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

by Susan Wilkins

  Seventeen

  Friday, 10.50 a.m.

  As Megan walks towards Slater’s office she sees that Jim Collins is already in there having a conversation with the DCI. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt, silk tie neatly knotted. They both see her approaching. She decides to go in guns blazing. There’s no point messing around.

  She pauses on the threshold. ‘She says she didn’t do it and I believe her.’

  Collins huffs, puts his hands on his hips and faces Slater. ‘Megan should not be involved in this, ma’am. It’s completely inappropriate.’

  Slater sighs.

  ‘Your evidence is circumstantial,’ says Megan. ‘You’ve homed in on a single suspect. She has a perfectly reasonable explanation for why she left the pub.’

  ‘Then why didn’t she give it to us?’ says Collins. He turns back to Slater. ‘I reiterate, ma’am. This is not appropriate.’

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Jim,’ says Slater. ‘This is her sister. What do you expect?’

  ‘I expect not to be vilified for doing my job. And I expect you, as the SIO, to support me. Ma’am.’

  ‘Then do your bloody job,’ says Megan. ‘What have you actually found out about Greg Porter? Does he have a wife? What’s her story? What about business associates? Who else could he have pissed off?’

  ‘You have no idea what we’ve been doing,’ says Collins evenly. ‘I’ve been looking into your sister’s finances. Do you know how deeply in debt she is?’

  ‘That doesn’t make her a murderer.’

  ‘It makes her desperate. And having agreed to perform a sexual act she later regretted, and of which she’s ashamed, it gives her a very good motive for murder. I think you have to consider, Megan, that in the circumstances, she’s probably lying to you as well.’

  He could be right. Megan bats this thought away.

  ‘What sort of man was Porter?’ she says. ‘If he was capable of bullying and blackmailing a female employee into giving him a blowjob, then it strikes me his lifestyle and connections warrant some investigation.’

  ‘And that is in hand,’ says Collins, checking his watch. ‘I have an appointment to speak to his father at eleven. His wife and children are being looked after by the family liaison officer. Questionable morals or not, he is the victim here.’

  ‘He’s not the only victim,’ says Megan.

  ‘She could’ve just said no to him,’ says Collins with a shrug. ‘This is not a rape or a sexual assault. There’s no evidence of coercion. She did it for the money. So you could argue that both parties have questionable morals.’

  Megan is within a hair’s breadth of losing it. Calm down. Play it smart. She catches Slater’s eye. The boss is tight-lipped. But Megan’s guess is she’ll hedge her bets.

  ‘All right,’ says Slater. ‘This is not getting us anywhere. Jim is right about one thing, Megan, we need some very clear boundaries. You cannot be involved in this inquiry. You have every right to speak on behalf of your sister but you do so in a personal capacity.’

  She inhales. ‘I accept that, boss. But the evidence against my sister is circumstantial. At present I don’t see that there are grounds to charge her.’

  ‘I agree with that,’ says Slater. ‘We’re not ready yet to take this to the CPS so I propose to release her under investigation, while we pursue other lines of inquiry.’

  ‘I think that’s a mistake, ma’am,’ says Collins. ‘I think we should continue to question her. I think that when the seriousness of her situation is brought home to her, she will tell us the truth. You let her go home, regroup, get her story straight’ – he glares at Megan – ‘and you lose the initiative.’

  ‘You’re talking about it as if it’s a psychological game,’ says Megan bitterly.

  ‘And you would too,’ says Collins. ‘If you had no personal involvement.’ He looks at his watch again. ‘I should go, ma’am. If you’ll excuse me. Barry Porter will be waiting for me.’

  Slater gives him a nod and he leaves.

  Megan and Slater are left facing each other.

  The boss sighs and says, ‘He is just doing his job.’

  ‘And loving every fucking minute!’ says Megan.

  ‘I know you’re upset and I would be too. But if you want to help your sister, you’ve got to take a step back and look at the overall situation and the evidence. Attacking Jim Collins is spiteful and will get you nowhere.’

  ‘Oh come on, boss. Ma’am this, ma’am that. He’s a supercilious bastard and he pisses you off as much as he does me.’

