Flesh and Blood (A DI Amy Winter Thriller)

by Caroline Mitchell

  CHAPTER ONE

  Friday 23 July

  Amy couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but she sensed that change was on its way. A feeling of foreboding had lingered since she awoke, a heavy, dragging sensation in the pit of her gut. She leaned against her office door, arms folded, watching her team. Used to her presence, they carried on with their work. Perhaps it was during Amy’s early childhood that she had learnt to silently observe. As a child in a house of murderers, you held your tongue or risked losing it.

  Today, nobody was in trouble, and there was nothing to fear. With a plethora of newspapers on her desk, Amy was keeping her eye on things nationally. There were some interesting cases on the go, including a few random suicides at seaside resorts. Amy was familiar with macabre online groups, with people who got their kicks from persuading others to take their own lives. But it was not in her catchment area, and she could not be everywhere at once.

  For now, the office phones were silent and fingers softly pressed keyboards as reports were completed and emails responded to. In the corridor, the tannoy requested the presence of an officer at the front desk. For once, Amy’s team was being left in peace. After a bumpy start, they were tight, accepting of each other’s little ways. They were a police family – with her and Donovan at the helm. Amy’s relationship with her DCI had blossomed, before settling like a fine dusting of snow. It cast beauty over the ugliness that preceded it, and she was grateful to Donovan for his support. He’d given her a lifeline, just when she’d felt ready to give up. If he hadn’t been there during her last big case . . . She suppressed a shudder as Paddy approached with the day’s post in his hand.

  Amy’s team had their own cubbyhole in the station reception, and every morning one of them took the short walk to pick up the mail. It was usually accompanied by a piss-take from officers on other teams: a jokey request for an autograph or a jibe about the camera adding extra pounds. Her team had encountered them all. But being on television had not smartened Paddy’s appearance. His baggy suit trousers still needed ironing, and there was usually a food stain of some kind on his novelty tie. Amy didn’t mind. He could be relied upon to keep the team running, and that was all that mattered.

  ‘Mmm, perfumed. Fan mail, I’m guessing.’ Paddy sniffed the pink envelope in his hand.

  ‘Don’t sniff too hard.’ Amy arched an eyebrow. ‘There could be ricin in there.’

  ‘Good point, it’s all yours.’ Paddy dropped the letter into the palm of Amy’s hand. It was one of many she had received since their fly-on-the-wall documentary aired on TV.

  ‘What about me?’ Steve Moss peered from over his computer monitor. His shirt was fitted to his form; his short gelled hair was swept into a style more suited to a younger man. Today he had been tasked with sorting his outstanding emails, many of them from witnesses requesting the return of seized property now the court cases were over.

  ‘You’ve had five this week already,’ Amy said. Not that she was keeping tally. Such letters were unimportant to her. The public was fickle and would soon move on.

  But it seemed that Molly did not feel the same way. ‘I can’t believe you lot are getting fan mail and I’ve had nothing.’ She rammed the paper tray back into the photocopier, which had jammed for the third time that day.

  ‘That’s cos all your best bits were cut out.’ Steve snorted a laugh. ‘All that brown-nosing got you nowhere.’ He paused to straighten his tie. ‘I’m wasted in the police. I could be a Crimewatch presenter.’

  Paddy rolled his eyes as he settled down at his desk. ‘Never praise a bubble because it’s sure to burst.’ It was one of his gems of Irish wisdom, often gifted but rarely appreciated.

  Amy smiled. Her team had a right to be jubilant. The police documentary had raised their profile no end. For once, the command team were happy with them, although that could change in the blink of an eye. For now, their workload was manageable. They hadn’t dealt with a high-profile murder since the Love Heart Killer, and it was a novelty to have time on their hands. But as Donovan strode past, the thunderous look on his face told Amy their free time was coming to an end.

  Ignoring the laughter, Donovan disappeared into the office he shared with Amy, his mobile phone jammed against his ear. The blood visibly drained from his face as he spoke in low tones. Amy felt a pang of worry. Was it his daughter? She hovered outside the open door. It was her space too, but still, she wondered . . . should she go in, or was this a call that should be taken alone? Her question was answered as he waved her inside.

