by Bo Brennan
Ryan unfolded the copy of yesterday’s paper onto his desk, and picked up his cold cup of tea, grimacing as he drank. Felicity Firman QC was a stunning looking woman, even with a face full of phlegm, and he'd made it abundantly clear she had nothing to do with the trial. There was no complaint to be had here. Ryan sat back in his seat frowning. What business was it of Stephen Charmers what pictures he'd used - they weren't of him and some floozy.
And then Ryan remembered exactly why Stephen Charmers had spat the dummy about his parliamentary expenses being published. They revealed he and his female research assistant shared a double hotel room at the party conference. The tax payers didn't believe his excuse of saving money. Neither did his wife. She hadn't been seen wearing her wedding ring in public since.
He pulled up the MP's official parliament profile page, and scanned through his blurb and campaigns. Raised a brow when he read Charmers used to be an outspoken campaigner for openness and transparency in the family courts. If his waffle was to be believed, Felicity Firman was the enemy. The man should be breaking out the funky chicken moves because someone spat in her face, not whining to the PCC.
Ryan leant back in his chair and stared at the screen. Stephen Charmers’ smug face smiled back at him. He dropped his gaze back to the article on his desk. His eyes roamed the shots of the particularly attractive QC this vociferous campaigner was defending, and his reporter’s nose smelled a bigger story here.
“Donna, don't put any more calls through,” he shouted across the office to the intern on the news desk. “I’m going to be out of play for the rest of the weekend.”
Park Gate, Hampshire.
When Colt popped his head round her door at 8 pm, India was still in her work clothes. Her clumpy boots were resting on the coffee table, and her concentration was firmly transfixed on the laptop balanced on her thighs.
He walked up behind her and massaged her shoulders, peering at the screen showing Royal South Hants Hospital homepage. “Want to join me for a beer tonight?” he said kissing the top of her head.
“Can't,” she said clicking on Maternity Services. “I have a problem. A baby problem.”
All the breath left his body in one giant rush as he dropped onto the sofa next to her, hugging her to him. “Well, that's great,” he spluttered. “Isn't it?”
India pulled away, glaring at him. “Not really,” she said shrugging his arm off her. “He's missing.”
Colt shifted to the edge of the sofa and rested his elbows on his knees, scrubbing both hands over his head. “Work. Of course,” he murmured. “Is this anything to do with you and Terri not speaking?”
India nodded. “Social workers grabbed one of the kids from her class.”
Colt cocked his jaw. “Then she should be tearing chunks out of Social Services, not you.”
“She wants to look after her while her mother's in the nut house, but they won't tell her anything.”
Colt shook his head. “If she approached them like she did you, I'm not bloody surprised.”
India ignored him and continued tapping away at the keyboard, pulling up the homepage for Winchester Social Services.
He let out a long exasperated sigh. “Babe, it's the weekend. The out of hours social workers won't have access to that sort of information. You'll have to wait till Monday.”
She tutted and pointed to the baby band on the coffee table. “Still have a missing baby problem.”
Colt picked up the tiny plastic band and stared at it. His stomach churned. It was barely capable of encircling his finger. “Terri teaches Secondary school, what’s this got to do with her?”
“The girl’s mother's in the nut house because she claims the hospital stole her baby. The hospital claims that baby doesn't exist,” she said nodding at the band in his hand.
“This doesn't prove he exists,” he said. “Anyone can scribble a name on a plastic band.”
India raised a shoulder. “Midwife confirmed the birth.”
“Any record of abuse or injury?”
“Hospital has no records at all. GP's on holiday till next week.”
Colt sighed. “She might've injured him. Checked births deaths and marriages?”
“New-born, she hadn't registered him yet.”
Colt placed the baby band down carefully on the table. “Well, nothing's going to change this weekend,” he said.
“Except the mother's gonna get force fed more fucking lithium.”
Colt clenched his jaw and stared at her. “They don't just institutionalise people for fun.”
