“Don’t I know it!” Eli muttered.
Reuben’s sixty-inch screen flickered to life showing some sporting achievements from the Commonwealth Games, currently taking place on Australia’s Gold Coast. Josh’s mouth turned down in disgust.
“I’m taking a hike. I’ll leave you two old fogeys to it.”
He bundled his laptop under one arm and snatched up the plastic container of prawn crackers with his other hand before scooting upstairs.
Eli shook his fist in Josh’s direction, snorting with mock anger, “Careful who you’re calling an old fogey, mate!”
“He has a point,” Reuben said. “You’re such a dinosaur you don’t even have a social profile!”
“I’m in the category of police officers who don’t want to waste their time tweeting, posting and texting rubbish. I’ve seen more officers’ reputations and careers ruined through social media than any other mechanism. The brass won’t accept excuses like ‘I was off duty’ or ‘I was drunk when I hit send’. Nothing’s private once it’s posted online. You can’t take it back and you can’t escape it once it’s out in the public domain.” Eli shook his head. “Social media’s just not for me, lad. I’m risk averse that way.”
Reuben regarded Eli thoughtfully.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way. I’ve been doing a bit of cyber stalking on that new officer to the team, the one who’s taking my place until I return to work. I haven’t been able to turn up anything. She spells her name R-E-M-Y K-N-I-G-H-T, right?”
Eli had been keeping Reuben in the loop about work matters.
“That’s right.”
“I can’t believe someone my age doesn’t have any online presence.”
“I don’t think it’s that unusual given her profession.”
“Sure, I get that police officers choose to stop posting after they join the job. But what about before that? It’s like she has no online persona at all. Social media is the way my generation communicates with each other. It’s just odd, is all I’m saying.”
“Nonsense!” Eli scoffed. “If you’d seen as many break and enters as I have where the perps sussed out their info from social media posts to know when people are away on holiday and what their house arrangements are, you’d keep off the Internet yourself. It’s too easy to become a target online when you’re a copper. Maybe Remy is just ultra cautious and deleted any accounts she had once she joined the job.”
“Maybe,” Reuben said slowly. “I don’t know how she lives that way. I have at least five active accounts that I check on regularly to keep up with friends and events, plus a dozen more online communities I engage with less often.”
“And don’t we all know it! You’re always glued to that screen of yours. Must cost you a bomb in monthly fees,” Eli said.
“I’ve got a good deal on unlimited data. Let me just set you up with one account so you and mum can keep in touch at least,” Reuben offered.
“Rubbish! Your mum and I are happy to keep in touch the old fashioned way via –” Eli cut himself off mid-sentence, gesturing wildly at the television. “Quick! Turn up the volume! I recognize that ugly mug. It’s Jack Loughborough on the late news.”
“…natural for a father to want to know whether his son’s dead or alive. I said to them, ‘tell me where Griffin is’. I’m a victim here. A victim who’s been denied his rights by the police! The way they’re treating me is cruel and inhumane.” Jack’s harsh voice quavered dramatically and he almost managed to squeeze a tear out to jack up his pity ratings. “The police have no right leaving me in the dark like this. I’m Griffin’s dad and I have a right to know if he’s still alive! We’re all the family Griffin has, so this is just not right!”
The camera panned back to the tall, buff reporter in a snazzy Western blazer with contrasting suede patches on his shoulders.
“We’ve just been speaking with Jack Loughborough, who’s calling London Metropolitan Police Service to account in the recent incident at Coldmarsh Prison that left prison officer –”
Eli snapped off the TV.
“That’s the mankiest case of overacting I’ve ever seen,” Reuben said. “If he really wanted to make people believe he’s mourning his son, he should’ve let his wife do the interview.”
“Can’t. His wife scarpered years ago. There was a lot of speculation at the time that he killed her, but her body was never found. I hope like hell she got away to start a new life, but shit! Now the lousy bastard’s made good his threat to bleat on camera we’ll all catch hell. The top brass are going to crush Bex like an ant.”
