Bayliss & Calladine Box Set

by Helen H. Durrant

  “Spend his money on what? Did she say if he’d bought her anything?”

  “No, but he’d taken her for some fancy meal in Chinatown earlier in the week. Eaten like a pig, she had — or so she said.”

  Ruth looked at Rocco — there were cameras all over that part of town.

  “Did she say if they had this meal at night or during the day?” He was hoping to pin the time down and save on all that CCTV watching.

  “Lunchtime. Then he took her around the shops, but I don’t recall her saying they’d bought anything.”

  “Thanks, Mrs Tunnicliffe. Would you mind coming with us to the railway station and pointing out exactly where he was waiting? We’ll bring you back home afterwards.”

  Ten minutes later, Ruby Tunnicliffe was describing the sequence of events.

  “He was in a van, a small white van parked just beyond that street light down there. He didn’t get out.” She frowned. “You’d have thought he would have helped her with her stuff; her bag was heavy. We talked for a moment or two — just here on these steps, but he must have been impatient because he tooted his horn. Then she went off. She waved, and then she was gone.”

  “And they drove off in that direction? You didn’t see them turn around?” Ruth asked. The bastard was clever. He’d have seen Patsy talking to her and wouldn’t have wanted the woman to get a look at him.

  “No — and I would have because I was waiting ten minutes for a taxi.”

  The white van again. This was their man alright. Rocco ran Mrs Tunnicliffe home, while Ruth waited outside the station and rang in.

  “We’re going to need the CCTV from Chinatown — say the last two days’ worth. Daytime footage. And someone needs to go through it to see if they can spot Patsy. She and our man ate there lunchtime. He spent money — some posh place — and that’s all we know. Also, it sounds very much like the same van. It might be an idea to check those registered to folk in Leesworth, big job or not.”

  * * *

  Calladine got the call from Jo at about three thirty that afternoon. Apparently it was nine thirty in New York, so DeAngelo would be at work. He left the nick and went straight home to boot up his laptop. He hadn’t used Skype before, but Jo had set him up an account and left instructions on how to use it. People did this all the time so it couldn’t be that difficult, he reasoned. He wasn’t averse to technology — it was simply that he didn’t use it much. A memo, a report, a few emails, was about the scope of his expertise. Everything else he left to the others — notably Imogen.

  But today technology was proving to be a little marvel. Minutes after arriving home and grabbing a mug of coffee, he was meeting Devon DeAngelo in cyberspace.

  “Hi there, Detective!” The New Yorker became visible to him on the screen. “Nice to know you. Don’t get to speak to our Brit cousins very often. Jo tells me she’s got the hots for your daughter.” He laughed at this, as if it was completely ordinary. “So what can I do for you?”

  He was a large man, casually dressed in an open shirt and loose fleece jacket. He had a full head of dark hair. Calladine put him at about his own age, but he was well out of condition. He had a noticeable paunch and a reddish hue to his face. He seemed to be out of breath when he spoke.

  “It’s good of you to help. I really need to speak to some people stateside, but the tight sod I work for is making that very difficult.”

  The American laughed. Calladine could see him reaching for a can of soft drink. “We have the same problems here, believe me. The rules can be a right bitch sometimes.”

  “The problem I’ve got is that we’ve had a series of murders locally — all young women, all students attending a university in Manchester and all American. It’s grim. They’re kept somewhere, and death isn’t quick. This man’s a right bastard and he needs stopping as soon as possible. The problem is we’ve got precious little to go on. The evidence is sparse. Forensics are working on one or two leads, but nothing has given us the break we need.”

  “Do you know why he goes for American girls? I mean — that’s pretty specific.”

  “No idea, but it must make some twisted sense to him. I have a list of female students, all from the US, who’ve left university without going through any of the formalities, and I need these checking out. I need to know if they’re safe at home or missing here. We know we haven’t found them all yet. We’re pretty sure there’ll be more before this is over.”

  “Jo has my email address. Send over the list and I’ll do what I can, Inspector. What about those you do know about? Have the families been told?”