  ‘Something wrong?’ she said, her unease growing as he rested his phone on his desk.

  ‘That was Bicks – he replaced me as sergeant after I left Clacton CID.’ A heavy sigh left Donovan’s lips. ‘He rang to tell me that Carla killed herself last night. She was a DC on my team.’

  ‘Suicide?’ The word bounced off the walls of their office. A word that invoked dread, particularly when it came to one of their own. ‘Who?’ Amy was not known for her bedside manner, preferring to get to the point.

  ‘Carla. Carla Burke. She was a good detective.’ Donovan’s eyes grew moist. ‘I need to get to the bottom of this.’

  ‘That’s awful . . . I’m so sorry.’ Amy had lost colleagues in the past. One of her fellow trainees had been stabbed during a raid when she was a PC. But this was suicide . . . She immediately joined the dots as she remembered what she had just read. Was her demise connected to the string of seaside suicides reported in the press? She shook the thought away. It was too soon to bring it up. It pained her to see Donovan this upset. The sense of foreboding she had earlier experienced left her feeling unsettled. Had it been a premonition?

  She rested a hand on Donovan’s shoulder for a moment to offer comfort, drawing it away when she realised Paddy’s gaze was upon them. He raised his eyebrows in concern. Amy returned a tight smile.

  ‘CCTV picked her up heading towards the pier in Clacton.’ Donovan’s words were weighted with grief. ‘They said she must have thrown herself off the edge.’ He paused to clear his throat. ‘But they’re wrong.’

  ‘Where are you off to?’ Amy watched him pocket his mobile phone before rising from his chair.

  ‘To speak to the command team. I’m getting us attached to this case.’

  ‘What case? It’s suicide.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Donovan snapped. ‘I worked with her. She didn’t kill herself.’

  Amy’s thoughts returned to the suicides in Brighton and Blackpool. The newspapers on her desk reported how the men had visited isolated beauty spots and thrown themselves into the sea. Schoolkids had just broken up for the holidays and the summer stretched before them. Such reports were not welcomed by the tourist industry. Local councillors would want this shut down quickly. But there was no justification for Amy’s team to be attached to the case.

  She forgave Donovan’s sharp reply. He was protective of his friends, particularly those he worked with. ‘Sorry,’ she said softly.

  ‘No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped.’ He smiled apologetically, running a hand through his tousled hair. He stared into space, gathering his thoughts before meeting her eye. ‘Close the door, will you?’

  Amy’s features were taut with concern as she did as instructed. This was more than grief. There was something else. She watched Donovan bring up his recent calls on his phone. ‘This is to go no further than this office. Not until I know what to do with it.’

  Amy nodded; her interest piqued.

  After heaving a sigh, Donovan pressed play. A woman’s voice filled the void between them as he replayed a voicemail. ‘Hi,’ she said, pausing for breath. ‘It’s me . . . Carla, from Clacton?’

  Amy listened intently. This was the voice of a ghost. Carla continued, her nervousness evident. ‘I don’t like to bother you but . . .’ Another pause. ‘I could do with your advice. Anyway . . .’ Strained laughter followed. ‘I’m on my way out right now so I’ll catch up with you tomorrow, maybe? I saw you on the telly tonight, you wer
e great.’

  Amy met Donovan’s gaze as the call came to an end.

  ‘Does that sound like a woman about to kill herself?’ he said, raising the phone in his hand.

  ‘What time did she call?’ Amy folded her arms, ready to work the logistics out.

  ‘Eleven o’clock last night. Right before she went to the pier. I saw it but I was too busy to pick up.’ He frowned. ‘This is my fault. I should have answered. I thought . . .’ Donovan broke her gaze. ‘It doesn’t matter what I thought. She needed my help and I let her down.’

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ Amy replied. ‘You weren’t to know.’

  ‘I’m going to pitch for it.’ Donovan’s eyes burnt with intensity. ‘It’s a long shot, but if I can tie it in with the other seaside suicides then we might have a murder investigation on our hands.’

