‘I’ve got a flat I’m subletting in Shoreditch,’ Amy said. ‘It’s a shoe-box, but you might be able to stretch to it if you share.’ She had rented out her flat when she moved in with her mother after her father’s death.
Molly chuckled at the prospect. But it was a dark, cynical laugh. ‘As if Mum would let me out of her sight,’ she muttered under her breath, her words sharp.
‘What was that?’ Amy said, keen to prise the truth out of her. It was unusual to see this side of Molly, and Amy’s interest was piqued.
‘Right, are we off?’ Paddy’s gravelly voice made Molly jump. ‘There’s a pint of Guinness with my name on it. Fancy joining us, boss?’
Just like that, the moment between Amy and Molly had ended. A relieved-looking Molly was already tearing across the office to grab her jacket from a coat hanger behind the door.
‘I’ll skip, thanks, but enjoy your evening,’ Amy said. Donovan was speaking to the neighbourhood policing department, but he would be back in ten minutes or so. As Paddy and Molly left, Amy sent a quick text to Sally-Ann, who would surprise Paddy in the bar. She turned to her planner, ticking off the tasks she had set herself. Her thoughts wandered to Chesney, who had surprised his children with a holiday. To Martin, with his plump red cheeks, who made the perfect Santa Claus. Then to Darius, who was nicknamed ‘Derry’ by the toddlers in the ‘Little Ducks’ nursery where he worked. Their families deserved justice. They needed to know the truth. There was one more box to tick before she could call it a day. She relaxed into her chair as she dialled the mobile number, happy to speak to an old friend.
It was always a comfort to hear Ray’s voice. The coroner was a link to the familiar territory of her station in Notting Hill. She trusted Ray, as he had worked with her father when he was a superintendent in the police. Like her, Ray was dedicated to his job and felt genuine empathy for the victims. But unlike Amy, all the victims Ray dealt with were dead. With many years of experience under his expansive belt, Ray was an esteemed coroner, and Amy valued his input on the case. Which was why she had asked him to investigate each of the victim’s autopsies. Ray wasn’t stepping on anyone’s toes. His papers had been published in many medical journals. His colleagues in the field were delighted to liaise with him, particularly when it came to the death of a police officer. It was all hands on deck as far as Amy was concerned.
‘Good to hear from you, Winter,’ Ray said, as he answered their pre-arranged call. ‘How are things at home?’ It was the first thing he always asked her, regardless of what was going on. His voice was loud and jolly, despite the late hour of the night.
‘Good, thanks.’ It was also Amy’s stock reply. As much as she loved chatting with Ray, she wanted to get to the crux of things. ‘But we’re under a lot of pressure to solve this case. The press is making out I’m some kind of Superwoman since the TV documentary was aired. And, well, you know how tough it is when one of your own is taken.’ Amy had never met Carla; they weren’t even in the same force. But that was how it was in the police. The band of brother- and sisterhood didn’t just apply to officers in the same county, or even country. It stretched worldwide. An unspoken bond between officers. A promise to have each other’s backs. Which was why it hurt so much when one of them was taken. Amy knew some officers would be blaming themselves for not being there when Carla was murdered. But Amy’s intuition screamed that Carla knew that her suspect would be there. Yet she chose not to call it in. Now it was up to Amy to prove who she was meeting and why.
‘You’re more Wonder Woman, I think. A pint-sized one,’ Ray chuckled at the end of the line. Amy let him off. His remark about her height was good-natured in intent.
‘If only I had her golden lasso,’ she said. Her old family used to call her ‘pocket rocket’, but that was not a term she wanted to be reminded of any more.
‘So, you’re hoping I can shed some light on things?’ Ray’s voice cut into her wandering thoughts. ‘You’ve read the autopsy reports, I take it.’
‘Yes,’ Amy replied. ‘But not as thoroughly as I’d like. What’s your take on it, Ray? Do you think Carla or any of the other victims were murdered?’ Amy nibbled on her bottom lip as she awaited his response.
‘I can’t say if Carla was murdered. Cause of death was drowning. From all accounts, she wasn’t much of a swimmer, and her clothing weighed her down. There was nothing in the way of defence wounds. Carla was petite. It wouldn’t have taken a strenuous struggle to tip her over the edge.’