  “We’re on with that but I’ll send those too. Incidentally, one of the victims was from Queens — your neck of the woods, I believe.”

  “Sure is. What’s her name?”

  “Serena Hall.”

  “I’ll look into her background for you. Look, Inspector — suppose I get back to you tomorrow for an update?”

  “Fine with me — and call me Tom.”

  “Great, Tom. You call me Devon.”

  Calladine smiled. He still couldn’t quite get over the name.

  “What’s your rank, Devon?”

  “Lieutenant. I’m in Homicide, Tom, so I do more or less the same thing you do.”

  “But with guns.”

  “You disapprove?” DeAngelo laughed, picking up a sandwich from his desk. “Better not get into that one,” he chuckled. “Talk again tomorrow, Tom!” And then he was gone.

  He owed Jo. He’d get her something; perhaps he’d treat her and Zoe to a slap-up meal somewhere. He was just thinking about getting back to the office when there was a series of loud raps on his front door.

  Chapter 17

  “You took your time, Tom Calladine. I was beginning to think you were seriously indisposed or something.”

  Calladine gasped, wondering if his eyes were deceiving him. But the woman who stood on his doorstep was real enough. She smiled again, batted her long lashes and pushed past him into his hallway.

  “Well if you won’t ask me in, Detective, then I’ll just have to be a little more forward.” She walked through to the sitting room, dropped the suitcase she was carrying onto the floor and stood staring at him. She cocked her lovely head to one side, winked, and then opened her arms wide. “Come here, stupid man. Come and give me a hug.”

  She wasn’t a dream. She wasn’t a hallucination brought on by stress — she was real. But it wasn’t until he had her grasped tight in his arms, with his lips firmly pressed to hers, that he actually believed it.

  Lydia was back.

  The lovely creature he’d lost his heart to — his dream woman — was actually here. She was standing in his house with her arms wrapped around him.

  “So you are glad to see me. From the way you looked at the door, I wondered. But whatever you think, I’ve missed you, Tom Calladine, missed you like crazy. No word from you, nothing, for weeks — not even a text.” She slapped his arm.

  “You could have rung me. It’s not all one-sided, you know.”

  “You’d think I was chasing you! Can’t have that, can we, Detective? You’ll get all big-headed and start thinking you’re God’s gift.”

  “Stupid woman. You know I’ve only got eyes for you . . .” And he kissed her again. “It really is good to see you, Lydia. I was beginning to think you’d never come back, not after what happened to you.”

  “I’ve had to work on that, believe me, Tom. What that man did to me left mental scars — but I’m dealing with them, and not doing too bad either. The key is work, work, work then more work. I immersed myself and it’s sorted my head out.”

  “It should never have happened.” He traced his fingers down her cheek. “Another instance of Jones’s penny-pinching stupidity. You should have had someone watching you.”

  “Let’s not rake all that up now. It’s in its place.” She tapped her head. “It’s dealt with, and that’s that. I take risks; it comes with the job, so I have to live with the consequences.”

 
“So what are you doing here? I thought you’d gone for good, and I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

  “Like I said, I went off and licked my wounds, but now I’m back and raring to go. The job I took in Edinburgh wasn’t right for me and, anyway, Scotland’s too cold. I’ve got a new job now, so here I am.”

  “Are you back with the Echo?”

  “What — that rag? No fear — that’s small fry. No, Detective. I’ve had a sniff of the big time, and now I want more. Investigative journalism — that’s where my future is. I wrote a piece for one of nationals after the Handy Man case and the fee was amazing. Since then I’ve done a few more — chased up on all the juicy cases I could find. Robberies mostly. I investigated the goings on behind that big jewellery robbery in London last month.”

  “So why Leesworth?”

  “Because of you. I can see from the look on your face that you don’t believe me, but it’s true, every word. I’m not spinning you a yarn, Detective. I’ve really missed you, and I reached the point where I just had to come back and catch up.”