  ‘I’m behind you all the way,’ Amy replied, dubious that they would be given access to the case. But her allegiance to Donovan took precedence over any doubts. ‘We’re managing our workloads; we can spare the time.’

  ‘Good. Then rally the troops. We’re going to the seaside.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Blowing the steam from his tea, Donovan gazed gloomily out of the condensation-streaked window. He was meant to be speaking to Superintendent Jones, but instead he was sitting in a nearby cafe. It was a typical English greasy spoon, and he took comfort in the sound of sizzling bacon accompanied by the crack and hiss of fried eggs. Much of his youth had been spent in such places, making builder’s-brew tea and coffee so strong you could stand your spoon in it. Nancy’s cafe was a hub for the community, and as a child, Donovan learnt how to communicate with people from all walks of life. But his parents’ business had long since been flattened, their time together a memory of simpler days.

  He picked at a lump of dried ketchup on the red chequered tablecloth. Right now, his life felt far from simple. It was five years since he’d worked in Clacton, having returned to Southend. He had just settled into living in London, gained a new position as DCI of a specialist crime team and accidentally but wholeheartedly fallen for his DI. Now he was proposing to race back to Essex with his team in tow. He wrapped his fingers around his mug as he struggled to process the fact that Carla was dead. Was his loyalty towards his old friend clouding his judgement? He closed his eyes in search of clarity. Should he stay put and trust his old team to get to the bottom of her death? Her husband said she hadn’t been herself, that she had lied about having backup for some big case she was working on. Then there was the text she had sent her husband before she died. Sorry. Take care of my girls. I can’t do this any more.

  He had questioned her colleagues about her workload, and they were not convinced of foul play. But her actions were entirely out of sync with the woman he used to know.

  Now Carla’s husband and children were left to cope without her. It was so bloody senseless. He had grown as a sergeant in Clacton, moulded by the personalities around him. He, Carla and Bicks had been in the same new intake of detectives, and he had been the first to complete his sergeant’s exams. Now one of them was gone, plunged into the night waters that took her breath away. Carla was terrified of the sea. She had reached out to him for help. There was no way she would have taken her own life, he was sure of it. He swallowed the last of his tea, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. With Amy by his side, and a team hungry for results, they would hunt the killer down.

  His thoughts turned over as he formulated a plan. Amy would support him. She was the beating heart of their team. They were available to work with other counties if they were willing to fund it. Given that this latest case involved the death of a police officer, he couldn’t see why not. The super was keen to get them out there, now they had proven themselves in their own force.

  His faith in Amy had paid off. She had come to terms with her parentage and used it to her advantage. Her intuitions were laser-sharp. He worked through his mental rolodex of the officers in his team. Paddy was a decent sergeant who had a history with Amy; her ex-mentor, he knew her better than anyone. DC Steve Moss had been demoted after a sexual harassment scandal that was not at all clear-cut. There were rumours he’d been set up, and from what Donovan had heard about their former DCI, Ma’am Pike, he would not have been at all surprised. He had tried digging into the complaint, but the officer who’d made it had since quit their job. All he could do was to take him at face value, and so far, he was proving his worth. Steve was confident in his decision-making and unafraid to point out investigative flaws. Occasionally he would push things beyond his remit, but Amy could rein him in.

  He thought about DC Molly Baxter, a breath of fresh air. With her glittery pens and jokey manner, it would be easy to underestimate her. But she was destined to rise in the ranks – if her mouth didn’t get her into trouble first. She would mature with age. He knew she idolised Amy and would go anywhere she asked. But would DC Gary Wilkes? The young man completed his tasks on time but rarely thought outside the box. He’d passed his first level of sergeant’s exams but lacked the experience required to cover for the likes of Paddy, should they find themselves running short. Perhaps a trip to Clacton would be good for him, push him outside his comfort zone.