‘And there were no other injuries?’
‘Nothing concerning her death. But I flagged up something of interest with the other victims.’
Amy’s heart pulsed a little faster as a flare of hope grew. ‘Oh yes? What’s that?’
‘The tiniest pinprick. You’d only see it if you were searching for it.’ Ray spoke with a sense of pride. ‘And you know me, I like a challenge.’
‘Tell me more,’ Amy replied. ‘Do you think they’d been jabbed?’
‘It’s possible. With enough drugs to make breathing difficult when submerged in the sea.’
Amy’s forehead creased in confusion. ‘But we’ve had the tox reports back. Chesney was the only person with drugs in his system and he smoked cannabis.’ The information didn’t sit right. She needed to know more.
‘But that was a cheap basic screening,’ Ray continued. ‘I’ve ordered a more in-depth one.’
‘Because your theory is . . .’ Amy waited for Ray to finish her sentence.
‘That the victims were injected before they died. These weren’t self-administered. One was in the buttock, another in the back. This is the link you’ve been waiting for.’
‘Hopefully you’ll find something in the tox reports.’ Amy grinned to herself. ‘Ray, you’re a little beauty.’
Booming laughter carried down the phone. ‘First time for everything, Winter!’
Another thought occurred. ‘So, say they were needle marks. Any idea of the height of the person administering them?’
‘Given the angle, I’d say the killer wasn’t much more than five, five and a half feet tall.’
‘Interesting stuff,’ Amy replied, smiling down the phone. ‘I look forward to reading your report.’
‘Winging its way to you now.’ Ray paused for breath. ‘Donovan was telling me about Carla’s voicemail and how the CCTV was vandalised the night she died. Sounds like she got in over her head.’
‘Only some of the cameras were spray-painted . . .’ Amy’s voice faltered as a thought entered her head. ‘Sorry,’ she said, as Ray asked if she was OK. ‘I’ve just realised. Only some of the cameras were vandalised the night Carla died.’
‘Not much point in buggering them all up, I suppose,’ Ray chuckled.
‘Maybe so,’ Amy said. ‘But two of them were faulty to begin with, and they weren’t sprayed. How did they know which ones were working?’
As their call came to an end, Amy summarised the evidence so far. Carla left her home to meet a teenager with regards to a case. A case she had been investigating on the quiet. She was lured to the pier, the CCTV disabled prior to her getting there. A text was sent from her phone around the same time she was seen in the water.
Finally, they were making connections that were growing the deeper they delved. She thought about the puncture marks and the possible use of a drug that might not show up on a basic toxicology report. Whoever was behind this was good at covering their tracks. But Amy had the bit between her teeth and had no intention of letting go. At least now she had justification to continue with her search.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It could have been down to Molly’s freckles, or her choice of clothing, but she had always appeared young for her age. Tonight, she reckoned she could get away with looking under eighteen. She often got asked for ID when buying booze, and thanks to the groups she accessed on social media, she knew a little street slang. Neither was she shy when it came to talking to strangers which, in her opinion, made her a perfect undercover cop.
She was glad to see Paddy’s other half had turned up when they reached the hotel bar. It gave her an excuse to return to her room for an ‘early night’. Steve and Gary had already gone ahead to a busier pub in town. Molly’s jaw tightened as she imagined them enjoying their so-called celebrity status. She wasn’t gorgeous or toned or athletic. She was forgettable. But the upshot of it was that she could blend in with the crowd. She was making the most of her time in Clacton. Not for sightseeing, but to find out where these possible witnesses lay. According to her boss, Carla had been talking to some teenagers who might have witnessed previous crimes. She needed to speak to them and find out how much they had seen. Molly hadn’t told anyone where she was going, but she was able to look out for herself.
She had been wandering around for twenty minutes when she came across a group of teenagers beneath the pier. Molly could have felt intimidated by the half-dozen teens, but she could talk herself out of almost anything. She quickly scanned the group. There were five girls and one boy drinking from bottles of cider, or ‘Jaywick Champagne’ as it was called around these parts. The boy was dressed in a hoodie and tracksuit bottoms, the girls in jeans and sweatshirts. A girl with clipped brown hair cupped her hand over her mouth as she whispered to an older baseball-capped girl. She nodded a response before checking her watch.
