Flesh and Blood (A DI Amy Winter Thriller)

by Caroline Mitchell

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Amy said, as she and Alfie settled down in the interview room. She flipped open her notebook, ready to make notes. ‘When is the wedding?’

  ‘Next week,’ Alfie said, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I didn’t get home from my stag do until four this morning, but as soon as I heard what happened, I came straight here.’

  ‘It must have come as a shock when he texted you,’ Amy said. ‘According to his girlfriend’s statement you were good friends.’ Ciara also told police that Alfie had asked George to be his best man, but Alfie’s brother was stepping in instead. Amy didn’t want to start their conversation on the back foot by mentioning family business. It had little to do with the case, after all.

  ‘I didn’t see the text until this morning. I didn’t even know he had my number.’

  ‘But you’re friends, aren’t you?’ Amy replied.

  ‘Depends on how you define “friends”.’ Alfie blew out his cheeks. ‘George was a bullshitter. You couldn’t believe a word he said.’

  Now that Amy had not expected. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s not my friend, for a start,’ Alfie replied. ‘I mean, he wasn’t. I’m sorry he’s dead and all, but the bloke was a compulsive liar. Mad as a box of frogs.’

  As she absorbed his words, Amy surmised that Alfie wasn’t that sorry at all. ‘Why invite him to your stag night?’ She clicked the top of her pen before writing the words ‘compulsive liar’ on the pad.

  ‘He wasn’t invited.’ Alfie tensed. ‘And my stag do was in Southend last night, not Clacton.’

  Amy sighed. It was bad enough that the crime scene was being engulfed by the rising tide, but now Ciara’s story was being muddied by Alfie’s account.

  ‘His girlfriend messaged me on Facebook, and I played along,’ Alfie explained. ‘I thought he’d used my stag night as an excuse because he was two-timing her. But I’m not his alibi for what happened. His death has nothing to do with me.’

  Amy scratched the side of her head with her pen. ‘Alibis are for suspects, not victims. You’re not in any trouble.’

  Alfie’s relief was evident. ‘Good. I got a fright when Mum told me the police wanted to speak to me, which is why I came straight here. What else has he been saying about me?’

  Amy filled him in on what Ciara had said to local officers in her area.

  ‘Bullshit!’ Alfie replied. ‘George wasn’t a supervisor, he was a caretaker – a rubbish one at that.’

  ‘And you definitely didn’t invite him to the stag night? There wasn’t some kind of mix-up about the location?’

  Alfie shook his head. ‘No. He was weird. He would have been out of place.’

  ‘And he didn’t give you any inkling as to what he was doing in Clacton?’

  ‘The last time I spoke to George was to tell him the bogs weren’t flushing properly. He didn’t have any friends that I knew of. I’m surprised he managed to pull Ciara.’

  Amy closed her notebook. She would arrange for an officer to take a statement from Alfie in an effort to unravel this case. ‘I’m going to need details of your place of work, and people who knew George. Ciara couldn’t tell us very much. It was more of an online relationship.’

  Alfie snorted in response. ‘I’m not surprised. He was socially awkward. Preferred to spend time on his own. He was the butt of everyone’s jokes.’ He met Amy’s gaze. ‘Not me. I didn’t have any part in it, but some of the staff really took the piss out of him. I told them to quit it, but George never reported anything. If he did, the company would have put an end to it.’

  ‘What did they do?’ Amy’s face darkened.

  ‘Schoolkid pranks. A bucket of water over the cupboard door, putting salt in his coffee. Stupid stuff.’

  ‘Very stupid, by the sounds of it.’ Amy’s jaw was rigid. If there was one thing that got up her nose, it was bullying. Many crimes were committed by bullies: people who got a kick from preying on the weak. Sometimes victims fought back and the tables were turned. But no tables were being turned for George. He was a loner, just like the others. But was he a sex offender?

  Amy had just returned to her desk when she was alerted to a phone call. This time it was Sharon, their first victim’s wife. Amy tried to clear her mind as she recalled Sharon asking Donovan if her husband had been cheating on her. It was a better alternative to what Amy now suspected him of. But could a family man like Chesney be capable of such a thing?