  “I’m flattered, Lydia, I really am. But there is an angle, isn’t there? With you, there’s got to be. I’m flattered, but I’m not that stupid. I mean — look at you, then take a real good look at me.” He shook his head. He was feeling it again — that slightly ill at ease ‘what’s she up to’ feeling. Investigative journalism . . . She needed him for something.

  “That hurts, it really does. I like you, Tom. You know I do, and I wouldn’t use you. I’m not that sort of woman.”

  “Lydia, you’re exactly that sort of woman.” He chuckled. “But right now I just don’t care. It’s so good to have you back, to see you standing in front of me looking wonderful, still so very lovely.”

  “You’ll have me blushing. Let’s not get into the whys and wherefores right now. Let’s eat and talk and have a real good catch up.”

  “We’ll do that later. First tell me what it is you’re investigating round here.”

  “Can’t that wait, Tom? If I tell you, then you’ll just get annoyed, and bang goes our wonderful evening.”

  “Just tell me what you want, Lydia. I’m a busy man and I don’t have time to let you run circles around me.”

  “Can I just say that I will need your help, Detective? I simply don’t know enough about the person I’m chasing.”

  Why did that send a cold shiver down his spine?

  “So you do want something — and you know I won’t approve.”

  “Yes, but all I want is a few pointers; clarification on one or two things — that’s all. Oh and Tom, I’d like to stay here too.”

  “Here? With me?”

  “Well yes. You do live here, don’t you?”

  “Yes I do, but I’m not here alone anymore.”

  “You have another woman in your life — yes, I know, and I have to say I’m surprised, so soon after me . . .”

  “There is another woman, but it’s not what you think.”

  “She’s very pretty, and young too. Is this her?” Lydia took out a sheaf of photos from her briefcase.

  “Yes, that’s me and Zoe.” He blinked, not quite taking in what it was she was showing him. “Where did you get these? That’s my mother’s funeral. Why would you want photos of that?” He thought for a moment, and then realised. “You must have been there, watching — but why? And why not come and speak to me?”

  “It didn’t seem the right thing to do, Tom.” She pointed to Zoe, who was holding his hand in one of the pictures. “So who’s the woman then?”

  “My daughter, Zoe.”

  “You have a daughter?” She sounded incredulous. “A grown-up daughter? Where did she come from? You certainly didn’t have her last time I saw you.”

  “It’s a long story, but she is mine — mine and Rachel’s. She came looking for me when her mum died.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you okay with her living here?”

  “Yep. It suits me just fine.” He looked a little closer at the images, trying to work out why she’d taken them. Then it hit him — like a brick between the eyes.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” He pointed at the image of his cousin. “You’re bloody well investigating him!”

  The perfectly shaped eyebrows rose a little, and those baby blue eyes flashed with annoyance.

  “He’s big news, Detective — or he will be once you lot get your fingers out and slap the cuffs on him.”

  What on earth was she up to? Whatever it was it had to stop. She obviously had no idea what she was getting into. If Fallon got the merest whiff that Lydia was about to dish the dirt on him, he’d retaliate. She’d simply disappear. He’d have her killed and Calladine would never be able to find out how or where.

  “Keep away, Lydia. Fallon is bad news. Michael Morpeth was a pussycat in comparison to my damn cousin.”

  “Don’t be like that.” She rubbed his arm. “It’s all going to come out about him soon. He’s started making mistakes. And with me doing the story, you can be kept out of it.”

  “I’m not involved.” Now he was really angry. What did she think he was? “Since we reached adulthood I’ve had nothing to do with the bastard. And, like I keep telling people, neither should anyone else.”

  “So. You won’t help me?” Lydia Holden stood glowering at him with her hands on her hips — those delicate, manicured hands of hers that could be so gentle, so giving.

  “No, I won’t help you, because I would be signing your death warrant. You’ll get hurt, Lydia — you’ll be picked up by one of his thugs so fast your feet won’t touch. We’d never find your body. We’d never find anything.”

