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

by Susan Wilkins

  He’s grinning inanely and looks more like a teenage boy getting the brush-off than a grown-up.

  Megan shifts from foot to foot. Upsetting him is the last thing she wants. More guilt.

  He tilts his head, gives her a wry smile. ‘Well, we’re still colleagues. Maybe a bit more than… anyway, this situation with your sister, if you need a sounding board, someone to talk things over with, I’m quite a strategist myself. I may be able to help.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I appreciate that.’

  He dips his head. ‘That’s okay.’

  Megan feels a surge of relief. One less problem to deal with. But as she watches him walk away she feels a pang of disappointment.

  Twenty-Two

  Friday, 4.15 p.m.

  Megan calls ahead for an appointment with the harbour master. As the four of them walk down the hill from the car park towards the harbour, Megan falls into step beside Garcia. Ingram is several paces behind, deep in conversation with the techie, Rodney. Bibi has remained at the hotel.

  ‘So,’ says Garcia. ‘Did you and Dano have a nice dinner?’

  Dano? She remains annoying but Megan reminds herself that Garcia has been helpful.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Megan. ‘We went to a burger joint. Don’t think you would’ve liked it.’

  Garcia chuckles and gives Megan a sidelong glance. ‘He’s a sneaky operator. He cut me out of the loop.’

  Megan responds with an innocent shrug. ‘Don’t see why. We talked mainly cop war stories. You’d’ve probably been bored.’

  Garcia smiles sadly. ‘I irritate you, don’t I? I irritate most people.’

  ‘No—’

  ‘Yeah, I do. It’s okay, you don’t have to lie. He’s probably told you I’m some predatory dyke, which is a bit unfair. I’m just interested in interesting people. And you, Megan, are an interesting woman.’

  ‘Trust me,’ says Megan. ‘You’d be disappointed.’

  ‘Queen’s Police Medal? That’s not a gong they give out every day. You must’ve done some serious shit to earn that.’

  ‘It was an undercover job and I got lucky. It could’ve easily gone the other way.’ That’s an understatement.

  ‘So is this your bolthole? A quiet life in Devon. An escape from all that?’

  She’s right, she is irritating.

  ‘Has anyone ever told you that you ask too many questions?’

  Garcia nods. ‘Yep, I get told to go fuck myself on a fairly regular basis. But curiosity is the essential component of intellect. In my humble opinion.’

  Megan laughs. Here’s a very beautiful young woman looking her over appreciatively. It’s hard not be flattered. Garcia is clever, no question. She exudes confidence and privilege. Megan wonders what it would’ve been like to grow up with just a bit of that. Life is such a lottery. Garcia was born with a winning ticket. You’d have to be a saint not to be envious and Megan knows she’s far from that.

  The harbour master’s office is located on the first floor of a modern two-storey block overlooking Haldon Pier, which forms the southern arm of the outer harbour.

  ‘Call me Alan,’ says the harbour master, as he offers Megan his hand to shake. He’s young and casual and not very nautical in appearance. ‘We see the local police down here quite often. Drunks falling in the harbour. And we help the coastguard too,’ he adds. ‘But you’re my first serious detectives.’

  ‘That’s probably a good thing,’ says Megan, ‘but we’re just making some general enquiries. Nothing to be excited about.’

  ‘Whatever I can do to help,’ says Alan. He obviously is excited. Garcia has run a check and discovered he’s only been in post a few months.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Megan watches Ingram. He’s reverted to the baseball cap and the aviator shades. This is her first chance to observe how he operates. And he’s taking his time, wandering round the office, hands in pockets, gazing out of the window. Alan’s gaze keeps flicking in his direction. Ingram knows how to subtly attract attention.

  Megan can guess what he’s up to. They have a problem. The marina itself is run by a private company. Going through official channels to access private data can be complicated and time consuming. The company may be wary and will probably want to protect the privacy of the millionaire owners of the posh yachts in their care. What Ingram needs is a shortcut.

  He takes off his sunglasses, focuses on Alan and smiles.

  ‘We’re interested in the comings and goings, possibly later in the day, or maybe even after dark,’ he says. ‘Do visitors have to contact you before they’re allowed to dock their boats?’

