Cruel Justice

by M A Comley

  “This case seems so beyond me at the moment,” Lorne admitted, surprising herself.

  “By all accounts, you are usually a very efficient policewoman. Ask yourself this question—what is so different about this case that you find yourself struggling to deal with it?”

  “That’s just it. I can’t put my finger on it. Normally, I can say this is wrong or that is wrong, but right now I’m unable to do that.” She slumped back in the chair then sat forwards and bashed her forehead twice with the heel of her hand before Jacques grabbed her wrist, preventing her from doing it a third time.

  “Please don’t punish yourself in such a way. There are other ways of dealing with things, I promise you.”

  “I think I prefer you as Mr. Hyde. At least then, I knew where I stood. You’re confusing me with your kindness.”

  “It can be arranged. I can change just like that,” he said, clicking his fingers. “Inspector, forgive me for asking, but do you have problems at home?” His concern seemed genuine.

  It didn’t feel like he was intruding into her personal life, so she was truthful with him. “Things could be better, I admit. Everyone has problems in their personal lives, but that shouldn’t detract from their ability to carry out their job properly.”

  “I agree, but it obviously is. Your husband, what is his job?”

  “He’s a house husband.”

  “Ah, this is a species of male that is alien to the French. How many children do you have?”

  “Just the one. Charlie’s twelve.”

  “Could your husband be rebelling against being tied to his apron strings? That is how you say it, is it not?”

  She chuckled. “Sort of…‌but I get what you mean.”

  “It is not uncommon for men to change their minds—it is not only a woman’s prerogative, you know.” His smile returned, and though their conversation had started out as a serious one, it was now in danger of becoming a light-hearted look at the gender’s roles around the house. “So he irons, dusts, vacuums, and cooks, I assume?”

  “He does, and I’m the one who works twelve, fourteen, sometimes sixteen hours a day.”

  “No wonder things aren’t good between you. There is no time for amour.”

  The way his tongue lingered on the word amour sent her pulse racing, which sent her into a panic again. Why the hell was she divulging such intimate information to a stranger—a very handsome stranger, at that?

  “I didn’t say there was no love in our marriage—”

  “Ah, there may be love, but is there the passionate variety?”

  “Do you mind if we talk about something else? I’m feeling a tad uncomfortable with this subject.”

  “That is where the French and the British are so different. You British treat love as if it should be hidden, confined to the bedroom. Whereas the French, we enjoy showing the world how passionate we are.” He made a dramatic sweeping gesture with his arm but was interrupted from continuing his dramatic performance by a buzzer sounding at the end of the corridor. “Excuse me one moment, Inspector.”

  “The name is Lorne.”

  He returned to the room with a brown paper bag accompanied by an unmistakable smell. “I hope you like Chinese food, Lorne?” he asked, trying out her name for the first time. It sounded good with a French accent.

  “You shouldn’t have. I would’ve grabbed something on my way back to the station.” She felt relaxed for the first time that day, despite the tense conversation they’d just had.

  “Knife and fork or chopsticks?” Jacques opened a drawer in his desk.

  “Knife and fork. I wouldn’t know where to start with chopsticks.”

  “It would be fun to teach you.”

  He removed the lids of the three containers, and one by one, the aroma of each sumptuous dish filled the air. Sweet and sour pork, chicken chop suey and king prawns with noodles. All her favourite dishes. She was in gourmet heaven.

  “Please, as you British say, ‘tuck in’.”

  “You have the cutlery but no plates. How bizarre.”

  “It is more intimate this way. Here.”

  She looked up to find a king prawn, squeezed between chopsticks, inches away from her mouth. “I couldn’t possibly fit all that in my mouth,” she objected, laughing.

  “There is an answer to that, and if I weren’t such a gentleman, I would give you it!”

  “Is there a Madame Arnaud?” she blurted out between mouthfuls before she had a chance to stop herself.

  “No. I am one of those people who believe commitment belongs in a mental institute. I have had many lovers, though. Ah, I see that I have embarrassed you again.”

  “Not at all. I find it quite refreshing to have such a frank conversation, even if it is with a stranger from a different culture. Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” She played with her food.

  Jacques smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Another one? Go ahead. I can always refuse to answer if I don’t like it.”

  “Is there a significant difference between French and British women?”

  “You assume that I have taken British women to my bed.”

  “Haven’t you?” Lorne challenged.

  “I have lived and worked here for twelve years, it would be foolish of me to deny it. We all need satisfying from time to time. I’ve had two British lovers, but they were very different. It would be impossible for me to compare them to French women. Have you ever had a foreign lover, Lorne?”

  “Never.” She swallowed hard. “Let’s just say the opportunity has never presented itself.”

  “That is a shame, because according to what I hear of British men, the average lovemaking session is approximately five minutes. I find this to be an incredible statistic.” He chuckled and shook his head.

  By then she was intrigued, and she had to ask the obvious question. “And how long does it take you to satisfy a woman, Jacques?”

