by Linda Coles
He followed Amanda in through the back entry and checked his watch at the same time. It wasn't far off 12 o'clock. His stomach gurgled but he wasn't entirely sure if that was the remains of the full English repeating and giving him grief or the sign of needing more. He’d wait another hour.
The cooler air indoors was welcoming.
As soon as they entered the squad room, it was obvious something was afoot. The room was almost silent except for a telephone call going on over by the window; an officer was deep in conversation, leaning back in his chair with his feet up on the ledge. He ran his fingers through his full head of hair as he spoke; Jack wondered idly if it was self-soothing. Everyone else had their heads down, like a classroom full of frightened children. Amanda was about to ask what was up when DCI Japp made his appearance behind her. She startled slightly at his firm voice.
“DS Lacey, a word please.”
She gave Jack an uneasy sideways glance; he simply shrugged. She had no choice but to follow Japp through to his office.
“Shut the door,” he instructed, looking at a piece of A4 in his hand. “I'll get to the point,” he said. “It seems the Parkers now know that it was an off-duty policeman that hit their son, and as you can imagine, they feel we are covering something up—or about to do so. How the hell they know, how they found out so soon is a mystery, but since DI Dupin lives just down the road from the accident scene, I suspect a neighbour said something. Either way, however, they found out, and now we have to deal with it.” He sighed. “I don't need to remind you that this could now become quite a circus for the team—for the whole station, in fact.”
“Right,” said Amanda, sounding deflated. The distraction coming from the media and from the family would now ramp up significantly. “Is there anything specifically you'd like me to do, sir?”
“I'll be calling a press conference for later on this afternoon, simply because we can't ignore them. May as well face it head on. But the rest is business as usual. This case is no different from any other just because it involves one of our own. We will investigate it with as much resource and vigour as we would any other case.”
He was beginning to sound like his own press release already, Amanda thought grimly. Maybe he was practising for later.
Chapter Ten
After the official news of Callum’s death had been delivered, Melissa’s parents had collected her and taken her back to their home, where she’d spent the night. All plans of her future with Callum Parker were now dashed, and she had sobbed as though her heart would break. She’d drained most of her father’s vodka and had finally fallen asleep on the sofa. Her father had carried her up to her old room and covered her over with her favourite quilt, which had baby rabbits on it.
Bevan Ross looked down at his daughter now and smiled slightly. Even though she was going through hell, he was silently pleased the wedding wouldn’t now be going ahead. Neither he nor his wife Nicola had liked Callum Parker; he had been too inconsiderate in too many ways, and they both knew Melissa could do better. Lashing out at an old man after a car accident was typical of Callum, Bevan thought with disgust; the boy could never do wrong in his own book and had always been quick to point the finger of blame at others. They’d hoped he’d never do it to their Melissa. Now, thank god, he’d never get the chance.
Bevan and Nicola had talked about him for hours when Callum and Melissa had first got engaged, about how they both hoped it would never go through, never last. Their concerns had been raised during the winter just gone when Melissa had fallen on the icy pavement and hurt her knee badly, and Callum had thought it the funniest thing, telling his friends he was engaged to Jayne Torvill in training. Melissa had told her parents and had then silently seethed; not wanting to look like a poor sport, she had never confronted Callum—about this or any of his other “jokes.” Instead, she’d put up with his selfish ways and grown accustomed to them—and, perhaps inevitably, some of that spite had rubbed off on her. Over the following months, Melissa had grown to be a precocious young woman who had wanted everything Callum Parker and his money could buy her. And that meant spending his money in style. If she was going to be his trophy wife, she’d do the best job she could, starting with doubling her cup size and getting her lips filled.
As her father looked down at his sleeping daughter now, he hardly recognised her. He left the mug of tea he’d taken up to her on the bedside cabinet, next to a stuffed pink rabbit who had seen better days. Its glass eyes stared at Bevan like something from a horror movie. He returned to join Nicola in the kitchen feeling heavy inside. He wanted only the best for Melissa, and he was sorry she was hurting inside. He hoped she’d get over her fiancé quickly.