  ‘I’m not going to comment on that. Take your sister home, let her calm down and then talk to her. If she did this, then her best defence is to make the court understand why. Now this is just between you and me, and I’m only speculating, but a defence of coercive control might be applicable in this case. It’s uncharted territory but you get a really good lawyer to argue it and you might get it down to manslaughter.’

  Megan nods. She knows Laura Slater is going out on a limb here.

  ‘Okay. Thank you.’

  ‘Also, on a different note, I spoke to Danny Ingram on the phone. He’s been talking to his boss and the NCA are keen to ramp up their people-smuggling investigation down here. They’re bringing in more resources. Ingram seems very impressed with you so I’m reluctant to take you off the case. But I will if you want me to.’

  Megan exhales. What the hell does she want? She has a maelstrom of thoughts and fears spinning in her brain. What if Debbie’s lying? What if she is guilty?

  ‘It’s your call,’ says Slater. ‘But, if you take my advice, you’ll carry on with the NCA case. Why? Because it’ll keep you occupied and out of trouble. And I know you, Megan. I don’t want you interfering with some covert investigation of your own. And I don’t want another set to with Collins. You have to let the murder inquiry take its course. And we will be looking at all potential suspects. Be assured that as SIO, I will be keeping a close eye on it. Do we understand one another?’

  Megan nods. Cold-hearted bitch!

  ‘Yes we do,’ she says. ‘And thank you.’

  She looks at Laura Slater and wonders what she’s thinking behind that icy façade. Does she have a sister? Megan has no idea. But she knows one thing: at the end of the day, Slater’s priority will be a result that leads to a conviction.

  Eighteen

  Friday, 11.15 a.m.

  Megan walks back to her desk. The office is half empty; no sign of Collins, Ted or Vish. Brittney is making coffee. She gives Megan a sidelong glance, picks up her mug and wanders over.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she says.

  Megan isn’t. She can feel her lip trembling. She has to swallow to suppress a tear. Rage has morphed into despair. She needs time to collect her thoughts and make a plan. What Debbie has told her sounds plausible. The migraine, the pills. And she wants to believe her. She wants it desperately. But she also knows her sister. Debbie knows how to spin a line. She’s good at it. Always has been.

  Megan forces a smile. ‘Have you got a sister?’

  ‘Two brothers, both younger. They can be a bit of a pain.’

  Not as much of a pain as this.

  Brittney holds out her mug. ‘Fancy a coffee? You look like you could do with it. And I’ve drunk about four already this morning, so I’m buzzing.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ says Megan. ‘Slater is releasing Debbie under investigation. I need to take her home.’

  ‘Well,’ says Brittney. ‘Good luck.’

  Megan knows she shouldn’t ask, but she can’t help it. ‘Has he actually got a case? I know I shouldn’t ask you—’

  ‘Megan, I don’t really know what they’re up to. And I’m not just saying that. I’m not that involved in the inquiry. He’s got me and Kitty doing back office. Putting all the post mortem stuff in the system. Typing up his stupid handwritten notes. To tell you the truth, I’m a bit bored.’

  Typical bloody Collins. Megan feels incensed on her behalf.

  ‘You’re a DC, Brit,’
she says. ‘Not a civilian analyst. And certainly not his bloody secretary. If Collins is running a boys’ club and cutting you out of the loop, you should tell Slater.’

  Brittney shrugs. ‘She’ll just think I’m whinging though, won’t she? And that’ll piss her off.’

  Megan knows she’s right. The boss takes a tough line with whingers.

  ‘Are you still on the NCA thing?’ Brittney says with a tentative smile.

  ‘Theoretically,’ says Megan.

  ‘How’s the woman we found on the beach?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Brittany’s angling. Megan can feel it. She knows what’s coming next and so she says, ‘Look, I’d like to rescue you but I’ve got a lot on my plate at the moment.’

  The young DC bristles. ‘I wasn’t going to ask you to.’

  ‘Yeah, you were. But you’ve got to learn to stick up for yourself. Front up to Collins. Tell him straight. He needs to do his own typing and treat you and Vish exactly the same.’