‘Be careful,’ Molly heard the older girl murmur, as her friend stood up and took one last swig of cider. She looked like a tired child, her face slack as she turned and walked away. Molly wanted nothing more than to follow her, but by the way the girl was checking behind her, she would never get away with it. She watched the lone young figure leave. She could not have been any more than fourteen or fifteen.
The tide was out, which meant they were safe beneath the wooden structures that held up the weighty pier. It was eerie down here, and the damp sand stuck to Molly’s Converse trainers as she walked. Was this the group that Carla had been talking to? Had she come down here, fishing for information on the murders? Perhaps she had kept it to herself for fear of being outdone by her colleagues. Molly could empathise with that. Sometimes you had to take risks to stay ahead.
She fished her lighter from the pocket of her denim jacket, making sure it was the blue one, which she knew was already dead. She swore beneath her breath as the flint failed to produce a flame then looked at the group as if only just realising that they were there.
‘Got a light?’ she said, trying to keep her accent neutral. A dark, brooding boy with a lip piercing swaggered towards her. He could not have been more than thirteen. Molly’s maternal instincts kicked in at the sight of him. He was trying to act tough, but his puppy-dog brown eyes betrayed him.
He held out his lighter. ‘Gis a fag.’
A smile crept on to Molly’s face. ‘A fag for a light? That’s peak, man.’ She handed over a cigarette just the same. Ignoring her quip, the boy flicked a flame into life as Molly dragged on her cigarette. ‘You live round here?’ Molly said, unperturbed by the eyes all focused on her.
‘What’s it got to do with you?’ The baseball-capped girl stepped towards them. It was evident from her mannerisms that she was the leader of the group. She stood next to the wooden pillar, her body tensed. The air was cooler beneath the pier, and a light breeze played with the ends of her dark hair.
Molly shrugged. ‘Just wondering where I can score some weed.’
‘I’ll sell you a baggy . . .’ the boy began to say before the girl silenced him with a look.
‘We ain’t no dealers,’ she said, eyes narrowed. ‘Are you the filth?’
Smoke peppered Molly’s breath as she blurted a laugh. ‘Do I look like a cop?’ Her gaze roamed over the rest of the group. They had grown bored of Molly’s surprise appearance and were talking between themselves. ‘What’s there to do around here?’ she said, returning her attention to the boy with the lip piercing.
‘Who are we, the tourist fucking information?’ the baseball-cap girl sneered.
Molly looked from one to the other, sensing fierce protectiveness. Was she his sister? Girlfriend? From the vibe they were giving, she guessed a family member of some kind.
‘Chill your beans. I was only asking.’ She took a drag from her cigarette before turning back to the boy. ‘How many cans you got? I’ll swap you the rest of this pack for a tin.’ She held out the pack of Benson & Hedges, unfurling a sly smile. ‘I nicked them off my dad. He won’t even miss them.’
‘Good skills.’ He grinned, handing her a can of cider.
Molly pulled her hair from her face as she chuckled. ‘He’s had so many packs of fags go missing, the old fucker thinks he has dementia.’
Her comments brought a ripple of laughter in the group. They relaxed in her presence and only now could she lay her jacket on the damp sand and sit. In reality, she would never have spoken about her father like that. But her behaviour served to grant her quiet acceptance.
‘How old are you?’ The girl placed a hand on her baseball cap as the wind began to pick up.
‘Seventeen,’ Molly replied, cradling her can. ‘Why? Do I look older?’ She gave them a hopeful look, remembering how keen she had been to be accepted as an adult when she was a kid.
The girl snorted. ‘With those freckles? Hardly.’
Molly’s face fell. In reality she was comfortable in her skin, but she knew how to play her audience.
A flicker of guilt crossed the girl’s face. ‘You from round here, then?’ she said, breaking the silence.
‘For a few weeks – worse luck. I’m on a sympathy holiday. My auntie’s offered to put Dad and me up ’cos Mum died a few months ago.’
‘Bad luck.’ A blonde girl with stringy hair reached for a can of cider and took a swig.
