Close to the Bone: An addictive crime thriller with edge-of-your-seat suspense (Detective Megan Thomas)

by Susan Wilkins

  It doesn’t take her long to fill two plastic sacks and she drags them out into the corridor. The door to the show flat is still open, the hinge is creaking in the breeze.

  Porter has never been an easy man to work for. Truth is she hates the bastard. Tight-fisted when it comes to wages, he’s always finding extra things for her to do. Could she pop down to the kitchen shop and get a couple of champagne flutes for the show flat? She’s hired to be a contract cleaner but he treats her more like a skivvy who’s at his beck and call. He made her do that yesterday morning. It took her half an hour. Put her behind. But he just expected her to work faster to catch up. He’d given her twenty quid to pay for the glasses and examined the change she gave him suspiciously. Luckily she got a receipt.

  She stares at the door to the show flat and sighs. The rest of the building is silent. If the electricians are around, they must’ve nicked off to get some breakfast. She’s the only one there, which means she has to sort this out. But she decides to leave it for now. They may come back.

  She wedges open the front door to number five and starts to hoover. Then it occurs to her that when she came into the building there was no electricians’ van parked outside. In fact the newly tarmacked parking area was empty. Sod it!

  Switching the vacuum cleaner off, she boots it out of the way with her foot. Anger seeps through her and that helps. Why do people like Mister Greg Porter always assume they’re a cut above? Because they’ve got loads of money? Why should that make them so special? Did that give him the right to treat her like shit?

  With another sigh she heads for the show flat.

  As she pushes open the door the smell hits her. Rank and putrid, it reeks of sick but there’s another, sharper smell, almost metallic. It reminds her of some butcher’s shops, where the meat is laid out on the counter.

  She feels a stab of adrenaline.

  The hallway is short, with only a cupboard and two other doors off it before it opens into the main room. She creeps along it. Why the need for stealth? She knows what she’s going to see.

  Three

  Wednesday, 9.30 a.m.

  The offices of the Major Investigation Team for South Devon are on the first floor of a repurposed office block on a small industrial estate outside Plymouth. Intended as a temporary solution in a time of cuts it has become a semi-permanent location. The lift is temperamental, the heating system unpredictable and the toilets prone to blockages.

  Megan walks into the main office. Open-plan in theory, it’s crammed with extra desks. Like everyone else criminals like to go on holiday and many choose the West Country. In spring and summer the crime rate goes up with the huge influx of visitors, and resources have to be juggled to cope with it. In the last week new faces have arrived, mostly eager rookies from uniform anxious to get their teeth into some serious detective work.

  Zigzagging across the room, Megan heads for her desk. The regular team is divided into two camps. The youngsters occupy one corner. Vish Prasad and Brittney Saric, once the most junior DCs, are now the most senior. Kitty, the civilian analyst, has the biggest desk, two computers and a bank of screens. Megan sits in no man’s land, next to the other DS, Ted Jennings, definitely of the older camp, and next to him is the detective inspector who is theoretically in charge of them all.

  Jim Collins has recently returned from long-term sick leave. He’s always suited and booted, a punctilious old-school cop, and his presence has had a dampening impact on the office culture. His natural respect for hierarchy has been undermined by the fact he now works for a woman boss, DCI Laura Slater. But he’s sly in the ways he lets his antipathy show. The DCs skulk in their corner and keep their jokes and their energy to themselves. A couple of stern reprimands from Collins have put them in their place.

  Megan gives him a smile. ‘Morning, Jim.’

  He doesn’t look up from his notebook but acknowledges her with a nod. ‘Megan.’

  His lack of computer skills and preference for good old pen and paper is also an issue. He treats Kitty as his PA and this has led to her stomping into Slater’s office and asking to transfer out. The DCI talked her down. She’s too valuable. But the resulting rift between the old guard and the new is an ongoing problem. Slater has arranged an IT course for Collins to bring him up to speed.

