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

by Susan Wilkins

  The boy nods obediently. She can see the anxiety in his eyes.

  Then he says, ‘There are two police officers here. They want to talk to you.’

  Five

  Wednesday, 11.05 a.m.

  Megan parks in the town and walks down to the harbour. She doesn’t know Torquay well. And she needs to think. Zac Yilmaz. It was only a matter of time before his name cropped up again. Still, it’s a shock. She needs to process it and calm her fears.

  Think about this rationally.

  Villains hook up in jail all the time. The fact a criminal like Yilmaz can continue to run his business from a prison cell is one of the major flaws in the system. Dennis Bridger sounds like the sort of individual he might consider useful. But this is all a coincidence. The connection to Devon is purely random. There’s no reason to suppose that Zac knows she’s here.

  Zac Yilmaz was the target of a major undercover operation carried out by the Met. For reasons she’s never fathomed, Megan caught his eye. They became embroiled in an affair. As an undercover officer she knew this was totally against the rules. She also knew the risks she was taking but she did it anyway. And she did it with the complicity of her bosses, who wanted results. It shattered her marriage and nearly cost her life. Her real identity was carefully protected throughout his trial. When he learnt she was an undercover officer, he tried to kill her. He almost succeeded. The broken physical and emotional state he left her in, he would’ve assumed she’d taken medical retirement. He won’t expect her to still be a police officer.

  As Megan walks, her anxiety abates and her thoughts become steadier. In the last few months her mental health has improved immeasurably. No more panic attacks. She’s proved she’s more than capable of doing the job. She can’t let something like this throw her off course. It’s unlikely she’ll even be called upon to deal with Bridger and anyway he will have no idea who she is. She’s just another cop.

  The day is warm, an early taste of the summer to come, and Slater has tasked her with liaising with the NCA. This is what she needs to focus on and even enjoy.

  She walks round the harbour. The marina is large with a striking pedestrian footbridge dividing the inner and outer sections and a tidal cill gate to keep water in the inner harbour and stop it drying out. She’s become used to the working port of Berrycombe, where she lives. In Berrycombe they don’t mind of a bit of mud exposed at low tide and the stink of seaweed and fish. But this is a posher place; here the boats are bigger and flashier. The pontoons are lined with multi-million-pound gin palaces plus an array of smaller yachts and pleasure vessels of every shape and size.

  After the briefing she texted the NCA contact number that Slater gave her and received a curt reply to meet them at a harbourside cafe. There are possibly a dozen to choose from. She walks along the harbour wall scanning the various establishments. Some are fancier than others but they all have tables and chairs set outside on the pavement. Breakfast and coffees are being served to holidaymakers in shorts and beach attire as they enjoy the sunshine. The pubs are popular with plenty of people already on the beer. Alcohol and sun. Trouble for later, thinks Megan.

  She clocks them at twenty paces. They’re wearing black baseball caps and aviator shades. If this is their attempt to blend in with the natives, it isn’t working. She stops in front of their table, smiles and says, ‘Morning.’

  He stares up at her stony-faced, then smiles. ‘So, you are a detective.’ His accent is northern, maybe Lancashire.

  She holds out her hand to shake. ‘Megan Thomas.’

  He grasps it. ‘Danny Ingram. This is my colleague Sasha Garcia.’

  Megan gives her a nod. The young woman tilts her head but doesn’t smile. Flawless skin, svelte: she looks to Megan like she graduated from university about two weeks ago.

  He shrugs. ‘We only asked for a couple of uniforms. Just for local info. Don’t know that there’ll be much for you to do.’

  Megan smiles. ‘You’re running an operation here in Devon and DCI Slater wants to give you all the back-up you might need. I can get some response officers as and when you need them.’

  He chuckles and doffs his cap. ‘Thank you. We appreciate it. Your boss is a gentleman.’

  ‘No, she’s a woman.’

  Ingram chuckles again, glances at his sidekick, who smiles for the first time. Some kind of private joke? He doesn’t apologise for his assumption. Megan feels her annoyance rising.

  ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Well, we’re waiting for some kit and a couple of other colleagues.’

  It’s clear that he isn’t about to invite Megan to join them so she pulls out a chair and sits down. She’s not about to be patronised.

  The two NCA officers exchange looks. He takes off his shades. About forty, weasel-faced and wiry, but fancies himself. Megan stares back. He’s absolutely not her type.

  He purses his lips, as if she’s being deliberately difficult. ‘We’re staying at some bloody great Victorian pile up the road there,’ he says. ‘Food’s grim. And Sasha’s vegan. So can you sort out a couple of restaurants for us? You do have stuff like that round here?’

  ‘Vegan restaurants? No idea,’ says Megan. ‘But I’ll call our civilian analyst and see if she can take some time off from this morning’s murder to find out for you.’

  Six

  Wednesday, 5.30 p.m.

  Megan gets home to find her sister sitting in the kitchen and staring into space. On the table in front of her is a pile of utility bills. She looks as if she’s been in the same position for a while. Scout is lying on the floor with his head resting on his paws, a few inches from her foot.

  ‘You all right?’ says Megan.

  Debbie seems to rouse herself. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘How was your day?’

  Megan bends down and fusses the dog. ‘Spent the afternoon looking at incredibly posh boats with a couple of morons from the National Crime Agency down here on a jolly.’

  ‘Oh. Sounds like fun.’

  ‘Not really. They’re on our patch so my boss wants to show that we can all play nicely together. But they’re being a bit snotty and don’t really want us involved in the operation. All I know is it’s about people smuggling and they’re interested in posh boats in Torquay Marina.’

  Debbie gives her a ghostly smile. ‘There are a few of those. Mark did some skippering for a bloke who had this enormous yacht. But all he wanted to do was cruise down to the Lizard and back on a nice day, while him and all his mates got pissed.’

  ‘That’s why they’re called gin palaces.’

  Megan scrutinises her sister. She appears to be making a huge effort to chat and be normal. But a sixth sense is telling her that Debbie is in trouble. She knows about the financial problems. She’s offered a loan but her sister refused. She’s married to a man who would not take kindly to the notion he can’t support his family. Megan contents herself with providing treats for the kids: new trainers, outings, takeaways.

  ‘How’s your back?’ she says. ‘Still giving you trouble?’

  Debbie sighs. ‘A bit.’

  Megan takes up a position behind her sister’s chair and starts to knead her shoulders.

  Debbie leans back and exhales. Then she says, ‘I’ve just lost two of my three jobs.’

  ‘Shit. What happened?’

  ‘This afternoon I was supposed to be doing deliveries. But I was late. Third time it’s happened, so I got canned.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh. Couldn’t you talk to your boss?’

  ‘He’s got no leeway. Company policy. Decided in Milton Keynes. And the reason I was late was because of your lot.’

  ‘My lot?’

  ‘Your DC, the really fit one.’

  ‘You mean Vish?’

  ‘Yeah, Vish. He was nice and very apologetic. I gave him my witness statement. But then I had to hang around because the DI wanted to talk to me and he just asked all the same questions. And they wanted fingerprints and DNA.’

  ‘Good grief,’ says Megan. ‘This mu
rder at the luxury block of flats, is that where you’ve been working?’

  ‘Yep. I discovered the body.’

  ‘Oh Deb, that’s awful.’ Megan puts her arm round her sister and gives her a hug.

  ‘Gets worse. Now that Porter has snuffed it, I probably won’t get paid for any of the work I’ve done there. It was a contract job. Payment at the end.’

  Megan shakes her head. ‘I don’t know what to say.’ She goes to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of white wine. ‘I think you need a drink. I think we both do.’

  ‘I’m afraid if I start drinking I won’t stop.’ Debbie’s chin trembles. ‘What am I going to tell Mark? He’s slogging his guts out so we can pay off the bloody credit cards and get ourselves out of debt, and now this.’

  Megan unscrews the wine and pours it into two glasses. ‘Start at the beginning and tell me what happened.’

