Flesh and Blood (A DI Amy Winter Thriller)

by Caroline Mitchell

  ‘Like her promises are worth anything,’ Amy snorted.

  ‘I know. But I want to believe her. She said he went to a wealthy couple, a doctor and his wife. They passed the baby off as their own. That’s all I know about them.’

  ‘What, you don’t have a name?’

  ‘Mum didn’t deal with them directly, there was a go-between.’

  ‘Then you’ll never find him. Not if that’s all you’ve got.’ Amy bit her lip. She didn’t mean to sound so dismissive, but this story might not come with a happy ending and Sally-Ann had been through enough.

  ‘Mum didn’t know the family, but she said her contacts did. She got back in touch with them. They said his surname is Swanson and they lived somewhere in Clacton.’

  They strode past Clacton theatre, towards the hospital.

  Amy had spent many hours musing on theories of nature versus nurture. She had been adopted herself, after all. But she was brought up by a police officer, and all she had ever wanted was to emulate him. Could the same be said for Sally-Ann’s son?

  ‘He could be in prison.’ Sally-Ann’s thoughts were obviously in the same vein. ‘Or he could be a chief constable for all I know. Anything is possible.’

  Amy doubted that very much. ‘Have you asked yourself how these contacts of Lillian’s know so much about your son? These are bad people. Traffickers. They should have sold that baby and moved on. Unless . . .’ Amy hesitated. Sally-Ann nodded in encouragement for her to go on. ‘Unless they mixed in the same circles. The adoptive parents could have been criminals too.’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ Sally-Ann replied.

  ‘Are you sure you want to know?’ Amy raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘I won’t sugar-coat it. Remember, I’m a cop.’ If Amy found any wrongdoing, nephew or not, she would uncover it.

  ‘As is Paddy.’ Sally-Ann turned to face her sister. The police station was in view and their walk had come to an end. ‘I’ve done a lot of soul-searching. Spent half my life trying to forget the past. But it keeps tugging, and I can’t stop it.’ She gazed across the street, before looking left and right. ‘When you said you were coming to Clacton . . . I couldn’t let it go. He’s grown up here. He’s walked these paths. To think that he could pass me on the street, and I wouldn’t even know.’ She looked pleadingly at her sister. ‘Please, Amy. If there’s anything you can do, I’d appreciate it. And I know you’re still angry with me for testifying in Lillian’s favour. But . . .’ She began dry washing her hands, a habit born from stress.

  ‘What?’ Amy said, sensing Sally-Ann’s walls rising fast.

  ‘When we were kids, in that basement together, hiding from Jack. There was a split second when he found me when I knew that if I told him you were watching, he’d stop. You were always his favourite. But he was so angry that night, I couldn’t risk him hurting you too.’

  Amy’s throat tightened at the memory. ‘So, you took the brunt and almost lost your life. Now you’re calling in the debt.’

  ‘It’s not a debt. I’m asking for a favour. Please. Anything you can find out at all . . . you can run him through intel, can’t you? The police here must have a record of his name.’

  ‘I need just cause. I’ll ask around, it’s the best I can do.’

  Sally-Ann offered a watery smile.

  As Amy approached the station, she waited until her sister was out of earshot before making a quick call. ‘Darren?’ she said, as the private detective answered on the second ring.

  ‘Winter, good timing. I was just going to email you a progress report.’

  ‘Send it to my personal email address.’ Amy pressed her security tag against the wall of the station gate.

  ‘Sure thing,’ he said. ‘Not much to report though. Lillian rarely ventures further than the off-licence. I’ve been tracking her online behaviour but all’s quiet on the Western front as they say.’

  She’s too busy with her new boyfriend, Amy thought, trying to scrub the mental image being conjured up in her mind. ‘Have you time to take on some new enquiries?’ Amy gave a brief outline of Sally-Ann’s plight. ‘I’ll email you the details when I get a chance. Maybe post you the notebook too.’ She opened the back door which led to her office, pausing in the corridor near the stairwell. ‘And, Darren . . . discretion is important to me. It’s early days. I don’t want my personal and work life getting mixed up.’

