The Taken Girls
Page 33
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, it’s Eddie. I was wondering if you’d fancy coming round to my place for a drink.’
‘Deakin’s Rules?’
Ed could hear the smile in the voice.
‘Deakin’s Rules.’
‘I’ll be round in ten minutes.’
Ed returned the smile as the line went dead.
God was in his heaven, all was good in Jenny’s world. The team had done well. She was flush from their celebration and pumped with euphoria from saving the girl and getting that bastard Grieves. It had been her first big case as a DC and she was in love with her job. Five years ago her life had been at its lowest ebb. The abortion and split from Mark had really knocked her back. They’d been together since sixth-form college. Passing her police exams and becoming a CID trainee had given her life a boost. Acceptance as a DC had been the icing on her cake.
She had wondered what would become of the team when she heard Brian Saunders was to leave but she quickly found she enjoyed working alongside Ed Ogborne. Together with Mike and Nat she thought they made a good team. Nat could be a bit pushy at times but he was a man – they were all so bloody competitive. Still, Nat was all right. He’d been really nice about Carlton’s paintings, letting her tell Ed what she’d found so she’d get the credit.
She climbed to the third floor of the police accommodation block. It felt warm in her room. Perhaps she’d had a few too many drinks. Never mind, the world was being good to her again. It seemed natural to lie back on her bed, to let Nat stretch out beside her. It had been some time since she’d felt a man’s stubble against her cheek. Jenny turned her head to find his lips. As they kissed she used her free hand to undo the top button of her shirt; it was stiff, inclined to get stuck. You needed the knack.
‘Michael, back so soon.’ Her voice and face registered surprise. ‘You are a bit of a dark horse, I must say.’
‘Hello, Rosie, I’m on foot and I’ve got a bottle of Chivas. I thought we might—’
‘Oh, Michael, love, you should have told me you were coming. I’m afraid I’ll be entertaining in a moment or two. Perhaps you could call round tomorrow about this time.’
Mike’s expectant face dropped. He was already turning on his heel when Rosie added, ‘Bring a bottle of Black, it’s my favourite.’
Walking towards his home on the other side of the city Mike paused beside a rubbish bin and thrust his bottle of Chivas deep down among the day’s detritus. At home he drank nothing but bottled beer. Resigned but not dejected – dejection was beyond the range of his emotions – Mike wondered if he would ever recover the motivation to repeat his visit to the Maison Rose.
Whoa! Nat felt all his summers had come at once. He’d spent weeks manoeuvring to get into Jenny’s knickers, with zero success. This evening, out of nowhere, she was on to him, agreeing to go clubbing, the tease of being tired, and the invite to share a bottle in her room. Now they were side by side on her single bed. She’d turned to kiss him and he felt her hand undoing the top button of her shirt. Increasing the intensity of their kissing, he moved his hand to work on the lower buttons. Determined not to lose the moment Nat pulled the bra from Jenny’s breast and pressed his knee between her legs.
By the time the intercom buzzed, Ed had discarded the grey silk top in favour of a white T-shirt flecked with gold and a pair of loose black Tencel trousers. A bottle of her favourite white wine was chilling in the freezer. She checked the screen, saw the impeccably cut steel-grey hair of Verity Shaw and released the lock.
‘I’m on the top floor, the door’s open. You’ll find me, and two glasses of chilled white, on the balcony admiring reflections from the surface of the Stour.’
71
It was 7.55, a sunny Sunday morning in July, and the first tolling of the bell for Morning Communion was followed by brief cawing and a flurry of wings as four black crows rose from their overnight perch on the tower of St Mary’s.
Ed hadn’t heard the Sunday-morning bells. After the events of Friday, she’d spent yesterday in her new home, relaxing and clearing her head. Today there was one more thing she needed to do. She showered and, dispensing with breakfast, drove to the Station to pick up the address of Grieves’s mother. It was a caravan park at Reculver on the north Kent coast.
The rows of mobile homes were marked by letters and each caravan had a number. C23 had once been white but it had weathered to a paint-peeling grey, which was not enhanced by dried trickles of red rust. Ed wasn’t sure exactly what she’d say but she was determined to tell the woman that her son had been arrested.
She knocked at the door of Mrs Grieves’s home. It rang like an empty can. There was no reply. Ed knocked again. There was still no sound from within. By now, a few people had emerged from some of the adjacent caravans to see what the noise was about. Visitors were an uncommon occurrence, even at weekends. After a third knock went unanswered, she tried the door. It opened with the squeak of rusty hinges.