  Debbie accepts a glass of wine. ‘I found the stupid tosser in the show flat. At first I thought maybe he was passed out drunk. Then I saw his head.’ She grimaces. ‘He’s pissed someone off, that’s for sure.’ She takes a hefty slug of wine.

  ‘Presumably you just called the emergency services?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And the paramedics confirmed he was dead?’

  ‘Yeah! I suppose they did. I can’t remember. Don’t go all cop on me, Meg, I’ve had enough bloody questions for one day.’

  ‘Hey, I’m sorry.’

  Debbie puts her hand over her mouth, her body shudders and the tears start to flow.

  Putting down her own glass, Megan kneels in front of her and cradles her sister. They remain like this for several minutes.

  Finally Debbie says, ‘I know I should feel sorry for him, but I don’t.’

  ‘You feel how you feel.’

  ‘He was a nasty bastard. Treated me like I was a lower form of life. He was one of those blokes who can’t have a conversation with you without staring at your tits.’

  ‘That’s always annoying.’

  ‘And he expected me to be ever so grateful that he was paying me minimum wage to clean his bloody flats. I know I’m going to be out of pocket, but the truth is I’m glad he’s dead. Does that make me a bad person?’

  ‘No. I think you’ve been under huge stress. And finding a dead body, whoever it is, is a shock.’

  Debbie gazes directly at her and there’s a steeliness in her look. ‘Between us we’ve encountered a few monsters over the years, haven’t we? You more than me. But trust me, Meg, whoever whacked Greg Porter has done the world a favour.’

  Seven

  Thursday, 5.45 a.m.

  Megan swims slowly across the bay. Ahead of her a family of cormorants bobs on the gentle swell, diving for fish then popping up again through the shimmering surface. She doesn’t want to disturb them. The rising sun glitters on the water. This is the perfect moment in her day and she likes to savour it.

  She’s never really thanked her therapist, Dr Moretti, for bullying her into it. But she figures that, as secret addictions go, her obsessive early morning swimming is acceptable. She has acquired all the kit: wetsuit, cap, goggles, float. She charts her progress on an app. And she’s made a few acquaintances among the small posse who share this mad pastime. The etiquette is to recognise that, for most of them, this is a solitary pursuit. On the rare occasions they meet, all that’s required is a friendly nod. Of those she sees on a regular basis, there’s only one couple. She’s exchanged a few words with them, about the amount of seaweed or the size of the waves. He’s tall and rangy, looks to be about seventy; she’s possibly younger. They have voluminous dry robes they use for changing afterwards. Megan has eyed these garments enviously.

  But today she has the bay to herself. Just her and the flocks of seabirds. It’s barely dawn, and chilly, but she’s got used to that. Her body has adapted remarkably well to the shock of icy water. Her first few strokes are vigorous then she slows down, lets her mind empty and drifts on her back for a few moments before heading out across the bay.

  As she glides along, she thinks about her sister and feels guilty. She should have been more aware of just how close Debbie is to the edge. Debbie and Mark are an inseparable item and have been such a solid fixture for years, that she’s forgotten what her sister was like before she met Mark. Debbie has always been emotionally volatile. She often reacts without thinking and that has led to trouble in the past. And last night there was something about her sister’s mood and manner, when she talked about the discovery of the body, that Megan finds disturbing.

  The issue of money is a delicate one. Megan’s divorce has provided her with a sizeable lump sum from her share of a London flat. Paul bought her out and installed his new partner immediately without changing a single thing. Megan walked away with a couple of suitcases of clothes, a few personal keepsakes and some books. She’s invested the money with the plan that she’ll use it eventually to buy her own place. But she’s not ready for that yet.

  She reminds herself that worrying about Debbie is her default setting; she’s been doing it since their childhood. Sorting out her little sister’s problems was always an easier option than tackling her own. And, as she swims, she knows this is what she’s doing. Using Debbie to block out her darker thoughts, thoughts about Zac, the danger he will always pose and the fear that one day he might catch up with her.

  Thursday, 8.30 a.m.