  ‘This time of year we get a lot of visitors,’ says Alan. ‘For average size vessels – cabin cruisers, yachts – we don’t require people to contact us in advance. We have a visitors’ pontoon which is down there.’ He points out of the large panoramic window at the jetty below. ‘And we offer two hours’ free mooring before they have to pay.’

  ‘Better than the parking round here,’ says Megan.

  ‘It’s to encourage people to visit the town, go in the shops and restaurants.’

  ‘What about CCTV?’ says Garcia.

  ‘There are cameras mounted at the ends of the piers and at all the access points to the pontoons. We have over six hundred berths in the outer harbour and marina and two hundred in the inner harbour. You may have noticed there are some pretty expensive vessels out there. So security is a big issue.’

  ‘Mind if we take a look at your set-up?’ says Ingram casually.

  ‘Of course. So who are you after? Drug dealers?’

  Ingram chuckles. Then he gives Alan an avuncular pat on the shoulder. ‘You’ll appreciate I can’t go into specific details. But you’re obviously an astute bloke.’

  Megan watches the young harbour master beam with pride at the flattery.

  ‘We have to keep our eyes open,’ he says. ‘This is a commercial port as well as a leisure facility. Lots of things going on. But if we see anything untoward, we’re on it.’

  ‘I’m sure you are. And, actually, what would be a real help is if my colleague, Rodney, could take a closer look at your digital recordings.’

  ‘I don’t see any problem with that,’ says Alan.

  ‘Good man. Thank you,’ says Ingram, giving him another gentle pat on the arm.

  Rodney stands waiting near the door. He has a black backpack looped over one shoulder. Before they left the hotel Megan saw him assembling his box of tricks. A laptop, cables, several mysterious devices. She wonders what he’s going to do.

  Alan grins. ‘Through here, mate.’

  Rodney follows him into the control room. The bank of monitors can be glimpsed through the open door.

  Ingram meets Megan’s gaze. ‘That was slickly done,’ she says. ‘Are we breaking the law?’

  ‘Good Lord, no,’ says Ingram. ‘Just cutting a few corners. There’s such a lot of stuff to trawl through. This’ll make things easier.’ He doesn’t go into details and she decides not to ask.

  ‘Let’s go and get a coffee while Rod does his thing,’ says Garcia.

  ‘I’ll stay here,’ says Ingram. Megan has a feeling she’s being managed. But she follows Garcia out of the door.

  They walk along the harbourside in search of a cafe. Megan is expecting another raft of questions, so she’s relieved when she sees Vish Prasad sitting on a wall in the sunshine, scrolling on his phone.

  ‘Hey, Vish,’ she says, walking over.

  He looks up and beams. ‘Megan, hi.’

  Garcia is at her elbow, so she’s forced to make introductions.

  ‘DC Vish Prasad. Sasha Garcia from the NCA.’

  ‘Cool,’ says Vish with his best smile.

  Megan watches them checking one another out. Both so young and unscathed. It doesn’t improve her mood. She wishes she didn’t feel so stressed and grumpy.

  Vish sighs. ‘Y’know, Megan, I’m really sorry about all this. I know she’s your sister. And I spoke to Brittney. It’s all a
bit… well, y’know.’ He seems embarrassed.

  ‘It is what it is. The investigation will have to take its course. But what are you doing down here?’

  ‘Oh,’ he says with a huff. ‘Just waiting for Ted.’

  ‘Stopped off for a snack, has he?’ The DS’s appetite and need for frequent refuelling is well known in the office.

  Now Vish seems even more embarrassed. ‘No. He’s talking to Barry Porter, the victim’s father.’

  ‘What? Interviewing him?’

  ‘No. Collins did that earlier. But Ted knows Porter. I dunno, they’re some sort of golf buddies. Ted said he’s worried about him. Obviously the guy’s upset. So Ted’s gone to have a word with him. He’s on his boat.’

  ‘On his boat?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s that one down there.’ Vish points down at the nearby pontoon. ‘Third one along.’

  Megan and Garcia look in the direction he’s indicating. It’s a sleek forty-footer, white with chrome trim, and it looks brand new.

  ‘That’s quite a toy,’ says Garcia.

  ‘Why didn’t you go with him?’ says Megan.