  Brittney stiffens. ‘Right. I will. No problem.’ She walks away.

  That went well.

  Megan slumps down at her desk; she feels mean. Brittney didn’t deserve that. Spiteful? That’s the word Slater used. Is that what Megan does when she gets wound up? Lashes out. It’s stupid and short-sighted.

  She checks her phone. There’s a text from Ingram.

  Briefing at the hotel at 3. Hope you can make it.

  Debbie is being processed by the custody officer. Megan wonders what she’s going to do with her sister. She can’t just take her home and dump her. But, on the other hand, leaving her some space to reflect might be a good idea. If fear and panic have driven her into a corner and made her lie, she might think better of it once she’s in her own place and can calm down. And she could well be lying. That’s the reality Megan has to face.

  Megan glances across the room. Brittney is standing next to Kitty’s desk. The two young women are chatting. Megan looks across at the boss’s office. The door is ajar. Slater is on the phone.

  Sod it! Megan comes to a decision. If she knew the truth, at least she could work out what to do next. She gets up and, with one eye on Slater’s office, she strolls over to Brittney and Kitty’s corner.

  ‘Listen, Brit, I’m sorry,’ she says.

  Brittney shrugs. ‘You’re right, I’m a wuss. Kitty agrees.’

  The analyst nods and smiles. ‘I’ve told him to get his own bloody coffee. And now he doesn’t ask me.’ She gives Brittney a pointed look. ‘And I would rat him out to Slater. In fact I’d make a formal complaint.’

  Brittney gives her friend a sheepish grin. Kitty is small and fierce and takes no prisoners.

  ‘Anyway,’ says Megan. ‘There’s still no excuse for me being a bitch.’

  ‘Hey,’ says Brittney, reaching out and touching Megan’s arm. ‘It’s okay. This must be horrible for you. I get it.’

  Brittney is soft and warm-hearted, which makes Megan feel worse.

  ‘It’s just all such a mess,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah, we know,’ says Brittney. ‘Do you think she did it?’

  Megan avoids the question. She can’t even answer it in her own mind. ‘How much CCTV have you actually got from Berrycombe?’

  ‘First lot is round the immediate area of the flats,’ says Kitty. ‘But it’s patchy. Builders’ security for the site. The block has got its own system, but that’s not up and running yet. Collins also asked us to concentrate on the area round the pub.’

  ‘The Duke of York, where Debbie works? So you’ve got her leaving and returning?’

  Brittney nods. ‘By the back door.’

  ‘But you don’t have her entering the flats?’ says Megan.

  ‘We have her on Wednesday morning, using the front door, where there is a camera. But there’s also a service entrance through the basement car park where the camera isn’t connected up yet.’

  Megan sighs. ‘Thing is—’ She hesitates. She knows she shouldn’t do this. But it’s for Debbie. ‘My sister has problems with migraines. She took a pill and left the pub to try and clear her head. She says she wandered through the back streets around town and ended up sitting on some steps near the harbour.’

  Megan has a tight knot in her stomach. If Slater gets wind, she’s stuffed. But she doesn’t care.

  Kitty and Brittney exchange glances.

  ‘Well,’ says Kitty. ‘If we could track her phone…’ She turns to Brittney. ‘Who’s got it? Has it gone to the lab?’

  ‘Dunno,’ says Brittney. ‘Ted was in charge of the search.’

  ‘That’s only one layer of data,’ says Kitty. ‘And it’s not going to be that accurate in the centre of town. CCTV is much better. We can certainly widen the trawl and get more granular. It may take a couple of days to access some of the cameras.’

  ‘And they don’t all work,’ says Brittney.

  Kitty’s fingers skip across her keyboard. ‘Some belong to private businesses, but the council has a map. Plots where they all are. So we can go round and ask them to show us.’

  The map of Berrycombe pops up on Kitty’s screen. It’s covered in red dots.

  ‘We’ll start around the harbour and work outwards,’ says Brittney. ‘Do you know which side of the harbour?’

  Megan shakes her head. She’s skating on thin ice. But they don’t need any encouragement.