Chapter 24
Ealing, Thursday, April 5
Keeping her eyes glued to the ceiling, a grunt forced its way between Bex’s lips as she pushed her trembling muscles to breaking point to lift the thin metal bar resting on her chest. Now her eyes locked on the bar hanging above her head as, with a final heave, she thrust it back into its cradle. Her muscles burning, she dropped her leaden arms limply on either side of the bench, while she dragged air deep into her lungs waiting for her pulse rate to fall back to normal.
Training with the poundage she did without a spotter was foolhardy. The Olympic barbell was plated with two twenty-kilo weights on either side and if she miscalculated her strength it could easily do her irreparable damage. Sometimes she asked one of the gym regulars to help her out. Sometimes she risked it because the knowledge that she only had herself to depend on could spur an extra ounce of effort.
Raising herself up, she shook out her hands, rubbing the palms to ease the pain caused from the heavy knurling of the handgrips, despite the leather gloves she wore. She padded towards the change rooms, rapidly stripping off her baggy T-shirt and open weave shorts for a quick shower.
Dressed in ripped jeans and a clean shirt, she slipped on her long puff jacket before stepping out into the cold. Georgie had lent her the old brown Honda to drive the short distance to the gym because her landlady was a sweetheart, always willing to share. Bex felt guilty about not purchasing her own car, but since Zane’s death she couldn’t settle. Possessions owned you as much as you owned them. They somehow gave you roots that tied you to one place. For the past year Bex had been struggling to find the place she wanted to be.
Pulling into Georgie’s driveway, her pulse rate accelerated at the sight of a shiny red 1964 Lotus Elan coupé. What was Cole Mackinley doing here?
Jingling the car keys nervously, she navigated the long, narrow walkway to the rear of Georgie’s bed and breakfast establishment to gain access to her studio apartment. Located at the back of the large Georgian house, it had originally been built as a conservatory for growing delicate plants, before serving as an artist’s studio. Georgie had never used it and Reuben had convinced her to make a few renovations and turn it into rentable space, now leased by Bex on a monthly basis.
Bex found her empty stomach rebelling at the smell and sizzle of barbecued meat. Rounding the corner she discovered Cole standing over a grill, long tongs in one hand and a stainless steel spatula in the other.
“What the hell are you doing here, Cole?” She knew shock was written all over her face.
Smoke blanketed him like an aura, causing him to crinkle his eyes and remind her how good-looking he was. While Quinn dazzled and attracted attention like a flashy gold Rolex, Cole presented more like a stylish timepiece on an understated leather band.
Bemused at the course her thoughts were taking her, Bex watched him deftly scoop steaks from the flames onto a platter, handling himself like a man who knew his way around food preparation. That made sense since there seemed to be no Mrs Mackinley on the scene, although she wasn’t sure if an ex-wife waited in the wings.
“Medium rare. Cooked to perfection, if I do say so myself,” he said.
Balancing the platter in one hand and a salad bowl in the other he approached her. She stood her ground, growling out a warning.
“Cole—”
“Hawd yer wheest, hen, and don’t go getting feisty with me. It’s g
ood scotch fillet to go with that sauce of yours. Don’t tell me you’re not hungry. Everyone’s got to eat. You’ve been looking rather peaky lately so some protein will build you up.”
He gave her his lop-sided smile. She resisted responding.
“Georgie should never have let –”
“I love Georgie and she can’t resist a good Scotsman! If she wasn’t already embroiled with Eli I’d have a crack at her myself! Now, keys in door and soldier on!”
He nudged a shoulder against her back, driving her towards her apartment. She slotted the keys into the lock and pushed open the door.
“We should at least invite Georgie to join us.” Bex gave one last effort of token resistance as she dumped her coat on the bed.
“I already did. But she says there’s a docco on the royal wedding flowers or some such. She looked to be creaming her knickers at the prospect so I didn’t like my chances of dragging her away from the telly. Besides, she said you need a bit of cheering up.”