“Still asleep. I left the mug with her,” he said at Nicola’s enquiring look.
“She’ll be exhausted, I expect. Stress and shock will do that. And the vodka wouldn’t have helped.”
Bevan slid onto a bar stool and Nicola filled his mug with coffee. She sat next to him, sipping her own, and they enjoyed the easy silence. They’d both talked long after Melissa had fallen asleep the previous evening, and there really wasn’t much left to say. Conscious that their daughter could appear at the door at any moment, they’d vowed not to mention his name further unless Melissa brought it up. Their thoughts were interrupted by the landline ringing.
“I’ll get it,” Nicola said, reaching for the handset. She looked at the caller ID and groaned. Taking a breath, she answered, trying to balance her voice somewhere between sadness and resolute cheerfulness.
“Morning.” There was no point adding the ‘good’ part, because it wasn’t a good morning for whichever Parker was on the line now.
“Yes. Morning, Nicola.” It was Brian Parker. Unsurprisingly, he sounded tired; his words were slow and weak, not like his usual upbeat delivery. Nicola pressed her lips together tightly in sympathy for the man. Whatever she and Bevan had thought of Callum, they’d always found Jean and Brian to be decent people; Brian in particular was a gentle soul.
“I thought…” He cleared his throat. “I mean, we thought we’d see how Melissa is this morning. Did she manage to get some sleep?”
“Yes, thank you. She’s still sleeping now, actually. Do you want me to give her a message when she wakes?”
“No, just wanted to check on her.” Brian Parker fell silent for a moment or two, and Nicola waited patiently, feeling there was more to come.
Finally, he spoke again. “Actually, there is something else.”
“Oh?”
“We had a visitor last night. Someone from near where the accident took place. I guess he lived along the way somewhere. Anyway, he found us.”
“Yes?”
“Well, he knows the man who lashed out at Callum. That’s what he wanted to tell us.”
Nicola wasn’t picking up what he was skirting around, what he was trying to say. “I’m sorry, Brian. What were they trying to tell you?” Bevan looked at her in concern and then moved closer to her, trying to listen in to the conversation.
“The man who hit Callum. He was an off-duty police officer. A detective, in fact.”
“Right.” Nicola still wasn’t sure what he was trying to spell out to her.
“Well, that means a cover-up, wouldn’t you say? Mates together, looking after their own?”
“Ah, I see what you’re saying now. And you’re worried.”
He was like an old Morris Minor setting off from a set of traffic lights, slowly accelerating. By the time Nicola had caught up with his meaning, he was full throttle and powering on ahead.
“Damn right we’re worried! They’ll make it look like Callum was over the limit, crashed his car and died of his injuries. Meanwhile, their man gets to keep his job and pension, and Callum gets to lie in a coffin. Mark my words, that’s how it will go! But I’ll not let them get away with it!”
He was shouting down the phone now, and Nicola held the handset away from her ear. Bevan had no trouble hearing him now, and he and his wife looked a
t each other in concern.
Would that really happen?
Chapter Eleven
Brian Parker was shaking with rage as he replaced the handset back into its holder. It bleeped to let him know it was charging. Glancing impatiently at it, he wanted to tell it to go to hell, but what good would it do? The phone wasn’t responsible for his angst; if only it were that simple, he’d crush it under his foot. He let out a loud sigh and stood stooped over, his heart racing, trying to calm his breathing. If he wasn’t careful, he’d need another blood pressure tablet. Jean was hovering nearby and he sensed her wanting to say something.
“Say it, then.”
“I don’t need to, do I? You already know.”
He stood up straight, forcing his shoulders back with a crunch. His bones and sinews sounded like twigs on a forest floor being trampled over by walkers. He needed to see the osteopath again; the stress from Callum’s death was adding to his discomfort. He yawned to get some oxygen into his lungs.