  Kitty points at the screen. ‘Harbour steps there and there. And at the end. There’s a restaurant on the corner with three outside cameras.’

  Brittney is leaning in and frowning through her glasses. ‘That would probably cover those steps. Depending on the angle of the camera. I could go and look.’

  Megan watches. Then she says, ‘You realise I shouldn’t be—’

  ‘Megan,’ says Brittney with a smile. ‘We’re sitting here twiddling our thumbs. It’s logical to extend the search area. I’m acting on my own initiative. As you rightly point out, I am supposed to be a DC.’

  The dimpled cheeks, the owl glasses; Megan could hug her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says softly. Then she adds, ‘The NCA are expanding their inquiry. They’ll probably need more help. I’ll get you back on it.’

  Brittney turns to look at her. ‘You don’t have to do that.’

  ‘Yeah I do,’ says Megan. ‘Because it’s a complex investigation and Slater’s going to want us to keep our end up. So I’m going to need you.’

  Nineteen

  Friday, 12.45 p.m.

  Yvonne has taken refuge in the conservatory. She’s wearing an old wash-faded pair of pyjamas and a towelling robe. As Penny has pointed out, there’s no one to answer to any more. She can do as she likes. The doors stand open to the garden and the smell of cut grass is drifting through on the breeze. She’s settled herself on a lounger and she has a bottle of white wine in a cooler on the table next to her. It’s a Chevalier Montrachet, from Greg’s wine club stash, and ridiculously expensive.

  Penny has put the awful Christine in charge of the children. She makes a passable nanny. She gave them breakfast and then for the rest of the morning they’ve been settled in front of the television. They probably think it’s Christmas. Yvonne knows she should speak to them. But she’s been putting it off. The truth is she’s not used to having serious conversations with her own children; that was Greg’s department. He didn’t like her to interfere.

  Aidan understands what’s happened to his father. In many ways Aidan understands far too much. But the younger three have only been told that Daddy’s gone away on business. This seems to have satisfied their curiosity for the time being. But they’re being good. They know not to make a mess.

  The huge fronds on the indoor palm are whispering. Yvonne prefers the company of plants to people. They’re cleansing. The conservatory is full of old friends that she knows individually. Turning her head she realises that Penny is standing in the doorway watching her. Her hands are neatly folded. She always looks so perfect. How does she do it? Yvonne is envious. Men like Pe
nny, they always have.

  Penny smiles. ‘A car’s just pulled up,’ she says. ‘It’s Barry.’

  Oh shit. Yvonne reaches for her wine and takes a hefty slug.

  Her relationship with her father-in-law is detached and cordial. To him she’s simply Greg’s wife. If he’s ever given her any thought in the last eighteen years it’s only that.

  ‘Want me to deal with him?’ says Penny.

  Yvonne sighs. Yes. But it’s too late. The ever-efficient Christine has already opened the front door to him and is ushering him through the kitchen towards the conservatory.

  Barry Porter is large and bluff. He’s over seventy but still has a full head of wavy silver hair with untidy sideburns. He favours open-neck shirts and cavalry twill trousers in khaki or pink.

  He sails through the door from the kitchen with his meaty paws outstretched. She hates his hands. They never look clean and the backs are matted with hair like a gorilla. He ignores Penny and homes in on Yvonne.

  ‘My poor poor darling, you must be absolutely devastated! I would’ve come yesterday but Marion’s in pieces. Well, you can imagine. Her only child. It’s just so… I don’t know where to begin.’ His eyes are bloodshot; booze or tears, probably both.

  Yvonne is lugged into an awkward embrace. He smells of cologne and whiskey.

  As he releases her, tears well in his eyes. ‘My God, you’re wearing his bathrobe.’ He shakes his head sorrowfully.

  Yvonne pulled it out of the charity bag because it was clean and soft and snuggly. It probably once belonged to her husband. But she can’t remember him wearing it.

  Barry greets Penny with a nod and, uninvited, plonks down on a basket chair.

  ‘Well,’ he says. ‘I’ve spoken to the police. A detective inspector. He seems a very competent fellow. Such a terrible business. Awful for you. And you must’ve spent the night worrying when he didn’t come home.’