“Bollocks!” Bex said. The word ranked up there with “bloody hell” as a satisfactory oath to signify her annoyance.
“If you’re looking for a set I can lend you mine.” Cole gave an infectious laugh.
Bex flushed at his cheeky retort. Turning her back on him, she tucked her short hair behind her ears and busied herself spilling silverware onto the kitchen bench top. Her premises was basically one long rectangle composed of combined kitchen and sitting area with the bed hidden behind a nib wall and a door leading to the bathroom. There was no separate table and chairs. She normally perched on a bar stool and ate at the kitchen counter.
“Sorry, it’s not exactly five star,” she apologized, punching the remote to switch on the television to break any thoughts of intimacy he might be entertaining.
Cole brushed her arm as he placed the steaks and salad on the bench. The touch sizzled more than the steaks and she leapt away.
“Relax. You’re jumpier than a toad about to be kissed by a prince.”
Cole released the platter and bowl and placed his hands on her shoulders. A warm rush tingled through her body and stole her breath. His fingers kneaded gently, the balls of his thumbs rubbing through the thin fabric of her shirt, unkinking the knots of tension she hadn’t been aware she was carrying.
When his lips brushed the nape of her neck, her skin burned. She let her head fall against his shoulder, looking up at him through lowered lashes. He gave a soft growl deep in his throat as his hands slid from her shoulders and he wrapped his arms around her. She was tempted to relax against the welcoming harbor of his powerful body, but her head told her any security he offered was false. She was too aware that no one could make promises for the future. There was no such thing as forever.
Still, she lingered, unable to give up this taste of human contact even if she wasn’t yet ready to open her heart to the future.
His head tilted towards hers. His cool lips brushed her mouth, teasing and delicate, waiting for her to open to him.
“…me where Griffin is!”
Hearing the words from the television, she felt every fiber of Cole’s body stiffen and jerked herself out of his arms. Both of them spun towards the screen. She punched the volume on the remote. Jack Loughborough’s voice blared through the cramped space.
“I’m a victim here. A victim who’s been denied his rights by the police! The way they’re treating me is cruel and inhumane. The police have no right leaving me in the dark like this. I’m Griffin’s dad and I have a right to know if he’s still alive! We’re all the family Griffin has, so this is just not right!”
“Bloody hell!” Bex’s favorite oath burst from her lips. “Who’s that?”
“Jack bloody Loughborough if you please!” Cole snarled. “That bastard has some nerve going on TV pretending he gives a shit about his son. As though it’s the police’s fault he doesn’t know what happened to Griffin!”
Bex choked down the bile rising from her heaving stomach.
Cole reached out a hand, slamming the remote control down as he shut off the screen. He massaged the back of his neck.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “He’s just mouthing off.”
“Are you kidding, Cole?” Bex’s voice was scathing. “Or is that your polite British way of telling me that Jack Loughborough’s a lawsuit waiting to happen. No doubt Sheryl will delight in telling me that Titus is about to have my guts for garters tomorrow morning for breakfast. I suppose you’re going to jump on the bandwagon and tell me I should’ve left Griffin in Coldmarsh HSU instead of secreting him away?”
Cole raised an eyebrow. “First of all, kudos for impressive use of the vernacular. But don’t tar me with the same brush as Titus. I’m not about to judge your decisions. We both made choices about Griffin’s safety given the circumstances we had. Neither of them was perfect.”
Her phone buzzed angrily from the pocket of her coat. She groaned.
“What do you want to bet that’s Titus already!”
Gingerly she fished the phone out, not recognizing the number.
“Rebecca Wynter.”
“’Ere, luv, can you come down and pick up his ’ighness? ’E’s roaring drunk and we’re afraid if we let him out we’ll be done for duty of care. ’E’s more’n likely going to step off the road in front of a bloody great bus.”
“I’m sorry, who’s this?” She tried frantically to make sense of the garbled sentences and strong accent.
“Sorry, luv, I should’ve said first orff. I’m Stanley Rigby, licensee of Buenos Momentos here in Fitzrovia.”