  ‘Sorry I wasn’t able to see you in person,’ Amy said, as she took the call. ‘But from what I hear, DCI Donovan took good care of you.’

  ‘He did, yes,’ Sharon said, sounding slightly breathless on the phone. ‘Sorry, I’m at work. I didn’t want to call in front of the kids. I heard there was another drowning. Have you any updates?’

  Amy’s forehead knotted. ‘CID has been tasked with giving you weekly updates on the case.’

  Sharon’s voice lowered to a whisper. ‘DCI Donovan said he’d find out what Chesney was playing at. He was seeing someone. He had to be.’

  ‘Can I ask you a personal question?’ Amy played with the phone cord. Chesney was most likely seeing someone, but Amy didn’t have enough concrete evidence to bring up the subject of underage sex. ‘Did your husband look at porn?’ she asked. ‘Was he into anything unusual? Anything which concerned you?’ Sharon might be calling from work, but sometimes it was better to grab the bull by the horns.

  ‘He didn’t have a stack of magazines under his bed, if that’s what you’re asking, but now that I think of it, he did use one of those Nord VPN things. He said it was so he could use the US version of Netflix, but I did wonder what else he was looking at.’

  VPN stood for ‘virtual private network’ and protected the identity of the user so their internet activity could not be traced back to their server. The fact that Chesney felt the need to use one was useful information.

  ‘Anyway, what do you mean by unusual interests?’ Sharon continued. ‘Is that how he died? What has that got to do with his death?’

  ‘It’s too early to say.’ Amy was non-committal. ‘But fresh leads are coming in every day.’

  ‘So, you do know something,’ Sharon replied. ‘Are you any closer to finding his killer? People keep asking me what happened, and I don’t know what to say . . . It’s hard to focus with all this going on.’

  Amy sighed. She wanted to help but she could not disclose any more. ‘I appreciate your frustration. As soon as we’re able to release further information, you’ll be the first to know. But this is a live case, affecting many people. We’re doing everything we possibly can.’

  As the call came to an end, Amy was surer than ever of the motive behind the murders. Chesney was hiding something – just like the other men involved. The group of teenagers were drug users. No strangers to syringes by the sound of things. They were the real victims at the heart of the investigation, and Amy could see why Carla was in no hurry to arrest them. But this was murder. She could not afford to hesitate. Soon they would be moved on, to another seaside resort, with another string of men willing to take advantage of them – and more deaths in their wake.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Time was a funny thing. Amy often found herself being dragged backwards, and a day rarely passed without some reference to her family ties. She had gone most of her adult life having shut her past away, to the point where she had convinced herself it had never happened at all. Now, the smallest of objects could take her back there – even the sight of a cheap red-handled hairbrush, similar to the ones Lillian used to have. Red was her favourite colour, and she chose it when she could. A flash of red lipstick, a pair of red heels, see-through red underwear. Amy had seen it all and more, at such a tender age. But not since Lillian’s release from prison. She sometimes dressed young, in jeans and boots, holding on to a youth that had been short-lived. She chewed gum, listened to rap music, smoked like a chimney and drank too much. Her appetite for sex was clearly still alive, yet there was something missing
. The spark of danger. The slash of red. It was only now that Amy made the connection. Had prison broken her? She sighed, wondering why, with everything going on with her job, she was thinking about Lillian now.

  Her phone rang, snapping her from her thoughts. She paused, staring at the screen. It was Darren, the private investigator. Her finger hovered over the answer button. Today, she wasn’t sure if she was ready to hear what he was about to say. The appearance of George Shaw’s body had thrown her. She couldn’t deal with any more bad news. Sighing, she answered the call. Perhaps Darren had some good news.

  Steeling herself, she said hello.

  ‘Are you free to talk?’ Darren said. It was the prerequisite for every conversation, a throwback to his time in the police: respect for the fact that Amy could be in the middle of something that demanded every fibre of her attention. His voice carried a tone of urgency, and Amy’s stomach tightened as she told him to go ahead.