  He smiled as he threw the empty cartons in the bin behind him, then swivelled back and looked her in the eye. “In my youth, lovemaking used to be marathon sessions, lasting for two to three hours.” Lorne gasped, which made him laugh. “I did say in my youth. Now, a session would consist of at least an hour of foreplay, followed by thirty minutes of intense lovemaking.”

  Her gasp was louder that time. “You’re winding me up?”

  “Why would I do that? If you weren’t married, I would say that I would take pleasure in proving it to you.”

  “It’s a good thing I’m married, then. Six minutes is a marathon session in my house. God knows what condition I’d be in after half an hour. I probably wouldn’t be able to walk properly for a week.”

  They both laughed, then Jacques said, “You have a beautiful smile, Lorne. You should show it more often.”

  “I’m hardly in a job that warrants me walking around like the Cheshire cat all day, am I?” She hesitated. “Well, I’d better get back to the station.” Disappointment swept over her. Despite her earlier reservations, she’d enjoyed her time with him.

  “You’re not going home?”

  “I have a lot of calls to make, and Tom is going out with friends tonight, making the most of Charlie being at her grandma’s house. So there’s no point me going home early.”

  “I’m not doing anything. Perhaps I can keep you company.”

  “That’s kind, but there’s no need.” She picked up her briefcase and file and headed towards the door.

  “Two heads are better than one. I can take a look at the case with a fresh pair of eyes. I really don’t mind.” He looked at her with lost-puppy-dog eyes, which she found hard to resist.

  “Okay, okay. What about if you bring the post-mortem reports with you, and we’ll go over them, too? And Jacques, thanks for listening, and thanks for a lovely dinner.”

  “It was my pleasure. Anytime you are at a loose end, feel free to drop by. And I promise, no more Mr. Hyde when we are called out to the same crime scene.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “
Lorne…‌Chérie…‌Wake up. It is six forty-five…” The voice sounded distant but vaguely recognisable.

  She’d been in a wonderful dream in a faraway unfamiliar place. Lorne stretched her arms above her head and yelped. “Ouch! I think I’ve pulled a muscle in my neck.”

  “I’m not surprised. That will teach you not to fall asleep at your desk again.” Jacques smiled at her.

  “What time is it?” She glanced at her watch, but her vision was slow to adjust to waking up. Her hair stood on end, and creases covered her clothes. She felt—and no doubt looked—a mess.

  “I repeat: It’s six forty-five. I should be going.”

  “Yes, that’s a good idea—before my team get in. God, I must look awful.”

  “Nonsense. You look stunning, as usual.”

  “I think your French lies are very admirable. How come you still look as handsome as ever?”

  “It must be my superb French genes. I must go. I’ll ring you this afternoon.” To her surprise, he bent down and planted a kiss on her cheek, then left.

  As Lorne watched him walk away from her for the second time in two days, she found it difficult to stop the tears springing to her eyes. A feeling of desertion filled her, body and soul. She feared her head was being slowly turned, and she felt powerless to stop it from happening.

  Lorne and Jacques had accomplished a lot between them the previous evening. After observing and taking notes of Lorne’s phone technique, Jacques had offered to help go through the list of allotment gardeners. When it reached eleven, Lorne felt it was too late to ring prospective witnesses at home, so they turned their attention to the post-mortem reports. They went over each one with the finest of toothcombs, questioning every detail, significant or otherwise. They’d painstakingly compared the fingerprints and drawn a blank.

  During their time together, Lorne had grown more comfortable in his company, something that she couldn’t have imagined only a few days before. They’d developed a friendship that went beyond that of working colleagues.

  They had laughed, flirted, and even fallen asleep together, but they both knew the score. Lorne was married and determined to remain that way, but the temptation to wander was pulling at her. She saw her new friendship as the one positive thing to have come from hunting down the killers. She no longer doubted her abilities in the case—Jacques had pointed out that the clues were few and far between.

  She searched through her desk for a clean top and the undies she kept tucked away for emergencies. She set off for the gym in the basement, where she grabbed a quick shower, changed into her clean clothes, and dried her hair under the hand dryer in the ladies’. Luckily, she wasn’t the type of woman who relied on cosmetics to help her look good. A quick coat of gloss on her lips, and she was ready for yet another day in the line of duty.

  Lorne heard voices as she approached the incident room. A final brush down of her suit, and no one would be the wiser about her night spent at the office.

  “It was a total waste of time, boss,” Mitch was telling Pete as she entered the room.

  Lorne informed the small group, “I rang most of the gardeners last night. None of them have seen anyone suspicious hanging around down there lately.”

  “Is it worth putting an incident van down there, ma’am?” Tracy asked.

  “Waste of time, I think. Why don’t you two go home and get some sleep?”

  “I’m fine, ma’am. I’d like to carry on, if you don’t mind,” Tracy said.

  Mitch looked horrified at his colleague’s eagerness.

  “Everything all right, Mitch?” Lorne asked, amused at his reaction.

  “Nothing a few zzzs wouldn’t put right, ma’am, but I suppose that can wait.” He shrugged his wide shoulders.

  “Leave it till nine, then I want you to track down as many of these pervs as you can.” She picked up the sex offender file and passed it to Mitch.

