. She confirms that Clara and Bon were involved in a relationship that Clara recently ended.”
“So the perp could definitely have had a personal motive to harm her,” Idris said.
Bex felt he was the only one showing any genuine interest in the case.
Dresden cast a stern look around the table. Her next words were aimed at snapping them out of their apathy. “This may seem like a straight forward case, but with the amount of social media hype surrounding it and given the status of the driver’s family, make no mistake this is one of the Met’s priority cases.”
She turned her deceptively butter-soft eyes towards Bex. “Wynter, how do you want to proceed with the investigation?”
Chapter 6
Wednesday, 5 July
At Dresden’s words, pressure flared against Bex’s eyeballs, already scratchy and red from lack of sleep. What she wanted to do was proceed straight out of the meeting room. Why couldn’t Dresden have given her a spate of serial killings or a drug heist for her first case? Investigating a crash was too emotionally charged for comfort. This was one case her shrink would order her to walk away from.
She blinked rapidly several times, knowing it was a giveaway sign of her nervousness. Involuntarily, her eyes latched onto Quinn, slouched in his chair, his expression disdainful. The faint dusting of stubble over his face and the disheveled look of his crumpled T-shirt made her wonder if he had pulled an all-nighter. And not for work purposes.
Keeping hold of her eyes, Quinn drawled, “Yes, please do inform us, DCI Wynter, how you’d like us to proceed.” The sneer on his lips and the scorn in his voice as he stressed her title were not lost on her or the other team members.
What an asshole! She hadn’t even officially taken up her position and he was already trying to sabotage her authority. Talk about a warm welcome.
Under the table, out of view, her fists balled as she squared her shoulders with a confident swagger. Fake it till you make it, Bex, she steeled herself. Seeing the crash scene footage on the large screen had set in motion a pendulum swing of emotions. Haunting memories skated just below the surface, threatening to rip apart her carefully constructed equilibrium and leave her painfully close to a blubbering mess.
Fighting to keep a grip, she nailed each of her team members with a calm, hard stare to buy herself a few extra seconds. She didn’t know her crew yet, didn’t know their strengths and weaknesses, so all she could do was pass out assignments and hope for the best.
“Quinn, you’ll go out to reassess the crash site.” There was no way she could visit the scene of the crash without falling apart. Quinn could just take his smart mouth out there instead.
Quinn groaned audibly. “What’s the point? Uniform have already been out there and gathered evidence. It’s a waste of resources for me to go back there.”
“What I want you to do is go over the site, viewing it as a potential murder scene rather than an accident. You’ll be looking for different clues to what uniform were after,” she spoke gruffly, reasserting the authority he was steadily whittling away.
She turned her attention to the two men sitting beside Quinn. Eli Morgan shifted his eyes away from her, like a crafty schoolboy trying to avoid the teacher’s attention. Idris’ eyes never left his ballpoint pen, now doing acrobatic flips through his fingers.
“Eli and Idris, I want you to prepare a victimology profile on both Galliers and Butterworth. Pull together the evidence we’ve got from their smart phones, social media accounts. Concentrate on anything that throws light on their interaction together or the driver’s state of mind yesterday. Reuben, you’ll accompany me on interviews with the families of the deceased.”
Quinn shot to his feet, slamming back his chair. His finger pointed at Bex as accusingly as though she was a perp they’d just surprised hiding in the meeting room, but he addressed his comments to Dresden. “She’s not even officially at work, so officially she’s not DCI Wynter, she’s Ms Wynter, civilian tourist, isn’t she? She has no warrant card. Why is she nominating herself to go out and interview on behalf of the Met?” he demanded.
Embarrassed snickers erupted around the table. Facing down his hostile stare, Bex frowned in his direction. Quinn was setting himself up to be a major pain in her ass. Good, she thought. Quinn Standing gave her something concrete to concentrate on beside the crash!
Dresden’s mouth twitched, but whether it was a tic of annoyance or an effort to hide her own laughter, Bex didn’t know. Before she could open her mouth to give Quinn a snarky putdown, Dresden spoke. “Thanks for bringing that up, DI Standing,” she said smoothly. “For the sake of transparency and to ensure there is no come back, let’s be clear that DC Richards has his warrant card and Ms Wynter is accompanying him.”