India stared right back. “This baby exists. I know he does.”
Colt stretched his arms and cracked his knuckles. “Well if he does and he’s missing, or worse still dead, technically the other kid's a witness.”
“Like I said,” India snapped. “Terri wants to look after her, but I don't even bloody know where she is.”
Colt dragged his hands down his face, took a deep breath, and stood up. “I've had a pretty shitty day, so I'm going home to get changed, and then I'm going for a beer. I'd love for you to join me, but if you can't be arsed that's fine.”
He looked back as he reached the door, hoping she'd say something. Anything. Ask about his day. Ask him to stay. But he was wasting his time. She'd already returned her eyes to the screen. Tonight, he'd have to cope alone.
India reacted instinctively when she heard the car approaching just past midnight. The engine was too quiet for it to be a cab dropping Colt home. And even if it was, they had the wrong front door. She unlocked the gun cabinet and took out a shotgun and cartridges. Flattening her back against the front door, she snapped the barrel to load, and peered out the porthole window.
She frowned as Gray's smart gold Audi appeared in her view.
“What's up?” she called from the deck as he stepped from the car.
“It's Colt,” he called back.
A small twist of panic gripped her stomach and stabbed at her chest as she hurried down the wooden steps to meet him. “What's happened to him?”
Gray gripped her shoulders, “Don't panic. He's fine.”
“Where is he then?”
Gray opened the back door of the car and nodded. “See, no need to panic.”
“I'm not panicking.” She peered at a drunken, unconscious Colt, sprawled across the back seats. “Why is he covered in blood?”
Gray raised his brows. “He had a fight in the Nag's Head car park.” India stared at him, waiting for the rest. “It was only with the wall,” he laughed. “Don't look so worried.”
India tutted and shook her head. “I'm not worried.”
Gray grinned. “C'mon, help me get him inside.”
India folded her arms. “He doesn't live here, he lives over there.”
“Well, help me get him over there then. It took me and Dad to get him in the car. I can't get him out on my bloody own.”
India rolled her eyes and tutted. “Drive him to his door. I'll meet you over there.”
She chewed at her cheek as she slid her key into Colt's front door and propped it open with a fishing tackle box. She'd never seen him drunk before, the man had hollow legs. To get unconscious he must've drunk the Nag's Head dry.
“You go that side and get under his arm,” Gray said slumping Colt's upper body against his shoulder. “I'll take this side. On the count of three we'll lift him out. Hopefully, if we keep the momentum going, we'll get him up the stairs and into bed in one go. Ready?”
India nodded and on the count of three they executed the plan. She was thankful they managed it in one hit. Getting him into bed was like moving a dead cart horse.
“D'you want to undress him?” Gray said pulling off his shoes.
India shook her head.
“I'll put him in the recovery position before I go.” India looked on as Gray rolled Colt's limp body towards him and arranged his limbs on the bed. “Wasn't so hard was it?” he said straightening up.
India shrugged. “You do this shit for a living.�
�
“No, I put out fires for a living, India,” he said. “I do this shit because I care about you. Both of you.”
India twisted her bottom lip with her fingers, staring at Colt. Unsure of what she was supposed to do now, she glanced up at Gray for guidance, and he smiled.
“Seeing as you'll be up all night watching over him,” he said. “Dad sent some reading material over for you.”
“He did?”
Gray put his arm around her shoulder and walked her outside to his car. Leaning into the passenger side he pulled a pile of newspapers off the front seat and pressed them into her arms.
India frowned up at him. He knew damned well she didn't read newspapers.
Gray cupped her face with his hands. “Trust me, now's a good time to start,” he said kissing her forehead. “If you need me, call me.”
As Gray's car disappeared into the night, India unfolded the top paper and saw Colt in a flak jacket on the front page.
Chapter 17
Sunday 17th July
Oxfordshire.