  Pete followed her into her office, which had been cleaned early that morning. The putrid smell from the package had been replaced by pine disinfectant. Lorne opened the window to let in some fresh air.

  “Did you sleep here last night?” Pete asked, studying her appearance.

  Lorne sighed, “Nothing gets past you, Pete, does it? I made a few calls, had an argument with Tom, and crashed here the night.”

  “You’ve got to have a word with Tom, sort things out.”

  “I know. I will tonight. Shall we start by chasing up the taxi drivers?”

  “Have you had breakfast?”

  “Nope. have you?”

  “Come on. I’ll treat you to a fry up down at Kev’s Café.”

  They arrived at the café, which only had a few spare tables left. Lorne picked a table close to a corner. “You can have the fry up; I’ll settle for toast and marmalade.”

  Their breakfast arrived within a few minutes.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Pete took a mouthful of bacon and egg. Yolk seeped from the corner of his mouth, and Lorne averted her eyes.

  “There’s nothing to say. Tom’s just going through one of his phases. It’ll blow over soon enough.” She nibbled at a triangle of lukewarm toast.

  “So all this arguing is down to Tom, is it?”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know. You have to admit, you’ve been a little strange over the last week. Maybe it’s the case, maybe it’s the fact that the chief is leaving, and maybe it’s something else I don’t know about. But I’ve noticed a change in you. All I’m saying is, have you considered taking a step back and looking at your relationship from Tom’s point of view?”

  “I haven’t had time. I’m always bloody working.” She shoved her plate away in annoyance, having lost her appetite.

  “See, there you go again. You’re full of anger. Why don’t you ask for some time off?”

  “Now you’re just being ridiculous, I haven’t got time for a holiday. What would the new chief think about that?”

  “Okay, it was just a suggestion. You don’t have to snap me head off. Forget I even suggested it.”

  “Have you finished?”

  “Finished what—the lecture or the breakfast?”

  Her chair scraped on the floor as she stood up. “Both,” Lorne snapped, and she stomped out of the café.

  Before closing the door, she noticed the other customers go quiet, then heard Pete’s smart-arse retort, “She got angry when I asked her for money for the tip.”

  Pete followed her out. “Right. Where to first?”

  Lorne’s frostiness dissipated as they set off. “What have we got?”

  “We’ve got three of the drivers on sexual assault charges. Four were had up for burglary, one ABH, and two with nothing at all to their names,” Pete said, scanning the list. He’d matched the list Toni had given them with the files they had on record for each of the ex-cons.

  “We’ll go with the sexual assault charges first. Who’s the first on the list and where does he live?”

  “Josh Lampard. He’s thirty-eight, got put away five years ago for touching someone up on the underground. He blamed the girl for leading him on.”

  “Sick shit.” Lorne shook her head.

  Pete gave her directions to Lampard’s house, and they pulled up outside ten minutes later. The man’s flat was a stone’s throw from the taxi firm.

  Pete rang the bell, then wiped his hand down his trousers in disgust.

  A man in boxer shorts opened the door. They’d obviously disturbed his sleep. “Yeah, what d’ya want?”

  Lorne produced her warrant card as Pete brushed the man aside and entered the flat.

  “Hey, what the hell is this?”

  “Get some clothes on. We’ve got some questions we want to ask you.” Pete’s nose wrinkled in apparent disgust as he surveyed their surroundings.

  The man left the room and returned seconds later, buttoning up a shirt he’d put on. A half-dressed girl followed him into the room. No more than eighteen or nineteen, she
was wearing a long T-shirt that stopped mid-thigh.

  “What’s going on, Josh? Who are these guys?”

  Lorne ignored the girl and asked, “Last Thursday night, where were you at between eleven and eleven thirty?”

  The guy scratched his head as he thought. He walked over to the table, picked up a packet of cigarettes, took one out, and lit it. “Working. Why?”

  “What area?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “Look, we can either do this here or we can do it down the nick, it’s entirely up to you, buddy,” Pete said, annoyed at the man’s tone.

  “All right. Let me think. That was almost a week ago. Thursday…‌Busy night, that was. I was probably around the town centre about that time, but I can’t be sure. Why?”

  “One of your fellow drivers was supposed to pick up a girl from High Bank Road at eleven. He couldn’t make it.”

  The driver thought for another few minutes as though piecing the information together in his mind. “Yeah, I remember. It was Wacko—he was in a panic, didn’t want to let the girl down. I think he fancies her. Anyway, a drunk puked up in the back of his cab, and he wanted to clean it up before going to pick her up. As far as I can remember, he asked the girl to hang on, but she wouldn’t, so Mary asked if anyone else could do the job. But everyone was busy. Wacko told me he swung by later, but she’d gone. He tried to track her down, but there was no sign of her. He was gutted.”

  The two detectives glanced at one another. Had they at last stumbled across something important in their case?

  “Did he talk about her much?” Lorne asked.

  “Not really, but he always made sure he was available when her call came in.”

  “Did he? Had she been a customer for long, do you know?” Pete asked.

  “Couple of months, I suppose.”

  “Have you ever picked her up?”