  ‘It’s Lillian. She’s in hospital.’ There were voices in the background, the sounds of fast footsteps and the swish of double doors.

  ‘Are you there now?’ Amy said. ‘What happened?’ She swallowed, her throat dry. It had to be serious if he was calling from the hospital. He would never blow his cover otherwise.

  ‘I was tailing her on her way back from the off-licence, and she was jumped on by a couple of lads. She’s been stabbed, Amy. You need to get yourself down here.’

  Stabbed? Her legs weak, Amy plopped into her chair. Her feelings towards Lillian had ranged from hatred to indifference. So why did she feel as if she’d been punched in the gut?

  ‘Winter? Are you there?’

  ‘Yes.’ Amy drew in a breath. ‘Sorry, I . . . I felt something was wrong before you called.’ She shook her head as the words left her mouth. What a stupid thing to say. As if she had any connection with that woman. She quickly followed it up with, ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine. They scarpered when they saw me. They meant business, though. They must have been watching her routine. There were two of them, stocky, early twenties, puffer jackets and baseball caps. I’m waiting to speak to the police. I’ll do everything I can. The thing is . . .’ A pause. ‘It’s not looking good. She lost a lot of blood. It’s touch and go.’

  ‘I’ll ring Sally-Ann, let her know,’ Amy said, envisioning the scene. ‘Thank God you weren’t hurt.’

  ‘Mandy’s on her way. Lillian wasn’t far from the flats when it happened. Someone must have told her.’

  Various scenarios ran through Amy’s mind. What if Darren hadn’t been there to save Lillian? What then?

  ‘Listen, I’ve got to go,’ Darren said.

  He reeled off the name of the hospital and the ward where Lillian was being treated. Lillian had always felt like this indestructible creature destined to live forever. The fact that she could die . . . Should she feel happy, relieved? All she felt was numb. ‘Thanks,’ she said to Darren before he hung up. But the phone call had barely ended before her phone rang again. This time it was Sally-Ann. Her voice was high-pitched and panicked as she relayed that Lillian was in hospital.

  ‘A bystander called the ambulance . . .’

  ‘I know,’ Amy interrupted.

  ‘Oh. That was quick. Did the police tell you?’

  ‘No, the man who helped her was a private detective. I hired him to keep an eye on her.’

  ‘You hired him . . . to keep an eye on Lillian?’ Sally-Ann sounded stunned. ‘Why?’

  Amy’s lips thinned. She would have thought that was obvious. ‘Be glad I did, or she’d still be bleeding out. He said she’s in a bad way.’

  ‘They told Mandy she’s getting blood transfusions.’

  The thought made Amy’s stomach churn. If the donors knew . . . People donated to help others. It was doubtful anyone would want their blood running through Lillian’s veins.

  ‘When are you getting here?’ Sally-Ann said.

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Why not? We’re all going to be there. Damien is on his way.’

  Amy contained a shudder. As if she would want anything to do with Damien. Her biological brother gave her the creeps. Sure, she had welcomed Mandy and Sally-Ann, but Damien was dark. If she was honest with herself, he scared her a little bit. There was something about the way he looked at her. It was a look that made her uneasy in her skin.

  The memory of that scowl was enough to make up her mind. She owed Lillian nothing. ‘I don’t want anything to do with that woman, as you know only too well. If she dies, it’s no skin off my nose. The world will be a better place without her.’

  There was a pause as Sally-Ann’s breath ruffled the line. ‘Still, you should be here.’

  ‘The women she killed should be here too. Sorry. Look after yourself.’ Amy ended the call, putting her phone on silent. She didn’t have the energy to get into an argument. It would be best for everyone if Lillian died.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  A twilight run on the seafront had acted as a valve for Donovan’s growing frustrations. At least the scene had been released, the body stored in the morgue and the area combed for clues. The lack of evidence was frustrating, the only clue a graffiti tag on a fence in Martello Bay, just metres from where George Shaw’s body had been found. He knew Amy had been annoyed with him because he had taken her out to dinner on the night that Shaw died. But what else would she have been doing, apart from sitting in a hotel room? He would never fully understand Amy, but he did want what was best for her.