“I’ll get you a glass of water. Go and sit down,” Jean said, putting a comforting hand on her husband’s forearm. He did as she instructed and plopped himself onto the hard chair by the kitchen table. It scraped loudly over the tiled floor as it moved a couple of inches under his weight. Jean rejoined him, holding a glass for each of them.
“We should contact Bryson,” he said. “He should be able to suggest who can help with this mess. We’ll need more than a trust lawyer if the police start looking out for their own. They’ll not be damned about the loss of our son, mark my words.” He was staring at a fly that had landed on the corner of the table and was now rubbing its legs together, cleaning itself. The bristles on its body twitched as it sensed the world around it. Maybe it would pick up on the sombre mood in the kitchen. Having tasted whatever it had landed on, the fly lifted off with precision, propelling itself forward at breakneck speed for something with a body and inner engine so incredibly small. Brian watched it soar into the air and out the open back door, where it had presumably flown in from in the first place. He felt like flying away somewhere himself, somewhere he wouldn’t have to deal with the shit storm that could well be ahead. There was no way they were going to accept anything but the truth, he vowed: the name of Callum Parker was not going to be buried, tainted or disrespected by dirty police officers.
“How do you think he knew?” Nicola said. “I mean, that chap who came around last night and told us? And who was he?”
Brian rubbed his chin. How indeed had he known?
“Did he leave his name or contact details?” he asked her. “Do you remember? I was in a fog last night, still am really, as I’m sure you are. It’s been a hell of a twenty-four hours for us both.”
Jean’s chair scraped on the tiles as she stood and walked to the pin board on the fridge. If she’d written it down, it would be clipped in place; it was the only way to keep track of things. He watched his wife scan the bits and bobs held in place with tiny plastic clips, but she didn’t pull anything off.
“There’s nothing hung here,” she said, “so that means no. It would be here if they had.”
She moved to sit back at the table, and the repeat shrill sound of the chair on tile made Brian wanted to yell out. His nerves were frazzled at the ends, but there was no point upsetting Jean with his own wants and needs; she was acting like a zombie herself.
“I do have the name of the detective that came around, though,” she told him. “Perhaps I can call her. Perhaps she’d know who was involved?”
It was a long shot, and Brian couldn’t see it being of use, but he had no better idea. Why on earth would the police know who had come to their house and informed them the man who’d killed their son was a police officer? It didn’t make any sense. A more sensible approach would be to return to the scene of the crime and knock on doors in the vicinity to find the visitor from last night.
To pacify Jean, he said, “I’ll ring her, but first I’m going to get some air. I need to clear my head a little. Will you be alright on your own for an hour?” He looked at her puffy pink eyes and wished he could ease her pain, as well as his own. They’d clung to each other in grief when they’d returned home from the hospital, and he knew she also hadn’t slept much. No doubt they’d both collapse and take a nap together later.
“I’ll be fine. You go. You look as exhausted as I feel. It will do you good.”
With a weak smile, he gathered his car keys off the work surface and headed out into the morning air. It was still cool, but the day had high hopes of being another warm one; the sun was already working on burning through the puce-coloured clouds. He’d be back home by the time it did.
It didn’t take Brian Parker long to arrive at the crash site. He pulled over onto the grass verge and got out and stretched his legs. The lane was covered with a canopy of leafy overhanging branches, the sunlight sparkling through as the breeze caught them and created gaps wide enough to give an almost magical light show. On another day, he’d have appreciated Mother Nature’s spectacle, but not today.