  ‘He didn’t want me to, told me to wait here.’ Vish shrugs. ‘I didn’t want to argue with him.’

  Megan nods thoughtfully. ‘Okay.’

  ‘You think I should’ve gone?’ says Vish. ‘But he’s the sergeant, I’m just a DC.’

  ‘I know,’ says Megan. ‘I’m just wondering why he didn’t want you to?’

  ‘’Cause he’s an arsehole,’ says Vish.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Megan. ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘Still,’ says Vish. ‘I got to go and play a heavy with Dennis Bridger.’

  Megan has spaced all that out in the emotional turmoil of her sister’s arrest.

  ‘How was that?’ she says. Has Bridger made a deal with Zac Yilmaz? That could cast her problems in a whole new light.

  ‘Pretty routine,’ says Vish. ‘He’s a smarmy little creep. But you know what Ted told me? A murder charge against Bridger got dropped because some of the forensic evidence disappeared. Faulty procedures got blamed.’

  ‘I’ve heard that one before,’ says Garcia cynically.

  ‘You think Bridger paid someone off?’ says Vish gleefully.

  Megan frowns at Garcia. ‘Cock-ups happen far more often than conspiracies, Vish.’

  Garcia shrugs. ‘Statistically speaking, Megan’s right.’

  Twenty-Three

  Friday, 5.45 p.m.

  Megan is bone weary. She heads home, having declined Garcia’s invitation to go for a meal. It’s hard work batting away the smart questions and the scrutiny. All she wants to do is escape.

  The events of the day have worn her to a frazzle. The awkwardness of her discussion with Danny, the machinations of her NCA colleagues, the accusations against her sister, all continue to spin round in her mind. And what the hell is Ted Jennings up to? Not to mention the shadow of Zac Yilmaz. She hasn’t the headspace to think about that. She’s also anxious to see Debbie and check how she is. The children will be home from school too and Megan is wondering what Debbie will have said to them. They’re bound to be confused and worried.

  She has the added irritation of having to drive round the block several times before she can find one of the few residents’ parking slots. By the time she puts her key into the front door, her brain is ticking with annoyance. Scout comes trotting to greet her and she rubs his head.

  ‘Good boy!’

  That’s when she hears her sister’s raised voice.

  ‘This is bloody ridiculous,’ shouts Debbie. ‘How am I supposed to manage?’

  Megan walks through the door into the kitchen and is surprised to see Brittney standing there, looking uneasy and sheepish.

  Debbie immediately turns to her. ‘Did you know about this? Did you know they want my fucking phone?’

  Brittany glances at Megan and readjusts the owl glasses on her nose. She seems embarrassed.

  ‘I’ve been trying to explain,’ says Brittney, ‘that if we can—’ She doesn’t get a chance to finish.

  ‘Can they do this, Meg?’ says Debbie. ‘Just walk in here and take my phone, my private property? They’ve already been through the whole bloody house.’

  ‘I discovered that the phone wasn’t found during this morning’s search. And we do have a further warrant,’ says Brittney. ‘And I’ve been trying to explain that this could help her.’

  ‘Help me, how?’ says Debbie. ‘It’s bullshit.’ She turns on her sister. ‘You said you could sort this. How is it sorted? How can I manage without my phone? What if the kids need something? I can’t afford to just get another one.’

  Through the double doors into the sitting room, Megan can see the children sitting in a tight defensive line on the sofa. Amber has her arm around little Ruby. Kyle is just watching, wide-eyed and frozen. They all seem terribly young and vulnerable to Megan. The dog wanders back and takes up his post at their feet, head on his paws, but watchful.

  ‘Listen to me, Deb—’

  ‘No, you listen to me.’ Debbie slams her hand on the kitchen table. ‘Either I’m nicked or I’m not nicked. Which is it? You lot can’t have it both ways.’ She stares defiantly at Megan.

  Megan sighs. ‘Deb, it’s more complicated than that.’

  ‘Complicated, how?’

  Brittney shifts from foot to foot in the background. She has her hands neatly clasped in front of her. She gives Megan a beseeching look. She wants rescuing. They all want bloody rescuing!