“Stanley, how did you get my number?”
“You’re the first number in ’is ’highness’s contacts list to pick up the phone.”
“Whose contact list?”
“Sorry, luv, we’ve been calling ’im that all night, but ’is driver’s license says ’e’s Quinn Standing. If ’e wasn’t so sozzled I’d’ve called him a cab but there’s nothing worse than a drunk puking over your upholstery. I should know because I’ve done that job before!” Stanley cackled down the line. “Anyway, luv, he needs taking ’ome before he does ’isself an injury.”
Bex rubbed distractedly at her forehead, slicking back a lock of wayward hair. She needed time to plan a strategy of appeasement for Titus, not spend an hour or more babysitting her drunk 2-I-C.
“He does have a wife, you know. I think she’d be the logical one to contact,” she tried brushing off the responsibility.
Stanley gave another cackle.
“Oh, ho, that’s what we thought at first. But if you want to get ’im fired up, just mention his missus. I’d say they’ve had a barney and that’s why ’e’s in ’ere getting legless. Listen, luv, are you coming to pick him up? We shut up shop in twenty minutes and I’m going to ’ave to turf ’im out into the street.”
Bex felt she was left with no choice.
“I’ll be there directly.”
She glanced across to Cole who stood patiently, wrestling salad onto dinner plates beside the succulent cuts of meat. Maybe ditching Cole right now was for the best, she told herself. To say she was conflicted about whether she was ready to stir her heart back to life was an understatement.
Cole glanced up. Resting his large frame against the counter, he said, “I’m guessing dinner’s off the agenda tonight.” A shrug accompanied his crooked smile. “Looks like I’ll be making a play for Georgie after all. It’d be a shame to let a good-looking meal like this go to waste.” His eyes turned serious, but he didn’t crowd her. “I’m not making any claims, Bex, not to the past, not to the future, so you don’t have to keep running from me.”
Bex lifted her chin. With a flinch she forced herself to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, Cole, it’s not personal. I have to deal with a work-related issue.”
“It’s fine, Bex. I’m not prying and I’m not pretending to understand where you’re coming from. I’m just saying that if you want to stop running, I’m here and I won’t make it any more complicated than you want
.”
She reached for her coat, knowing she left Cole perplexed and hurt by her continued rejection.
“I’ll take a raincheck on dinner. Tell Georgie I need the car again. I’ll drop the keys off in the morning.”
Chapter 25
Bridesmead, Thursday, April 5
For nearly an hour Idris wandered around the streets, kicking over his options and delaying the inevitable phone call to Aislinn Scully. In between his anxiety over calling the reporter was the knowledge that he had nothing but an empty house and an empty bed to go home to. Isla’s words haunted him: Nobody could be a better friend. When her lips grazed his cheek, he had looked in vain for a returning glance of tenderness.
His thoughts left him scowling at passing pedestrians whose eyes shifted uncomfortably away.
Quinn was a lucky sod who didn’t even appreciate what he had!
He was still feeling sorry for himself when he realized he was close to Victoria Embankment and altered his route for Little King Lane, heading into Bridesmead CID. The Youth Crimes Team office was empty. Idris switched on his computer and slumped in front of it. He distracted himself by checking over the last reports on Griffin’s case. After that, he promised himself, he would make the dreaded call to Aislinn.
A few minutes later Idris found himself lost in details.
He skimmed the post mortem report on Brian Thrussell. A single gunshot wound to the left side of the chest, entry point four centimeters below the sternum. The penetrating injury was to the pulmonary artery and left upper pulmonary lobe, leaving severe damage to the heart. The bullet had traveled from left to right, slightly front to back, passing through his right lung with the exit wound on his right side, under his arm. The severe damage to the heart Thrussell had sustained caused his death before he could undergo emergency surgery.
Griffin had been nicked in the left upper arm by bullet fragments. The report confirmed that had the bullet hit Thrussell straight on instead of at an angle, bullet fragments were unlikely to have exited the body.
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