Dresden had backed up Bex’s orders, but the look she aimed at Bex made her feel she’d failed an important test.
“Now,” the sharpness of the word indicated that she had had enough of Quinn’s sniping, “For the next few days the Youth Crimes Team will be working out of offices on the third floor here at New Scotland Yard until your permanent home at CID is fully refurbished. My office is just down the corridor on the same floor. You’ll have access to computers, just use your normal log-ins, except for Wynter, of course. I’ll put in a request to fast-track your paperwork. As a special treat, I’ve had them lay on coffee and tea next door in the kitchen so you can mingle and get to know each other. Use this time to work out the kinks in your team dynamics.”
Bex felt Dresden’s words like a slap on the wrist. Control your team members. You’re the boss. Stop letting Quinn Standing walk all over you.
“Welcome to the Met, Wynter.” Dresden nodded at Bex as she gathered her tablet and papers. She rose to her feet and her cupid’s bow parted in a pearly smile. “Play nicely, kiddies,” she said as she exited the room.
Chapter 7
Wednesday, 5 July
An uneasy silence settled over the team, like the first lump of dirt thrown into a grave. Bex knew it was up to her to lead the way, but she felt too bleary-eyed and bone-weary to make the effort.
“Rightho, never say no to cake and tea, eh fellas?” Reuben pushed himself back from the table, rubbing his hands together.
One by one they filed slowly out of the room into the kitchenette next door. The bench running along the back wall had an urn set up beside a stack of Styrofoam cups, a jar of instant coffee and a container of tea bags. Milk stood in a jug, dripping with condensation, and there was a colorful melamine tray of soft, sticky cinnamon buns.
“Ho, ho, it’s like high tea at The Savoy!” Reuben cackled. “In my life as an estate agent if I got the opportunity to eat, it was on the run in between showing off properties to prospective clients. You lads at the Met certainly live life high on the hog.”
“Don’t get used to it, Buttercup. Life as detective isn’t all sticky buns. When you’re on a job you can work twenty-four hours straight, then you’ll be praying to have the opportunity to eat on the run,” Eli muttered.
As Reuben moved to the back of the room to pour himself a cup of coffee, Bex overheard Quinn say, in a snide aside to Idris, “ ‘Living high on the hog’? The rookie’s already picking up Americanisms. Give us a fortnight under our new boss and you won’t be able to distinguish the Met from the NYPD.”
Bex’s nose wrinkled with distaste as though Quinn’s resentment was a bad smell. She decided to tackle him head on. He was about to learn that nothing was going to stop her pulling this team together to nut out an iron-clad case against their perp in record time. If she let the case drag out and the brass started breathing down Dresden’s neck looki
ng for satisfactory answers, it was going to end up as a black mark on her career. No way was she going to allow the arrogant Quinn Standing any grounds for his snide comments on her ability!
“Afraid my NYPD experience will show up your lack of skills, Standing? Or do you have a problem with me because I’m a woman?”
Quinn pressed his lips together in a thin, tight line as his nostrils flared with barely concealed irritation. “I’ll pit my skills against yours any day, Wynter. And I don’t have a beef with women. In general.”
She took the last two words as a deliberate insult, but kept her tired, bloodshot eyes trained on him as she said, “Just as long as we women know our place, right?”
“You said it, sweetheart.” He returned the quip without missing a beat, but the intensity of his stare belied the flippancy of his tone.
“Well too bad for you that the place for this woman is above you on the food chain. So you’d better get used to that.”
“Got you on the rebound, Quinn!” Reuben guffawed and she heard a ripple of uncomfortable chuckles from the others.
Bex realized her temper hadn’t improved the situation, it had simply brought their warfare out into the open.
She hung back as the four men crowded round the urn, spooning coffee and dangling tea bags into Styrofoam cups. There was some uneasy chatter between them about Andy Murray’s chances at Wimbledon and England’s prospects in the next Cricket Test series. Cricket meant nothing to her, but her father-in-law Neil was an avid tennis fan and she had picked up some knowledge of the grand slam circuit from him.
She was sorely tempted to lob her own contribution into the conversation. You know, I wouldn’t write the Americans out of Wimbledon so quickly. I’ve heard Sam Querrey’s a dark horse who might be in with a chance. But that would look like she was spoiling for a fight, trying to antagonize Quinn unnecessarily.
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