Cavendish & Walker Box Set

by Sally Rigby

  ‘I know the Vice Chancellor of your university. Would you like me to have a word about you failing to get the post you applied for?’ Her mother sat opposite, making her usual Vivienne Westwood statement in a terracotta pleated skirt and white pinstripe shirt with lace trim.

  ‘No thank you, Mother,’ she said, picking up her glass and taking a sip of the excellent Smith Woodhouse Vintage Port her father had ordered with their dessert.

  ‘Why ever not? I’ve told you many times, it’s not what you know but who you know in this life.’

  ‘I’m happy staying as a senior lecturer.’

  Her mother glanced at her father, who was staying uncharacteristically silent.

  ‘Really?’ her mother said.

  ‘I wasn’t at first, especially when I found out who was offered the position. However, I’ve since realised it was for the best, as it means I can continue working with the local police, as well as undertaking my research and supporting the students.’ Why did she feel like she was making excuses, even though it was the truth? She’d been angry at first, having never been turned down for anything in the past. But she meant what she’d said. She had the best of both worlds, and wouldn’t change it.

  ‘And why is that a preferred option from being an Associate Professor?’ her father asked.

  ‘I enjoy putting theory into practice. I work with a good team of police officers, especially DCI Walker.’

  ‘Georgina, I fail to see how working with police officers can be as fulfilling as what you do at the university. Admittedly, being an academic can’t be compared with surgery or international law, but it’s a good career option for someone of your ability,’ her father responded.

  Did he ever listen to himself? Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing his attitude affected her.

  ‘It’s extremely fulfilling. What’s better than using my knowledge to help prevent murderers from getting away with their crimes?’

  ‘Well, at least one of my children is high-flying,’ her father said, not answering her question.

  George tensed. He was referring to her younger brother, who was also a surgeon. She’d planned to do the same, but her medical career hadn’t lasted long, thanks to her aversion to blood. She’d then briefly considered law, following in her mother’s footsteps, but decided against it once she’d discovered forensic psychology.

  ‘Edward, stop being so negative towards the girl. She’s doing the best she can,’ her mother said. If only her words didn’t come across as being patronising.

  ‘Maybe she should settle down and have a family,’ her father said.

  It was like they’d forgotten she was sitting there.

  ‘Well, she can hardly do that now she’s split from that delightful young man she was seeing. I was so hoping for some grandchildren.’

  They were referring to Stephen, who she’d been seeing for a while last year. It didn’t turn out well. But that wouldn’t matter to them. He came from an exceptionally privileged family, who were distantly related to aristocracy. They’d have forgiven him almost anything to have those connections.

  ‘Mother, the delightful young man to whom you refer, cheated on me. Not only that, he’d had a vasectomy, so he was never going to have any more children.’

  ‘Who are you going to bring to your brother’s wedding?’ her mother asked, seeming oblivious to her comment.

  Not only was her brother an eminent surgeon, but he’d found a suitable partner. A paediatrician with a family who had all the right credentials, too.

  George hadn’t met her future sister-in-law, but she knew exactly how she’d be. To quote Whitney Walker, she’d be posh and typically stiff-upper-lip English. Exactly how Whitney categorised George. They’d moved past that stereotype and were now friends.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll find someone to bring,’ George said.

  ‘Hmmm,’ her mother said. ‘I’m not sure finding someone is entirely appropriate. Your partner has to be suitable for such an occasion.’

  ‘Trust me, Mother. I do know how to behave, and the person I bring won’t show the family up.’ She surreptitiously glanced at her watch, willing the lunch to be over.

  ‘What research are you undertaking at the moment?’ her mother asked.

  ‘I’m writing a paper on working with the police as a forensic psychologist, and how it aided in the arrest of the twins who carried out the Campus Murders. You would have seen the case reported in the media.’

  ‘Sounds fascinating,’ her mother said.

  ‘I fail to see how’s that going to contribute to the field,’ her father stated in his usual overbearing manner.