  ‘You’ve no worries on that front,’ Darren replied. ‘Although I would like to meet up with you at some point, maybe over a drink? I prefer to talk face to face than by email if I can.’

  ‘A drink?’ Amy stilled. Was this protocol for private investigators or was he asking her out? She honestly didn’t know. ‘OK, we can arrange to meet sometime.’ She emitted an awkward laugh before saying her goodbyes.

  Her thoughts returned to her sister. She had felt her desperation, fuelled by torment that tethered her to the past. It would be worth hiring Darren if he could help find Sally-Ann’s child. Amy may be constrained by boundaries and red tape, but he wasn’t. The question was, could Sally-Ann cope with the truth?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  As Amy entered the office, she was surprised to see that Bicks was no longer at his desk. ‘Are you looking for Sergeant Bickerstaff, ma’am?’ The question came from Denny, who rose from his desk. It was a mark of respect seldom seen these days. When she first saw Denny, she presumed he was head of a team. He had a suaveness about him, an air of authority that hinted he was destined to go far. His suit appeared fitted; his shoes were gleaming. This was a man who checked the mirror three times before leaving for work. Then she remembered, Denny was covering CID as acting sergeant, given Bicks had some time off in lieu. Amy guessed he was helping his wife prepare the late supper that she and Donovan had been invited to.

  ‘I just wanted a quick catch-up,’ Amy said as she walked towards Denny’s desk. ‘But you’ll do.’

  A few heads bobbed in recognition of Amy, before returning their attention to their computer screens. Some of the overhead lights had been turned off in favour of desk lamps, casting shadows across the room, and the office blinds softly swished from the evening breeze. Amy caught a whiff of Chinese takeaway, evidenced by a few empty cartons next to the bin.

  ‘And please,’ Amy said, ‘call me Winter. And you’re Denny, aren’t you? Or is that what everyone calls you?’

  ‘It’s Daniel.’ He smiled. ‘Surname Negussie Aberra.’

  ‘Nice to properly meet you,’ Amy said. ‘But if you’d prefer to be called by your proper name then I’m sure I can have a word with . . .’

  ‘Not necessary.’ Denny raised a hand, chuckling. ‘It’s Nigerian. Negussie means “my king” and my grandpa’s name, Aberra, means “it’s shining”, so my entire name means “Daniel my king shines”. It would be a bit narcissistic of me to expect my colleagues to call me that every day.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful name.’

  ‘Thank you. It inspires me to be a force for change.’

  Amy was impressed. Most of her colleagues would laugh at such a sentiment. It was nice to meet someone who was so open about their beliefs. She cast an approving eye over his desk. A moleskin notebook was engraved with Denny’s name in gold letters, and next to it was a five-year planner.

  ‘Organisational skills, I like it,’ she said, taking in the stationery. Her sergeant, Paddy, usually made notes on pieces of crumpled paper that would invariably get lost later on.

  ‘For every minute spent organising, an hour is earned,’ Denny said, still smiling. ‘My father’s old motto. Can I get you a coffee? Milk and two sugars, am I right?’

  He was indeed right. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Amy sat herself down before him. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘It’s my job to know everything about everyone I work with.’

  Amy’s eyebrows rose a notch.

  ‘Kidding.’ Denny smiled. ‘It pays to know your audience. Something else my father taught me.’

  Amy could not help but smile. Her adoptive f
ather had often passed on gems of wisdom to her. ‘Your dad sounds like a wise man.’

  ‘He was.’ Denny glanced down at his paperwork, and Amy sensed sadness there. She wondered how long it had been since his father passed. ‘Would you like me to go through the progress we’ve made?’

  ‘Fire away,’ Amy said.

  ‘I’ve made bullet points of each outcome and sent an email of the report to your team.’ He stretched across the desk as he handed her a printout. ‘We’ve been working with teams across other counties, highlighting graffiti from two of the scenes.’

  Although Amy was aware of the graffiti, she was keen to hear Denny’s thoughts. ‘And you’ve found more.’ She scanned the paperwork before her, which included a printout of photographs.

  Denny nodded. ‘The same graffiti tag near the areas where the murders took place. There was one sprayed on a bench near where our last victim was found.’

  ‘But none after Carla died?’