  Megan knows a fragile ego when she sees one, but she can also sympathise with the new DI. He’s spent nearly two years battling prostate cancer and has opted to return to work instead of taking medical retirement. His reasons for this difficult decision are kept to himself. It could be about money but he’s in his early fifties and perhaps, like Megan, he simply didn’t know what else he’d do. The team he worked with previously has gone, only Ted remains. And the quick-thinking kids, with their lightening fingers on a keyboard, can zip round the databases at a dizzying speed. Megan finds their level of skill intimidating at times. A rapidly changing landscape with talk of facial recognition software and the avalanche of available data is challenging for everyone. For a man recovering from treatment it must feel like a mountain to climb.

  Megan plonks her bag down, catches Brittney’s eye and smiles. Brittney and Kitty are having a whispered conflab about something. They’ve learnt to lie low and stay out of Collins’s sightline. Megan has discussed the situation with Slater and the boss takes the view that he has to be integrated back into the team. The role of bridge-builder is novel but Megan is trying to embrace it.

  She walks over to his desk, points at his outsized Plymouth Argyle football mug and says, ‘I’m getting one. You want a refill?’

  Collins looks up. His face is pale and still gaunt from the ravages of chemo. He smiles. ‘Cheers. Better make it green tea. The wife insists. Some article she read.’

  Megan picks up the mug and is about to walk off when he says, ‘Isn’t Berrycombe your neck of the woods?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Just had a shout from comms. Uniforms called to a dead body at a new block of luxury flats overlooking the harbour. Head bashed in, so it looks like murder. Property developer, name of Greg Porter. You ever come across him?’

  Megan shakes her head. ‘I haven’t lived there long. I don’t really know it.’

  ‘CSI are heading down there.’

  ‘The Crime Scene Manager, Hilary Kumar, is really on it. You can rely on her to be thorough.’

  ‘Good to know.’ He nods. There’s something creepy about the way he smiles.

  But Megan smiles back. It’s like pulling teeth. A murder and Collins is up? It’s likely the boss will want Megan to hold his hand on it. The prospect doesn’t excite her.

  Laura Slater comes out of the cubbyhole otherwise known as her office. The morning briefing is about to begin, curtailing any further discussion.

  Megan and the boss don’t get on exactly but they understand one another. Slater comes over like a woman on a mission and most people assume that mission is to get to the top. She deploys her legal training well, knows how to deal with the lawyers from the Crown Prosecution Service and give them what they need to prosecute. As a result she has one of the best batting averages in the force. Her conviction rate speaks for itself.

  She stands at the front and waits for the room to settle. It doesn’t take long.

  ‘Okay,’ she says with her trademark chilly smile. ‘Quite a long list to get through this morning. First up, we have a potential murder in Berrycombe. Jim, you were duty DI, have you been down there?’

  Collins shifts in his chair. ‘Not yet, ma’am,’ he says. He insists on calling her ma’am. ‘CSM’s gone down, thought I’d wait for their call.’

  Slater consults her notes. ‘Severe trauma to the head, a lot of blood. You didn’t think to send one of the DCs straight away?’

  Collins shrugs. ‘Didn’t think there was any rush. He’s not going anywhere, is he?’

  Ted Jennings chuckles. A ripple of laughter runs round the room.

  Collins gives Slater a smug smile. ‘Sorry, ma’am. Bit of black humour.’
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br />   But she isn’t laughing. She just stares at him. Then she says, ‘Vish, get down there now. Talk to the CSM. I’d like to know exactly what we’re dealing with. ASAP.’

  Vish Prasad jumps up. ‘Yes, boss.’ He heads for the door.

  Like two naughty boys at the back of the class, Collins and Jennings exchange sniggers.

  Megan watches them and her heart sinks.

  ‘Megan,’ says Slater.

  Here we go, thinks Megan. Slater will split the boys up, giving Ted Jennings something routine to do, and she’ll be lumbered as Collins’s DS on the murder.