  She could always count on him for the put down.

  ‘Well, for a start it—’

  ‘May I take your plates?’ a waiter asked, interrupting her as he approached their table and leaned in to retrieve the plate in front of her father.

  ‘Leave it,’ he snapped, his tone icy. ‘We’re in the middle of a conversation.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ The waiter stepped back and stood a few feet from them.

  ‘Was there any need to speak to him like that?’ George said through gritted teeth, angered by her father’s behaviour.

  ‘I will not tolerate rudeness.’

  George leaned back in her chair, thankful she only had to meet up with her parents twice a year. It was more than enough. Her father was so full of his own self-importance, he failed miserably to be empathetic to those around him in any way, shape, or form. Not that she excelled on the empathy front. She knew that. But she wasn’t bombastic and rude.

  Her mother, on the other hand, let most of this pass her by. Considering she was a highly sought-after international human rights lawyer, when it came to family, she was off on another planet.

  ‘Edward, he was only trying to do his job,’ her mother said.

  ‘And as I’ve said before, Fleur, it’s not acceptable for someone to interrupt without a by your leave.’ He turned his head to where the waiter was standing and clicked his fingers. ‘Now you may take the plates.’

  As the waiter came forward, George took a look. He was around her age, mid-thirties, tall with curly blond hair. As she was checking him out, he glanced up and his blue eyes locked with hers. He gave an almost imperceptible wink, and she averted her gaze, embarrassed at being caught out.

  After he’d left, she turned to her mother. ‘What case are you working on at the moment?’

  ‘I can’t tell you too much about it, because it’s confidential. But let’s just say I’m hoping we can extricate a young woman from the Middle East and bring her over here.’

  ‘I look forward to hearing all about it when you’re able to tell us more,’ she said.

  ‘You’ll probably see it in the media before we next meet.’

  And of course, her mother wouldn’t ever think of telephoning to keep her up to date. Sometimes George felt she was out with virtual strangers.

  ‘What about you, Father? Any new cases with famous people?’

  ‘None I can talk about. Especially as you’ve now started consorting with people who might not realise the importance of keeping one’s council.’

  ‘I’m certainly not going to tell everybody the ins and outs of your private patient list. And irrespective of that, I trust the people I work with on the force. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the loo.’ She took the white linen napkin from her lap, placed it on the chair, and left the table.

  She was annoyed with herself for getting angry. It never happened, other than when she was with her parents. She skirted around the tables. The restaurant was still full, despite it being late into the afternoon. As she headed down the corridor leading to the ladies’ loo, she accidentally walked into someone.

  ‘Sorry.’ She glanced up and saw it was the waiter.

  ‘Don’t be. It was my fault,’ he said, a soft Irish lilt to his voice.

  ‘You don’t have to show deference to me, I’m not my father.’ An embarrassed laugh escaped he
r lips, taking her by surprise.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘He doesn’t mean it,’ she said, feeling duty-bound to make an excuse for her father’s behaviour.

  ‘I get it. I’m just a waiter and should know my place.’

  He had her father nailed.

  ‘No, of course he doesn’t think that.’ She caught his eye and noticed it twinkling. ‘Yes. That is his view. But it’s not mine.’

  ‘That’s good to know. I’m Ross.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘George,’ she said as she shook it, surprised at how his hand enveloped hers, making it seem small, which it most certainly wasn’t.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, George. I haven’t seen you in the restaurant before.’

  ‘I’m sure you can’t remember every person who eats here.’

  ‘If they looked like you, I would. You have an incredible jaw line.’

  She frowned. Was that a compliment? It certainly wasn’t one she’d heard before.

  ‘Thank you. I won’t keep you any longer. I don’t want you to get into trouble.’

  ‘That’s very considerate of you.’ He grinned. ‘Would it be too presumptuous of me to ask if you’d like to have dinner with me sometime?’