Inside she was met by the mingled smells of alcohol, cigarettes and unwashed clothes. The sunlight barely penetrated the small, grime-covered windows. It felt damp and cold after the warmth of the sunshine outside. The bed covers had been thrown off in disarray, suggesting someone had rushed to escape their confines after waking from a bad dream. One half of the bed was empty, but on the other a single wasted body was half hidden by a tangle of sheets. Even before she felt for a pulse Ed knew that Rhona Grieves was dead.
Although she was sure it was natural causes resulting from an unnatural life, Ed called for SOCO, forensics and a pathologist. Stepping outside, she sat in a dilapidated chair and warmed herself in the sunshine. The heat felt good around her shoulders. As she waited, her message of Roger Grieves’s arrest undelivered, Ed wondered if Rhona had ever known that her son had grown up to become a teacher, a good teacher, a man who was highly regarded in the community, or, having abandoned him as a child, had she lost touch with him for ever?
When the teams arrived, DS Potts was with them. Grateful to get away, she left Mike in charge. As she walked to her car, her thoughts were dominated by two images: Lucy’s mother with her distraught face repeating, ‘I just want my daughter back,’ and the face of Tyler’s mother, radiant with a joy that enveloped her to the exclusion of all else when she was reunited with her daughter. Ed had never experienced such joy.
The life Rhona Grieves had led, separated all those years from her only son, was another matter. To be separated from a son was something Ed couldn’t bear to contemplate. She pushed it from her head, climbed into her car and kept the thought at bay by driving as fast as the law would allow with Britten’s Dies Irae at full volume.
For Ed, times like these were a day of wrath and, like the poet, she hoped that better men would come. There would always be men, but she knew there was one void in her life that sex would never fill. She remembered Teresa saying, ‘Celia is my daughter but she can never know.’ The words had torn Ed’s heart. She knew that pain. There was some relief in action, dipping the clutch, changing down and accelerating round a bend waiting for the Libera Me and some relief from a pain which would never leave her.
DI Ed Ogborne didn’t get back to Canterbury until late afternoon. As she drove down Rheims Way, her heart was lifted by the sight of the cathedral, its twin west towers dazzling in the summer sunshine. She was unable to comprehend the faith which had caused this magnificent structure to be built, but she could appreciate the wonder of human endeavour which had achieved that goal.
Tomorrow, at 09.30, there would be a team meeting. Ed made a mental note to stop at Deakin’s on her way to the Station. She’d get flat whites and Danish all round, plus an extra Danish for Barry Williams.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My development as a writer of fiction, and the transformation of early ideas into this novel, owe much to many. This is my opportunity to thank them. Whether named below or not, I thank you all.
First, and always, my thanks to Helen for her constant support and encour
agement; her advice and knowledge have been, and continue to be, invaluable. Whenever I need help, she is always there to comment on a draft, discuss the merits of half-a-dozen synonyms, or to suggest alternatives when my way is not working.
I have been doubly fortunate to have Jo Bell, of Bell Lomax and Moreton, as my agent, and Phoebe Morgan, of HarperCollins Avon, as my editor. Thanks to them both for seeing potential merit in my submission, for their patience with my questions, and for making work fun. Thanks also to the team at Avon for their commitment and expertise in the production, publication, and promotion of this, my first novel.
In 2013, I attended the Curtis Brown Creative writing course and gained much from the experience, especially from Nikita Lalwani, the lead tutor, and Anna Davis, the Director, who kindly extended her support throughout my subsequent search for an agent. Fellow CBC students have become friends and, those of us who are able, continue to meet regularly. I am immensely grateful to Ziella, Wendy, Swithun, Louise, Ian, Chris, and Aliya for their ongoing support, constant encouragement, and perceptive comments on multiple drafts.
Four long-term friends, Martina and Dennis, Julia and Matt, offered to read earlier versions of my entire manuscript; thank you, your encouragement and comments have sustained me and improved my writing.
Brad Jones of the Metropolitan Police Forensic Service has been my source for matters forensic and I am particularly grateful for his generous and considered advice. Any errors are my own.
Finally, thanks to the many people, known and unknown, who, with phrase, image, or gesture, have unwittingly stimulated my imagination to develop ideas which have found their way into this novel.
About G. D. Sanders
G. D. SANDERS has previously worked in academia. He is now retired and enjoys writing contemporary crime fiction, as it allows much more creativity than writing scientific research articles. He is based in London. The Taken Girls is his first novel.
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