  Denny shook his head. ‘I’ve got in touch with officers in seaside resorts with no reported suicides to check they’re not commonplace.’

  ‘So the tags aren’t a common theme – something kids are into right now.’

  ‘They’re not.’

  Amy waited for him to elaborate, but when nothing was forthcoming, she asked, ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘I have my contacts.’ A knowing smile spread across his face. ‘Graffiti tags like these are personal to the artist. It’s basically their name – a hand style. It’s unlikely anyone else would replicate it, and it’s too much of a coincidence that it’s been sprayed near the scene of each crime.’

  Amy felt a ripple of excitement as Denny confirmed a link between the suicides. He was clearly a kindred soul.

  ‘Why would someone draw attention to themselves like that?’ She stared at the images Denny had handed her. ‘Do you think it’s a calling card?’

  ‘It’s possible.’ Denny appeared thoughtful. ‘Or someone marking their territory.’

  ‘Like gangs,’ Amy mused. It was a statement, not a question. ‘It’s a change from the Love Heart Killer. We knew exactly what we had on our hands there.’

  ‘Who?’ Denny looked at her quizzically.

  Amy crossed her legs. ‘You know, our last big case. It was televised in the documentary by Ginny Woolfe.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t have a television. But I read about the case in the newspapers, now that you mention it. That’s the one where he turned his victims into window dressing.’

  It came as a surprise to Amy to hear Denny didn’t have TV. ‘Yes, it was. Sorry, I’m curious. You don’t have TV? What do you do of an evening?’ She noticed the absence of a wedding ring on his finger. He appeared too polished to have small children at home.

  ‘I read. Books are my passion, both fiction and non-fiction. Crime, mainly. I follow DCI Donovan’s cases too. He’s a bit of a legend around here. You’re very fortunate to be working beneath him.’

  Amy bit back her smile. She had certainly been beneath Donovan, but she was pretty sure that wasn’t what he meant.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am, what have I said?’ He was watching Amy intently.

  Amy tilted her head to one side. Denny was a definite people-watcher, but was it that unusual to see her smile? She did spend a lot of her day frowning, to be fair, but that was due to her frustrations with each case. Regardless, this was a man who didn’t miss a trick. ‘I didn’t know Donovan had such a following.’ It was the best excuse she could think of to explain her amusement.

  ‘Let me show you something.’ Denny rose from his chair. After plucking a bunch of keys from the desk drawer, he walked to a small battered-looking cupboard in the corner of the room. ‘Bicks keeps everything in here.’

  Her curiosity burning, Amy joined him and bent over to peer inside as he opened the double doors.

  ‘They’re commendations,’ Denny said, pulling out five framed certificates and placing them on top of the furniture. ‘There’s medals too.’ Stretching, he reached to the back of the cupboard and produced two slim boxes, each one containing a medal for outstanding conduct. After laying them on top of the cupboard, Denny picked up one of the certificates. ‘This is for when the DCI ran into a burning building. He saved a special needs child after her dad escaped through the window. The dad didn’t win any medals for bravery, but Donovan did.’ He flicked through the frames. ‘This one was for talking down a woman who was ready to jump off a footbridge. And this . . .’ He smiled, blowing the dust off the frame. ‘This was awarded for bringing down a nationwide dogfighting ring. Donovan went undercover to infiltrate it. There were some dangerous characters involved. He saved a lot of animals’ lives.’

  Amy faintly remembered Donovan mentioning the case. He had even rehomed one of the dogs himself. His daughter, Ginny, was taking care of it while he was away. Amy had enjoyed getting to know her since she filmed their last big case. But today Amy was getting insights into Donovan, too. ‘He got all these while he worked in Clacton?’ She stared in awe as Denny returned them to the cupboard. ‘And why are they here?’

  ‘Bicks keeps them for him. Donovan was awarded the first one when he was in Clacton. But he said he didn’t want it, so rather than throw it out, Bicks offered to keep it safe for him. I guess he thought it was a shame to get rid of it.’

  ‘And the others?’ Amy leaned against the cupboard. She’d had a couple of commendations herself, but her mother was insistent they went on the wall of their family home. They took pride of place in her father’s old office, next to his own.