  ‘We have been asked to assist on a major NCA investigation into people smuggling. They’ll be on our patch intelligence-gathering and carrying out surveillance. You will be the local liaison officer. Depending on how the investigation develops and what they need, you can call on other members of the team at your discretion. But bear in mind we’ve got a lot on our plate.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ says Megan. National Crime Agency! Not what she was expecting.

  ‘Obviously there’s an organised crime element here,’ says Slater, ‘and you’ll need to keep me up to speed so we can respond promptly with any additional resources they require.’

  Slater is looking straight at her. This is a big deal and Slater is trusting her not to mess it up. Everyone in the room is staring at Megan. Some with respect, others with envy. It’s a plum job and Slater would be stupid not to give it to her best officer.

  Megan feels a shiver of excitement but also trepidation. Crime falls broadly into two categories: human stupidity and nastiness in its various forms, and crime as a serious and lucrative business with international players who are rarely caught. But the last time Megan played in this league it didn’t turn out well for her.

  ‘And, on the subject of organised crime,’ Slater says. ‘Dennis Bridger has been released from prison.’

  ‘Oh you are kidding me!’ exclaims Ted.

  ‘Sadly not. He was sentenced to five years, he’s served half his tariff and is being released on licence.’

  Jim Collins shakes his head wearily. ‘Before your time, ma’am. But you do know that the drug-dealing charge was the only one we could make stick.’

  ‘I’ve read the file,’ says Slater. ‘But, since you worked on the case, Jim, it may be useful if you fill the rest of the team in.’

  Megan watches Collins. He sits up straight and pulls back his shoulders. Megan wonders if he realises that the boss is managing him by deliberately giving him the floor. She reflects, not for the first time, on what a smart operator Laura Slater is, slackening the leash a little in order to rein him in.

  Collins stands up, puts his hands on his hips. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Dennis Bridger is a little runt of a bloke but a stone-cold psychopath and dangerous as a nest of vipers. Came down here from Manchester on holiday, liked it and stayed. Drug dealer, rapist, pimp, murderer; he was suspected of several homicides although we never managed to prove it. He ran a gang that terrorised some of the smaller coastal towns. By the time we nailed him he was lording it over quite a little empire. Rob Barker was the DCI in charge of the investigation. Shouldn’t think he’s best pleased.’

  ‘No, he isn’t,’ says Slater. ‘The surveillance unit from Exeter will be on Bridger 24/7. But they’ll be standing off and using GPS tracking to follow him. Plus phone taps and listening devices have been authorised, everything we can legally do.’

  ‘Tosser like him’ll get off on that. It’ll make him feel important,’ says Ted.

  ‘If he even realises,’ says Collins.

  ‘In case we’re being too subtle for him,’ says Slater, ‘here’s a job you might like, Ted. Pick the three biggest officers you can find, go and knock on Mr Bridger’s door and make sure he knows we’re on his case. The least infringement, his licence is revoked and he’s straight back inside.’

  ‘Pleasure, boss,’ says Ted.

  Slater sighs. ‘According to intelligence from the prison, Dennis made a new best friend while he was inside. A very dangerous London villain with direct connections to the Colombian drug cartels. Our speculation is this is Dennis’s new boss and supplier. I’d prefer to stop him committing any further crimes but pragmatically if we can get him banged up again for thumping someone or any other small infringement, before he can set up a new network, that may be a better result.’

  Megan feels a shiver up her spine. It’s as if someone’s just walked over her grave. She knows the answer to her question but she has to ask.

  ‘Who is this London villain, boss?’

  Slater peers at the file. ‘Zac, not quite sure how you say the last name…’

  Yilmaz. Of course it is.

  ‘Yilmaz,’ says Slater. ‘Possibly Turkish. You know him?’

  ‘No,’ says Megan.

  Four

  Wednesday, 9.45 a.m.

  Yvonne Porter clutches the cordless phone to her ear as she paces. She’s outside on the patio because her son, Aidan, is having breakfast in the kitchen. He’s on study leave, revising for his exams. This seems to entail getting up late and lounging by the pool all day, listening to music and chatting on social media. Or whatever else seventeen-year-olds do nowadays. She’s not sure she knows. Her three younger children are at school, thank God!