The road was cleared of debris, though there was spray marker paint still visible on the tarmac; broken glass had been swept onto the side of the road, and it glinted as the sun caught it. Whose car it had belonged to he didn’t know. Maybe it was from a previous collision on another day. It didn’t look much like a crime scene; simply a crash scene. Nobody had died here; there was no blue and white police tape cordoning it off. Not now, at least. He stood by the grassy ditch and listened to the wind rattling in the leaves above. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. Not a religious man, Brian found himself saying a prayer anyway, even though he knew it wouldn’t bring his son back. It did, however, bring fresh tears to his eyes, and he let them slip down his face unchallenged.
Then, just like the fly earlier, the bristles on his own body sensed that the world around him had changed.
Somebody was standing next to him.
Chapter Twelve
After Amanda had been taken off by DCI Japp, Jack took the opportunity to dig out the case file on the one he had been reminded of; he didn’t have anything else pressing. He was entitled to a lunch hour, wasn’t he? And who knew how long Amanda would be. He entered the details he knew of into the crime reporting information system, CRIS for short, and waited for it to do its thing. Since the case in question was around fifteen years ago, he didn’t need to go digging into dusty archives in the bowels of London. He was thankful; he hated mice. Several cases filled the screen and he scrolled down to find the one he was after. He made himself comfortable as he browsed through the scanned documents, clicking the print icon for the interesting or useful pages. He kept one eye on the door for Amanda, or worse, Japp, reappearing.
He was about finished when he spotted Amanda entering the squad room, her cheeks flushed. He doubted she’d been having a good ol’ time in the broom cupboard, so that meant one thing. She caught his eye and waved backwards with a flick of her head for Jack to follow her. He hastily grabbed a manila folder off a nearby desk, scattering its contents onto the floor as he dashed to the printer and stuffed his freshly printed bedtime reading into it, all in a roundabout way of walking over to his boss. He didn’t want others knowing what he was interested in—not yet, anyway.
Amanda raised a tweezered eyebrow in question at the mess he’d created in his wake, clearly wondering what he was doing with the folder. Jack ignored it. He caught her up as she left the room. In the corridor, she took a couple of loud, deep breaths and headed towards the canteen, Jack in tow like an obedient Labrador. Eventually she’d fill him in, he knew, so he didn’t bother asking what was afoot. The double doors were still swinging from someone else entering or leaving, and he caught them with his foot for Amanda. She still hadn’t said anything, though her obvious temper was dissipating. He held a plastic chair out for her and she flopped down like a sack of spuds. Designer suits didn’t maketh this woman. Amanda preferred functional clothing, including the Dr. Martens she wore each day, come rain or sh
ine. You could, however, see your reflection in their gleaming, polished finish.
“Tea or coffee? And are you having lunch in here?” he asked. There was a welcoming smell of pie and chips wafting from the kitchen, and Jack hoped she’d be joining him.
“Tea, thanks, and whatever you’re having.”
Jack grinned and headed over to place their order, carrying back two steaming mugs of tea. Fighting irons were in a metal holder in the centre of the table, and he took out two sets of knives and forks, placing one in front of each of them.
“Thanks. Are you playing Dad?”
“Mrs Stewart is training me well,” he said, and smiled.
“I can see that. She was a good buy, then, was she?”
Amanda and her partner Ruth had organised for a housekeeper when Jack had found himself in hospital with appendicitis and they’d realised he needed a little assistance in the homemaking department. He’d never remarried after his Janine had died, and he’d desperately needed the guidance of a woman’s touch. Mrs Stewart was that woman now, though only on an employed basis. They did, however, go to lawn bowls together. But as Mrs Stewart was a good fifteen years older than Jack, Amanda didn’t think they’d become lovebirds anytime soon. She had made Jack happier at home, though, as well as more presentable and better fed.
“I don’t know how I’ve managed all these years, looking back. I hope she’s not thinking of croaking it and leaving me for a while yet. Call me selfish, but it’s a pleasure to spend time at home again. The fridge is always full of goodies, like in the movies.”
Amanda had relaxed a little, and Jack figured he could broach the subject of what had been rattling her after Japp’s summons.