‘Shit happens.’ Molly shrugged. It sounded callous, but it wasn’t that long since she’d been a teenager. She knew all about putting on a brave face. She stubbed out her cigarette in the sand. ‘What are you lot up to? You on holiday too?’
‘Kinda,’ the baseball-capped girl said. ‘We ain’t got no oldies to worry about though.’ But she was still watching Molly with suspicion. Her trust was hard to gain.
‘You got a way of earning extra cash?’ Molly said, relieved she had packed some old clothes. Her trainers were worn, her grey sweatshirt an old favourite – something she had brought to wear in her hotel room.
The girl turned to face her, unblinking as she scrutinised Molly’s face. ‘If we do, it has nothing to do with you.’
‘C’mon Tina, she’s only asking,’ the dark-haired boy spoke up.
But his words were cut short as the girl jostled him with her elbow. ‘How many times, brah? Stop using my name!’
Throwing back her head, Molly drank the dregs of the cider and followed it up with a burp. ‘Look, don’t worry about it. I gotta go anyway. Dad will give me grief.’ Molly brushed the sand off her jeans, her mind on the exchange between Tina and the boy. Tina had called him brah, which was slang for someone who wasn’t blood-related but still considered as family. So, she and the boy were close. But why was Tina keeping a low profile?
Molly had so many questions she wanted to ask, but now was not the time. The last thing she needed was to spook her new-found friends. Or should that be friend? The boy was the only person who had any time for her. She groaned at the sight of the damp patch on her jacket as she picked it up from the sand. That would have to go on the radiator tonight. She shook it before slinging it over her shoulder. It was hard to walk away, but best to play it cool. She would see them again soon; she felt sure of it. But there was one more thing she could do.
Digging her phone from her jacket pocket, she drew up her number, which was saved under ‘me’. ‘Sorry, what’s your name?’ She spoke to the boy in a casual tone as if she had simply forgotten it. ‘Gimme your phone.’
‘Matty.’ He grinned, his big brown eyes burning with curiosity as he handed over his phone.
‘Cool. Here’s my number.’ Molly added herself to his contacts
. ‘Bell me up if any jobs come in.’ Molly presumed he would know what she meant. It wasn’t uncommon for kids to be used as ‘runners’ to sell drugs. She knew she was getting in deep, but if it came to it, she could make up an excuse about not being able to get out.
She gave one last cursory glance at the bedraggled group before walking away. Christ, she thought, digging her fists into her pockets. In an ideal world, they’d all be tucked up at home, safe, warm and dry. But this was far from an ideal situation and she did not want to contemplate these kids being tangled up in Carla’s murder. Her detective brain told her to call the police station and get a unit here to question them. But then it would be blatantly obvious that she had stitched them up. They knew something, Molly could feel it. And if anyone was going to unlock their secrets, it would be her.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘I meant to ask, how did things go with Sally-Ann?’ Donovan turned to face Amy as he switched off the ignition of his car. They were parked on the seafront in Frinton, and it was a beautifully clear night. Amy was comforted by the fact they wouldn’t bump into her team, given they were out drinking in Clacton.
‘Fine, thanks.’ Amy reached to undo her safety belt. ‘She calls you DCI Dreamy.’ A soft smile rose to her face as she recalled the term. But she wasn’t ready to talk about Sally-Ann’s baby. Not tonight.
‘Amy? Are you all right? You’re white as a sheet.’
‘Just cold,’ Amy lied. ‘I’ll be all right once I get inside.’ The truth was, she was nervous. Up until now, their relationship had been clandestine, and this was beginning to feel like a date. Socialising with Donovan’s friends was a big deal.
‘Hmm,’ Donovan said, reading her expression as only he could. ‘They don’t know we’re together, so they won’t give you the third degree. They’re being friendly, that’s all.’
‘I know, it’s just dinner.’ Amy shrugged. But any advance in their relationship made her nervous. She had her career to think of, and things were fine as they were. She grabbed her bag from the footwell, a sense of dread rising in her gut. As far as relationships were concerned, she would always be on the defensive. It had taken her months to trust Adam, her ex-fiancée, and he had jilted her on their wedding day. There was no sense in rushing things now.
Flesh and Blood (A DI Amy Winter Thriller) Page 10