Flick was deep in peaceful slumber when the distant ringing roused her. She opened one eye to peer at the clock, and lurched from the hotel bed in panic when she saw it was 4.12 am.
Disorientated, she scanned her unfamiliar surroundings, searching for her Blackberry. When she located it on the dressing table, she didn't recognise the number flashing on the screen. It could only be an emergency. “Felicity Firman,” she said as calmly as possible.
“Don't hang up, Miss Firman,” the voice said on the other end. “It's Ryan Reynolds. I know about you and the MP.”
Flick’s heart began to pound, her grip on the phone tightened as her brain whirled into action. He couldn't know. They'd been too careful. He was clutching at straws. He was leading the witness.
“Are you there?” he said.
Deny, deny, deny. Flick swallowed hard. “I don't know what you're talking about, Mr Reynolds,” she said calmly and evenly.
“You might want to think a bit harder,” he said, amusement rounding every word. “What you and Stephen Charmers have been up to is a front page headline grabber if ever there was one. But, I'm hoping it won't come to that.”
Oh god. He knows. Flick took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When all else fails negotiate. “What do you want?”
“A moment of your time.”
“It's quarter past four in the morning,” Flick said rubbing her eyes. “This is your moment, Mr Reynolds.”
“In person,” he said.
Flick let out a mirthless chuckle. “I'm in Oxford.”
“I know,” he said. “Take a jog.”
Flick scowled. “What?”
“The grounds at the back of your hotel, I'll meet you there in thirty minutes.”
“You can't be serious,” Flick said, and began to tremble as the line went dead.
Running a hand across her mouth she replaced the phone on the dressing table, and glanced around her salubrious surroundings. This is it. The moment she'd been dreading for three years had finally arrived. Her next stay away from home would most likely be a prison cell.
Park Gate, Hampshire.
Colt winced as he sat up, shielding his eyes from the rising sun as it blazed a trail through his bedroom window. He felt like someone had put an axe through his head, and then taken a dump in his mouth for good measure.
Smacking his lips together, he staggered to the bathroom to take a long and satisfying leak. He frowned at his bloodied knuckles as he washed his hands, and stared at his reflection in the mirror as he dried them - wondering what the fuck he'd got up to last night. Stripping to his boxers, he dumped his dishevelled clothes in the laundry bag, took one look at the bath, and headed to the kitchen for coffee.
Colt stopped abruptly when he saw India Kane cooking bacon and eggs at his stove. Thinking he'd entered a parallel dimension, he rubbed at his eyes.
“Coffee?” she said without looking at him.
“Please,” he murmured pulling up a stool at his breakfast bar and studying the open newspapers there.
“Sorry,” she muttered, pushing the papers aside as she placed a mug on the counter before him.
Colt winced and grabbed her hand. He felt shit enough already. He was the one that should be making apologies. “Hey, why are you saying sorry?”
India shrugged and looked down at her bare feet. “Not being there for you? Being a useless, emotional retard? Being a cold hearted selfish bitch? Take your pick.”
Colt pulled her onto his lap. Reluctantly she came. “You're none of those things,” he murmured. “I just needed to let off some steam last night, that's all.”
“I phoned the hospital,” she said quietly. “I know he died.”
Colt swallowed hard and sipped at his coffee, despising the bitter twang in his coated throat. “People do,” he said. “That's life.”
Her jaw tightened. “Kids shouldn't. Not like that. I'm sorry.”
Colt buried his face in her hair as the image of the little boy he’d found in Dwight Sanders’ basement finally overwhelmed him, the ache in his heart pouring out as painful sobs. Only a fool chose alcohol over the love of a good woman. As she held him, he truly felt her love in that moment. She held him for a long time too, only letting go when the frying pan caught fire.
Oxfordshire.