  Megan turns to her sister. ‘You’ve been released under investigation. They explained to you what that meant, Deb. The investigation is continuing and, as part of it, that means that they can take your phone.’

  ‘You mean you want me to give it to her?’ says Debbie. Her rage seems to be ebbing or perhaps she’s simply run out of energy.

  Brittney steps forward. ‘What I was trying to explain,’ she says, ‘is that by examining Debbie’s phone, we may be able to establish her location more precisely at the relevant time. And this in turn may confirm her account of events and exonerate her.’

  ‘She’s telling you the truth,’ says Megan.

  Debbie stares at them. She has a mulish expression which reminds Megan very much of how she was as a teenager. She glances at her children then slumps down on a kitchen chair and puts her face in her hands.

  ‘What I wanted to ask you,’ says Brittney gingerly, ‘was about when you sat on the harbour steps. Could you have used your phone? Sent a text? Checked for messages?’

  ‘What business is that of yours?’ says Debbie. But the fight has gone out of her.

  ‘Think, Deb,’ says Megan. ‘This could be important. After you left the pub. Did you use your phone at all?’

  Brittney pushes her glasses up her nose again. ‘The harbour steps that you sat on, were they the ones next to the restaurant? I think it’s called the Fisherman’s Kitchen.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Debbie. She’s entered the sullen phase; Megan remembers it well.

  ‘Okay,’ says Brittney. ‘It’s possible that your phone could’ve done what we call a “handshake” with the Wi-Fi in the restaurant.’

  Debbie stares at her. ‘What does that even mean?’

  ‘It means,’ says Megan, ‘that we may be able to prove that you were where you say you were.’

  Debbie sighs. She extracts her phone from her pocket and offers it to Brittney.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Brittney as she takes the phone.

  ‘I did sit there and scroll through a few things,’ says Debbie. ‘To distract myself from the headache. I can’t actually remember but I think I was looking for a new pair of trainers for my son. Something not too expensive. His feet are growing so fast at the moment…’

  She glances through to the sitting room and meets Kyle’s gaze. She smiles at him, he smiles back.

  ‘Okay,’ says Brittney, ‘well, you’ll get a receipt for the phone.’

  Debbie dismisses this with a wave of h
er hand.

  Brittney heads for the door. ‘I’ll be off.’

  ‘Thanks, Brit,’ says Megan. ‘I’ll see you out.’

  As the two police officers move into the hall, Brittney mouths I’m really sorry.

  Megan shakes her head and whispers, ‘What about CCTV?’

  ‘We’ve got a couple of bits but they’re just fragments. Kitty’s trying to track down some dash cam footage from a council rubbish truck that we think drove past her.’

  ‘I really appreciate it,’ says Megan. She keeps her voice low. ‘And I’m sorry.’

  Brittney shrugs. ‘No problem. She’s stressed.’

  Megan opens the front door and takes an involuntary step back. Mark is standing on the doorstep, rummaging in his pocket, a holdall and backpack at his feet.

  ‘Ah, brilliant,’ he says with a big grin. ‘Can’t find my bloody key.’

  Megan takes a deep breath and says, ‘Mark! We didn’t expect you until later.’

  He picks up his bags and steps inside. ‘Managed to get the early train. Had to run for it. And I’m starving. Hope there’s something good for tea.’

  He gives Brittney a friendly nod as she slips out of the door.

  Debbie has got up from the table and stands framed in the kitchen doorway. From the hallway Mark catches the desolate expression on her face.

  ‘What’s up?’ he says. ‘Somebody die?’

  Twenty-Four

  Friday, 6.10 p.m.

  The glass and wood dining table is by an up-and-coming Scandinavian designer. Yvonne bought it from Heal’s. At the time Greg moaned about the cost, but it seats ten, twelve at a pinch, which makes it ideal for dinner parties. Not that they’ve had any dinner parties lately. Greg prefers to eat out. More often than not she isn’t invited. Business. That’s his usual excuse. When he’s feeling nasty, he blames her drinking.

  Yvonne has settled herself at the head of the table in her husband’s place. She’s been drinking steadily for most of the day. She’s stashed the empties behind a large plant pot in the conservatory. But does white wine really count as booze? It’s not the same as gin or vodka. It’s a light beverage that just takes the edge off things.