  The patio is made of York stone and stretches along the entire back of the house. On the wall dividing it from the large terraced garden and swimming pool below, there are terracotta tubs of trailing fuchsias. They’re coming into bud but soon they’ll produce an explosion of gaudy pinks and reds. Greg hates them, says they’re vulgar. This is the main reason she keeps them there.

  ‘I know he’s with her. I know it,’ she says. ‘He didn’t come home at all last night. He doesn’t even bother to lie any more.’

  She’s wearing a gaping silk robe over a lace chemise. He can’t say she doesn’t try. She’d bought some lovely striped cotton pyjamas, really soft and ideal for lounging about in the mornings. And a top brand, nothing tacky. But they’d disappeared. When she asked him if he’d seen them, he said no. Then he added cryptically: ‘a wife should always look feminine, not like some old bag lady.’ As if she needed reminding.

  ‘Listen to me, Yvonne,’ says her sister, on the other end of the phone. ‘You’ve got to stop taking all this crap from him.’

  ‘It’s all very well for you to say. I’ve got four children. How am I supposed to cope?’

  ‘You get a good lawyer and you sue that bastard for half of everything.’

  ‘I feel sick.’

  ‘How much did you drink last night?’

  ‘Honestly, Penny, I don’t remember.’

  She woke up in the early hours with an empty vodka bottle on the floor beside the sofa. It was probably as well that he didn’t come home. He’d have given her hell for that. He prefers her not to drink.

  ‘I’ll try and come down at the weekend,’ says Penny. She sounds distracted. She’s obviously busy. She’s always busy.

  ‘Will you? That would be brilliant.’

  Penny is two years younger. She was the smart one. She didn’t disappoint their parents in the way Yvonne did. University, a career in finance, a life in London. She made sure she had choices. And her own money.

  ‘I have to go, darling,’ says her sister. ‘I’ve got a meeting at ten.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Yvonne. She imagines Penny in her corner office in a Canary Wharf skyscraper. The only things on her desk will be her phone and laptop. She’ll be wearing a tight pencil skirt; she’s still thin enough to get away with it. ‘I’m sorry I keep phoning up and whinging like this. I’ll go and put some coffee on and pull myself together.’

  ‘You’re entitled to whinge,’ says Penny. ‘I hate the way he treats you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Give my love to the kids. We’ll take them to the beach at the weekend. That’ll be fun.’

  ‘Yeah. They’ll love that.’

  Hanging up the phon
e, Yvonne gazes out across the fields. The prospect is calming. Neat acres of English farmland with sheep grazing and rippling fields of oilseed rape down to the river. The house is superb too, everyone says so. She’s frequently told how lucky she is to have a developer for a husband. He had the vision to take an old tumbledown barn, really no more than a shed, and turn it into a magnificent detached home, stone-clad and classic on the outside but modern and high-tech within. It’s been photographed for Country Life and the exterior used in a TV drama. She does love her house. She knows she should be grateful.

  Her head is thumping; what she needs is coffee and paracetamol. Can a man really be blamed for straying when his wife is a drunk? This is her fault. She’s driven him to it. She needs to clean up her act. The remorse is kicking in; after a wipe-out like last night it always does.

  As she turns to go back into the house, her son appears in the doorway. Aidan is her firstborn and she wishes she could cling to him forever. He was such a sweet child and even as a teenager he’s retained a softness that she treasures. He’s arty and sensitive, not at all the sporty, macho male his father would prefer.

  His blond hair is tied in a topknot and shaved up the sides. He has the first hints of a wispy beard. ‘Mum,’ he says. And he looks perturbed.

  ‘What, sweetheart?’ says Yvonne. She doesn’t want him to see that she’s upset so she rattles on. ‘I’ve just been chatting to your aunt. She was bending my ear about some new man of hers. I despair of her. Nearly forty and still not married.’