Felicity Firman tentatively stepped out of the country hotel, her eyes cautiously scanning the grounds. There were acres of formal gardens and woodland and not a soul in sight. She sipped from her water bottle and glanced up at the Georgian mansion’s windows. All the top guests had a view over the frontage matching her own. She did a couple of half-hearted stretches, and then set out for the woodland path around the back.
She'd been jogging steadily for a little over fifteen minutes, and seen nothing but wildlife, when the jogger in a baseball cap fell into step beside her.
“Good morning Miss Firman,” Ryan Reynolds said. “Beautiful morning for it.”
“How do you know I run?” she snapped. “Are you tapping my phone?”
“No,” he said, sounding offended by the mere suggestion. “I've seen you in Hyde Park.”
“And what about the hair comment?” she said staring straight ahead as they ran side by side. “You said it suited me.”
He laughed out loud. “It does. I’ve seen it. It’s hard not to. It's sort of there, on your head.”
Flick found his churlish amusement antagonising. She didn't believe him for a second. The red top hacks were notorious for phone hacking, and it was the only way he could've found out about Stephen. She clenched her jaw and sped up. “What do you want from me?”
“Your help,” he said keeping pace.
Her legs pumped harder. “What sort of help?”
“Not much. Just the documents from a case you worked on.”
Flick stopped dead in her tracks. “Blackmail? Are you out of your tiny little...”
Before she could finish her rant, Ryan Reynolds clamped a hand over her mouth and dragged her off the path, deep into the woodland. Flick’s heart raced with adrenaline as he pressed her body against a tree with his own. “Shush,” he whispered in her ear. “You're getting over excited and someone's coming.”
“Isabella! Come to mummy baby!” Flick ceased struggling as a woman's voice filtered through the trees from the path they were on just moments ago. She dropped her eyes to the small ball of fluff with a pink bow in its hair, sniffing around at their feet. Ryan pushed the dog away with his foot and it scurried back through the undergrowth to its keeper.
“There you are!” the woman's voice came back. “What have you been up to? You're all dirty. Daddy won't like this at all. Mummy will have to make an appointment for the parlour this afternoon. Oh, yes she will,” she cooed, her voice fading away as she continued down the path.
“That was close.” Ryan let out a sigh and dropped his hand from Flick’s mouth.
The second she was free she lashed out at him, slapping him abo
ut the head with both hands. “You fucking arsehole,” she hissed. “What the fuck do you think you're doing?”
“Whoa,” Ryan said putting his arms up to defend himself. “I just saved you from yourself. That was Judge Flackerly’s wife.”
“It's not enough you're trying to blackmail me, you've fucking assaulted me as well,” she said, kicking him in the shin.
“Will you just quit with the fucking beating.” Ryan grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the tree above her head. “Listen to me carefully,” he growled, leaning in till he was an inch from her face. “I have no desire to ruin either yours, or Stephen Charmers’, careers. All I want is the truth for a couple who claim their children were stolen.”
Flick swallowed hard and stared at him. His eyes were an intense piercing green and angry as hell. She looked away to his pumped biceps restraining her, and cleared her throat.
“I'm sorry,” he said stepping back and pulling off his cap. He scrubbed a hand over his blonde damp hair. “I didn't mean for it to go down like this. I certainly didn't want to frighten you. All I want is the truth.”
“The Crossleys,” Flick said flatly, rubbing at her wrists.
Ryan nodded. “I want all of their case documents.”
Flick frowned. “It wasn't my case. My pupil led it.”
“That's convenient.” Ryan laughed and kicked at the dirt.
Flicked raised her eyebrows and stared at him. “It's not convenient, it's the truth.”
“You were the one who acted for the local authority in the previous forty two hearings they’ve had to endure,” Ryan said. “I want their documents. All of them.”
“So get them from their brief.”
“They didn’t have a brief,” Ryan said. “The court appointed their solicitor, and all they have to show for the loss of their three kids is a few scraps of paper. Your colleague had a massive file with their name on it. Someone has to question why those documents have been deliberately withheld from this couple.”