  To that end, he couldn’t help feeling her refusal to visit her mother was something that could backfire on her later on. There had been no update from her sister. Lillian’s attack had not yet made the news, and soon the press would be rehashing Lillian’s gruesome backstory all over again. Just when she’s putting her life together, he thought, towel-drying his hair.

  A soft knock signalled a visitor. He tightened his towelling robe before opening the door. It was Amy, and he welcomed her inside.

  ‘Sorry I had a go at you,’ she said, her grey eyes filled with regret. ‘I couldn’t believe we were out having dinner while another man died.’

  ‘Forgiven,’ Donovan said, knowing the root of her frustrations was more likely to do with her mother than the man lying in the morgue.

  ‘Come to bed,’ she said, her fingers finding the belt on his robe.

  ‘Wait . . .’ Donovan clasped her hands in his own. ‘I want to talk.’

  ‘Later,’ Amy murmured, pressing butterfly kisses on his bare chest.

  Donovan’s sigh was not one of pleasure as he drew away. ‘Is that all I am to you? Some medicinal sex?’

  ‘Most blokes would be delighted.’ Amy’s smile faded as she took in his expression. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Donovan struggled to express his feelings, but this was important. ‘This thing with Lillian . . . you need to face it head on.’

  ‘I don’t want to see her,’ Amy said, drawing away.

  ‘I get that. But if she’s dying then isn’t it better to get some closure?’

  ‘Closure for what? My childhood memories are unreliable. I don’t know who that woman is any more.’ Her expression tightened, the subject of Lillian invoking coldness behind her eyes.

  Donovan knew Amy’s childhood memory was a sore subject after her humiliating stand in the witness box when she gave evidence against her mother. ‘The mind is wider than the sky.’ He placed his hands on her shoulders as he quoted a line from a poem that had stuck in his head since school. ‘It’s different when it comes to trauma. Your memories are valid.’

  ‘So, you’re a psychologist now?’

  ‘No, but I know about regret. I parted with my parents on the worst terms. I never got to say goodbye.’ Sadness bloomed inside him. He opened his mouth to continue but no words came.

  This was something he hadn’t shared with anyone. Perhaps it wasn’t as sensational as Amy’s childhood, but it was enough to cause pain.

  ‘Tell me about your parents,’ Amy said, her voi
ce softening.

  Donovan stared out the window. ‘They owned a little cafe in Southend. It was a real hub of the community – Nancy’s cafe. I grew up working behind the counter.’ He smiled as the memory returned. ‘I used to be a shy kid in school but working there brought me out of my shell. Some of my best memories are of working in that little cafe. Some couples just can’t work together, can they? But my parents couldn’t bear to spend time apart.’

  ‘Sounds idyllic,’ Amy said.

  Donovan closed the blinds before turning away from the window. The streets were too similar to the ones he grew up in. ‘It was,’ he continued. ‘Until I got in with a bad crowd. When I was sixteen, I was desperate to impress. My so-called friends used to take the piss out of me for working in the cafe. I left and got a job on the pier instead, ferrying kids on and off the rides. Mum was disappointed. I think she wanted me to take over from them one day.’

  Donovan recalled chatting to customers and serving endless cups of tea. He crossed the room and sat next to Amy on the bed.

  ‘It was a lucrative little business,’ he said wistfully. ‘But I was restless, and desperate to leave Southend. God, I was a right pain in the arse as a teenager. I was so wrapped up in myself.’

  ‘Isn’t that a rite of passage?’ Amy squeezed his hand. ‘I don’t suppose your daughter was any different.’

  ‘She’s never been in trouble with the police.’ Donovan gave her a wry grin. ‘I’ll never forget how ashamed Mum was when they came to her door. I caused her nothing but grief.’