  Was he asking her out on a date? It sounded like it. She hadn’t been on one since finishing with her ex, and there had already been enough said about him that lunchtime. Maybe she should go. First impressions of him were favourable. She glanced across to where her parents were seated and imagined their response if they found out she’d agreed to go out with their waiter. That swayed her. How could she say no?

  ‘Yes, I’d love to.’ She opened her bag, pulled out a business card, and handed it to him. ‘Here are my contact details.’

  He took hold of the card and stared at it. ‘I look forward to it, Dr George.’ He flashed a smile in her direction and headed back into the restaurant.

  Chapter Four

  Sunday, 9 June

  ‘Come on. Let’s get this over with,’ Whitney said to Matt as they stood outside the large double-fronted Victorian house belonging to the parents of Hugo Holmes-Reed. She rung the bell, and the door was opened by a woman in her late thirties wearing running gear.

  ‘Mrs Holmes-Reed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m DCI Walker from Lenchester CID and this is DS Price. May we come in?’ She held out her warrant card.

  ‘What’s it about?’ A worried look etched itself across the woman’s face.

  Having to tell a family their loved one was dead was bad enough, but when the victim was a child, it was on a whole different level. It never got easier, no matter how many times she had to deliver the news. She’d learned not to let her emotions show, even though at times it was hard not to break down and cry. But it wasn’t her grief. She owed it to the victim’s parents to remain in control. It wasn’t easy, though, when she considered how her daughter, Tiffany, wasn’t much older than Hugo.

  ‘We’d rather discuss it inside, please.’

  The woman opened the door and ushered them into a narrow hallway. ‘What is it?’ she repeated once they were inside.

  ‘Is your husband in?’ Whitney asked.

  ‘He’s in the sitting room. We’ve just got back from a run. I was just about to have a shower.’

  ‘Perhaps we can go in there, so we can talk to both of you together.’

  The woman led them into the room, where a man about the same age as his wife was sitting, drinking from a water bottle.

  ‘It’s the police. They want to speak to us,’ Mrs Holmes-Reed said anxiously.

  Her husband, a tall wiry man with closely cropped hair, jumped up from his seat, a guilty expression crossing his face. ‘On a Sunday? Surely this could’ve waited. We can speak in my office, next week. I’ve already explained, I had no knowledge of the embezzled funds. It doesn’t have to involve my wife.’ He went to move towards the door.

  ‘Mr Holmes-Reed, I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but it isn’t why we’re here. Please, sit down.’

  ‘I don’t want to sit.’ He glared at her.

  ‘It’s about your son, Hugo,’ Whitney said, gently.

  ‘Hugo? He’s at school. I took him to the station myself, this afternoon.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, there was an incident on the train and—’

  ‘An incident? Is he hurt? What happened? I told you he wasn’t old enough to travel on the train by himself.’ Mrs Holmes-Reed’s voice cracked.

  ‘He was attacked on the train. His injuries were too severe for him to survive. I’m very sorry for your loss,’ Whitney said, maintaining eye contact with the woman.

  Mrs Holmes-Reed stared at her for several seconds, her face expressionless. Suddenly she let out a piercing, anguished scream. Her husband, who had turned deathly pale, rushed to her side and held her in his arms. He guided her to the sofa, and they sat down. Whitney and Matt sat opposite on single armchairs.

  ‘Can you tell us what actually happened?’ Mr Holmes-Reed’s voice was stilted, like he was trying to stay in control.

  ‘It’s too early to say conclusively, but we are investigating,’ she said.

  ‘I want to see him,’ he said.

  ‘Of course. We will need you to make a formal identification of Hugo.’

  ‘Why him?’ Mrs Holmes-Reed moaned. ‘I didn’t want him to get the train, but he insisted. Why didn’t you back me up and say no?’ Her fists were clenched, and she thumped her husband on the chest.

  ‘Stop, Vicky,’ he said, gently removing her hands from him. ‘It’s not helping.’

  ‘Mr Holmes-Reed, I’d like to ask you some questions, if you’re up to it?’ Whitney said, forcing herself not to be distracted by the palpable grief in the room.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, nodding.