  ‘He gets them sent here now,’ Denny said. ‘He won’t accept them otherwise. I’ve never seen such a modest DCI.’

  Denny’s face was alight with admiration. Amy wondered if Donovan knew he had such an avid fan. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t put a request in to work with him. We’ve had lots of interest from your team to come on board. We’re not recruiting right now,’ she added hastily, as heads turned in her direction. ‘But you never know, in the future . . .’

  ‘I’d love to.’ Denny smiled. ‘But I’m not done here yet.’

  Amy would have loved to ask him to elaborate, but time was ticking on. Instead, she returned to the desk and worked through the list of items he’d printed off. Most of it was boxes ticked, updates on searches and forensics but no real leads, other than the graffiti tags. ‘Right, well, thanks for everything. I’d best be getting back. If there’s anything else, give us a shout.’

  ‘Thanks for your time.’ Denny straightened, ready to rise until Amy gestured at him to stay where he was. ‘Oh, and ma’am, can you not mention these to DCI Donovan? They’re a bit of a sore point from what I hear.’

  ‘It’s Winter,’ she reminded him. ‘And mum’s the word.’ Amy tapped the side of her nose before turning to leave. Her mind swirled with questions, and not just about the case. Was there another reason behind Donovan leaving Essex for the Met? Why had he refused his commendations? There could only be two things stopping him that Amy could think of. But which was it – modesty or guilt?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘Go home, you two, I’ll see you bright and early in the morning.’ Amy was talking to Molly and Paddy, the last members of her team standing. It was gone nine, but they had started at the crack of dawn. There wasn’t much more they could do for tonight. ‘Are you sure?’ Paddy rubbed his face. ‘I’ve just boiled the kettle. I can stay for another hour if you like.’

  Amy dismissed him with a wave. ‘No, you shoot off. Walk Molly back to the hotel.’ She knew Sally-Ann would be waiting to surprise him when he got back.

  She watched as Molly stowed away her pens and stationery into her desk drawer. ‘Everything OK? You’ve been quiet today.’ She had sensed a change in Molly since her arrival, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. As Paddy left to lock his police radio away, it was just the two of them in the room.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Molly glanced up from her desk, a bright smile fixed on her face. But there was a
fleeting look behind her eyes that gave Amy pause. Was it fear? Nervousness?

  Pulling over a swivel chair, Amy took a seat next to her. ‘Molly,’ she said, stilling her movements as she touched her arm. ‘We’re the only two women in this team, which makes it doubly important that we look out for each other. If anything is troubling you . . .’

  ‘I’m fine.’ But a flush crept upwards from Molly’s chest to her throat. Amy raised an eyebrow, allowing the silence to stretch between them as she waited for an honest reply.

  ‘You’re not, though, are you? Something’s playing on your mind.’

  Molly’s brow furrowed as she exhaled a sigh. ‘I’ve had loads of officers from CID asking me how to get on to our team. I guess it just . . .’ She pursed her lips as she chose her words carefully. ‘It made me see how lucky I am to be here. I love my job, but now everyone wants to come on board and . . .’ She rubbed the back of her neck. ‘There are only a few spaces. I’m worried I’ll be replaced by someone with more experience.’

  ‘So, you’re feeling insecure?’ Amy said, trying to understand her concerns. Of all the members of her team, Molly had nothing to worry about.

  ‘It didn’t cross my mind until I watched the documentary back,’ Molly said. ‘I barely featured in it. It made me wonder if I was good enough for the team.’

  ‘You can’t judge your worth by a TV documentary.’ Amy smiled. ‘You’re doing great. Have you seen their other programmes? They all focus on men. Why do you think Steve got so much airtime, in his tight shirts and even tighter trousers? I mentioned it to Donovan. He said it was something to do with their target demographics. Another term for sexism, if you ask me.’ Amy tilted her head as she scrutinised Molly’s face. ‘Are you sure that’s it?’

  ‘Yeah, honestly, I’m fine.’ Molly brightened as she looked around the room. ‘Being here, away from home, is so nice. I live with my mum and dad. Not much chance of me being able to afford a place of my own. Not with London property prices.’