  Megan arrives at the office early with a view to getting a jump on the day. She left Debbie at the breakfast table in full mother mode, fussing over the kids, stopping her son from sneaking a can of Coke and making sure Ruby – always a live-wire in the mornings – sat down for long enough to eat. In Megan’s opinion all three children were subdued, Amber scanning her mother anxiously. They knew the sketchiest of details about her discovery of a dead body. But they also sensed her tension and fragility. No questions were asked.

  As she expected, Megan finds Slater in her office. The boss is usually the first to arrive. She looks up as Megan pauses in the doorway.

  ‘Morning,’ Slater says. ‘How are our esteemed colleagues in the NCA?’

  ‘Chippy. They don’t appear to have got the memo saying we work as partners.’

  Slater sighs. ‘That’s a pain. Particularly for you.’

  ‘I can cope. Also, I wanted to flag up the fact that it was my sister who found the body in the flats. She was hired to do the builders’ clean.’

  ‘Okay. Duly noted. I’ve yet to hear Jim’s initial thoughts. Post mortem is this afternoon.’

  ‘I’m presuming you want me to stick with the NCA?’

  Slater leans back in her chair. ‘I’m afraid so. I did have a chat on the phone with an old colleague who works there now. According to him, Danny Ingram has a bit of a reputation. His police career was in Manchester and he did some excellent undercover work against the gangs. But he’s known to be temperamental, bit of a one-man band.’

  Megan smiles to herself. This explains why Slater gave her the job. She thinks they’ve got something in common, so they’ll get on.

  ‘Right,’ says Megan. ‘I’ll try and be charming.’

  Megan is on her way out when Brittney appears.

  ‘Just got a shout from comms,’ she says to Slater. ‘Response has been called to Blackpool Sands. There’s a very distraught woman on the beach with a little girl. She’s wearing a hijab. Officers attending think she may have been brought ashore by smugglers in the night. Appearance and language possibly Middle Eastern. She was kneeling on the beach and rocking back and forth as if someone’s died. Border Force has been called. But they thought we should know too.’

  ‘Interesting,’ says Slater. ‘Go down there and take a look. And you go too, Megan. This may well relate to the NCA’s inquiry. When we know what’s going on, you can let Mr Ingram know. Perhaps it’ll be a useful lesson for him in how agencies should co-operate.’

  Megan chuckles. ‘You want me to tell him that?’

  Slater smiles. ‘I think he’ll get the
point.’

  Eight

  Thursday, 9.05 a.m.

  Blackpool Sands, contrary to what the name suggests, is a crescent-shaped stony bay overlooked by steep wooded hills. The road to it is a narrow switchback. Brittney drives and her habit of looking away from the road as she talks to her passenger unnerves Megan. The dips and loops of the road are demanding, with a sheer drop in places. Megan glances out of her side window apprehensively. She’s not normally a nervous passenger.

  Brittney is oblivious. ‘… and he said, do you fancy going for sushi. So I thought why not. It’s no big deal, we’re just mates.’ She pushes her owl glasses up her nose. She’s describing her latest romantic encounter, which has been the talk of the office.

  ‘But do you like him?’ says Megan, trying to get into the spirit of the discussion.

  ‘He’s all right.’

  ‘Do you fancy him?’

  Brittney screws up her nose. ‘I don’t really know what that means.’

  ‘Yes you do.’

  ‘He’s quite big.’

  ‘As in overweight?’

  ‘No, sort of solid. But I suppose what I’m thinking is he’s big enough not to be overwhelmed by someone like me.’

  Megan glances at the young DC. She’s plump and curvy and hugely self-conscious about her weight and appearance. She jokes about being called Miss Piggy at school. The pain of those jibes never leaves you.

  ‘You’re not a bloody elephant, Brit,’ says Megan. ‘Most blokes prefer curves.’ She finds herself suddenly with a vision of Sasha Garcia, Ingram’s perfect, model-thin sidekick. It’s obvious what he prefers.

  ‘I’ve lost half a kilogram in the last month,’ says Brittney.