  Donovan’s gaze fell to the table next to him. Beneath it, a guide dog patiently waited for his owner to finish his breakfast. Donovan had an affinity for dogs, who asked little of their owners and gave so much in return. The retriever’s tail thumped against the floor as his elderly owner slipped him a slice of bacon. The simple act of kindness infused some much-needed warmth into Donovan’s day. It was easy to fall into the trap of becoming hardened and cynical, working in the dark corners of life as all coppers did. He pushed his empty mug away. At least now he knew what to say to the superintendent. He could not bring Carla back, but he could damn well ensure that the truth about her death was uncovered and the person responsible brought to justice. He owed her, and her family, that.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MO

  Mo used to imagine a therapist’s office to be a cold and clinical place. She had also envisioned a hard-edged counsellor with beady, judgemental eyes. But the building she visited was not clinical at all, and her therapist, Ms Harkness, had a kind face. Her chair was missing a few stitches, a leather wingback that was worn with use. The sofa looked new, the glass table before it holding a scattering of lifestyle magazines. The colourful sofa cushions and thick fluffy rug made it almost homely. But someone else’s home. Certainly not the one Mo had spent her youth in. There were no such comforts there.

  Taking a deep breath, Mo inhaled warm, stuffy air. The sash windows in the room were layered with paint so thick they seemed sealed shut. Maybe it’s better if they are, she thought. Her mind tended to wander to dark places. Right now, she was considering the impact of a body hitting concrete from such a height. They were only on the second floor. Enough to maim but not to kill, should a patient jump. She reined in her thoughts, feeling her therapist’s gaze burn. The woman had asked her a question and was patiently awaiting a response.

  ‘Jacob called me Momo.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘It was easier for him to say than Mummy, which is what he saw me as.’ She pulled on a strand of hair, picking at a split end. ‘I remember the day Mum came home from the hospital after having him. She handed him to me and took to her bed.’ The memory invoked another sigh. People used to say that it was ‘good to talk’ because it ‘unburdened you’ and ‘took a load off’. But with her, it felt like extra weight being added each time she opened up. She could never make them understand.

  ‘And the name stuck ever since?’ The therapist’s pen was pressed against her notepad. Mo nodded, conscious of the words being committed to the stark white page. She had spent years building walls around herself. Thoughts of Jacob brought an ache to her chest. A need to purge. She could not move on with her life until she got it all out. Her throat clicked as she swallowed, her mouth a dry passage for the words yet to come. A harrowing tale that led her do
wn a path known to very few. Silence stretched between them as a clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the seconds. It had a steady beat, a calming effect that helped ground her to the present world. Her past was full of ghosts. It was easy to get lost in her thoughts. Her eyes flicked to a print on the wall. All great changes are preceded by chaos – Deepak Chopra. Mo’s lips thinned at the sentiment. Words uttered by someone who could never begin to understand the depths of her pain. It was a little too late for her.

  The therapist watched her intently, her black hair streaked with delicate slivers of premature grey. Mo saw it catch the light, like silken threads winding around the antique clip neatly pinned at the back of her head. The sound of sirens blared from the streets below, making Mo involuntarily stiffen. She had been here half an hour and barely spoken more than a sentence. But the fact she had turned up for her appointment had been progress. ‘Call me Mo,’ she had told her therapist. ‘I won’t answer to anything else.’ By reverting to her old nickname, she could keep the door to the past open a crack.

  ‘I’d like to try something different. It may be beneficial to you,’ the therapist said eventually. ‘It could help you to open up – if that’s what you want.’

  ‘What is it?’ Mo rubbed her shoulder. She felt stiff from sitting hunched for so long.

  ‘Hypnotism. It’ll help you to relax. We can explore your past in a safe environment.’

  ‘You’re not going to make me dance around the room thinking I’m a chicken, are you?’ She crossed her legs and arms, watching dust motes sparkle beneath the shaft of light flooding into the room.

  The therapist broke into a smile. ‘There are a lot of misconceptions about hypnotism. Nobody can make you do anything you don’t want to. But if you’d rather not go there . . .’

  ‘Do it,’ Mo said. The worst had already happened. She had nothing to lose. Her fingers twitched for a cigarette. She needed something to hold. She swallowed, still able to taste her last nicotine hit on her tongue.