  “Then you need to up your game, Detective.”

  “Smart-assed comments won’t get you anywhere either, Lydia.”

  He still couldn’t believe it. Lydia Holden here, in his sitting room, calling the shots and looking so damn sexy he was helpless. He wanted her. He wanted her so badly it hurt.

  “Well, if this is how you’re going to be, if you’re going to be all tight-lipped about Fallon, then I’ll go ask elsewhere. But I have to say, you surprise me, Detective. I thought you, of all people, would be only too happy to dish the dirt on your errant kin.”

  “Look, Lydia, I don’t have time to stand here and argue with you now—”

  “Well, come to bed and argue with me there instead. Come on, Detective, I know you want to.” She moved forward, and nuzzled in close. She was a siren, a weakness he couldn’t resist. “Don’t play hard to get, Detective. We both know it’s not your style.”

  Their lips met long and hard. Could he take time out for this? More to the point, should he take time out for this woman? Her hands roamed over his chest, flipping open his shirt buttons.

  “We should make up for lost time . . . Don’t you want me, Tom? Want me like before — you do remember how it was, don’t you, lover?”

  Of course he remembered. How could he forget?

  Their lips met again and this time the passion overpowered everything else in his head — the case, the problems, her need for his help. He pulled away from her. “Those pictures. Show them to me again.”

  Lydia groaned and reached for her folder. “‘Here you go, Tom, and don’t take long. This girl is hungry.”

  Calladine looked carefully at each one until he found it. Lydia had snapped Fallon as he stood by his car. He’d just got out and was making towards him. But it was his goon that caught his attention. The camera had caught him at the moment he lifted the arrangement of roses from the boot.

  That could be it — the piece of the puzzle that would nail the bastard.

  “Sorry, Lydia — I have to go out.” He was fastening his shirt and grabbing his suit jacket as he moved. “Stay. Settle in. Take the back bedroom; get yourself some food. I’ll be back later and we’ll talk.”

  With that he was gone, banging the front door behind him.

  * * *

  Calladine pulled into the care-home car park. He took a quick look in the mirror to make sur
e he didn’t have Lydia’s lipstick all over his face, and made for the door. He had to knock. Since his mother’s death he no longer had a key card.

  “Is Monika here?” he asked the young woman at the reception desk.

  “She’s with some of the residents in the dining room. Go on through, Inspector.”

  Monika looked up as he entered the room. She didn’t smile — but she didn’t frown or tell him to get lost either.

  “Sorry, Monika. I should have come before . . . Look — we could do with having a proper talk at some time. Clear the air. But for now — this is business.”

  She stood up from where she had been kneeling beside an elderly woman.

  “I don’t think we’ve anything much to say, do you, Tom? Actions, as they say, speak louder than words; and your actions over the past weeks have spoken volumes. You haven’t been near me for weeks — you didn’t even speak to me at your mother’s funeral. A perfect opportunity I would have thought.” She nodded towards her office. “In there, if you want to talk. Not in public, if you don’t mind.”

  He couldn’t blame her. He’d been a first-class bastard.

  “It’s the funeral I want to speak to you about. I know Zoe had a word. She suggested you brought some of the flowers back here. It was a filthy day — all that rain, and they’d only have been ruined if we left them on the grave.”

  “Yes, she did offer — and I took her up on it. I didn’t touch the arrangement from you and Zoe, but I did take some of the bouquets. They are in vases around the rooms. You don’t want them back, do you?”

  “Oh no, nothing like that. I’m only interested in the roses — that elaborate concoction from Fallon that spelt out ‘Auntie Freda’”

  “Yes, I think we did take those. I can check. But before we do anything there’s something I need to do. Your mother instructed me to give you this.” She reached down and retrieved an envelope from a safe bolted to the floor. “She left this for you. She gave it to me the day she moved in here and said I was to only give it to you once she’d gone. She made me promise not to say anything, so I had no choice — I had to respect her wishes. She was fully aware of what she was doing when she gave it to me.”