  ‘Did anyone know Hugo was going to catch the train back to school?’

  ‘We only decided this morning. He might have sent a text to one of his friends. I don’t know, he didn’t say.’

  ‘How often did he come home during term time?’

  ‘Usually only at half-term, but he came back this weekend for his younger brother’s birthday party yesterday.’

  ‘Where is your other son?’

  ‘He’s with my parents. His grandparents. I dropped him around there after taking Hugo to the station.’

  ‘Would you like us to contact them for you? They could stay with your wife while you come with us to make the identification,’ Whitney suggested.

  ‘I want to see him, too,’ Mrs Holmes-Reed said. Tears stained her face, but she looked determined. ‘I want to come with you, Alan.’

  ‘Okay,’ her husband said, taking her hands in his.

  ‘We’ll take my car and then go to my parents’ house after.’

  ‘I’m not letting you drive,’ he said. ‘You’re not up to it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Whitney interrupted. ‘We can take you both to Lenchester and bring you back here, later.’

  Mr Holmes-Reed glanced at his wife. ‘Thank you, but no. We’d rather be alone.’

  ‘I understand. Before we go, please may we take a look at Hugo’s bedroom?’ Whitney asked.

  ‘Why?’ Mrs Holmes-Reed frowned.

  ‘We’d like to check if there’s anything out of the ordinary in there. Anything that can help us identify who has done this to your son.’

  ‘I’ll show you the way,’ Mr Holmes-Reed said as he got up from the sofa.

  He led them out of the sitting room, across the brown and white geometrically shaped floor-tiled hallway, and up the dark wooden stairs. He opened the first door on the right, and they walked into a large square bedroom with a bay window overlooking the road. On the walls were posters of Coventry City football team.

  Mr Holmes-Reed leaned against the door frame, while Matt and Whitney pulled on disposable gloves and searched. There was a desk against the wall, but there was nothing on it other than two comics and some juggling balls. On the floor was a rump
led pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. It was a typical fourteen-year-old’s bedroom. Whitney opened the wardrobe and saw a selection of clothes hanging, with a few items screwed up at the bottom.

  ‘Did Hugo have any hobbies?’ she asked.

  ‘He loved his football, and whenever he was home, we’d go to watch Coventry play. He was in the school football team and also liked swimming and tennis.’

  ‘So, he was very sporty,’ she said.

  Mr Holmes-Reed nodded and let out a low moan. ‘I can’t deal with this. What are we going to do? What?’ Tears filled his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.

  ‘Why don’t you go downstairs to be with your wife,’ Whitney suggested. ‘We’ll meet you back there. We won’t be long.’

  The man nodded and left them alone.

  ‘God, I hate this job sometimes,’ Matt said as he shook his head.

  ‘I know,’ she agreed. ‘We walk into people’s lives and change them forever. I don’t know what I’d do if Tiffany was taken away from me.’

  ‘Try not to think about it,’ Matt said as he looked through Hugo’s possessions.

  After a thorough search there was nothing obvious that could help, so they went downstairs. Whitney’s throat tightened at the sight. Mrs Holmes-Reed was crumpled up, while her husband, sitting next to her, was as stiff as a statue. Silence filled the room.

  ‘Would you like me to make you both a cup of tea before we go?’ she asked.

  ‘No, thank you. We’d rather go and see Hugo,’ Mr Holmes-Reed replied, his knuckles white against his knees.

  ‘Okay. We’ll leave now and you can follow in your car.’

  She drove to the morgue, making sure to keep the parents in sight in her rear-view mirror. She’d phoned on ahead to alert the duty pathologist they were on their way. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Claire, as she was in a meeting with the coroner.

  The journey took just over an hour. She parked outside the morgue, which was adjacent to the hospital, and left Matt in the car. When Mr and Mrs Holmes-Reed joined her, they seemed calmer and more in control than earlier. Whitney knew it wouldn’t last, as once they saw their son’s body the reality of the situation would hit them.